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Okay, okay, I just thought that I might mention that the following is not a poem, but instead, a chapter to a story that I'm writing on fanfiction. I just thought that I haven't updated my journal lately, so I might as well update it now. The following is the first chapter, and the title of the stories is called "Red Visions". My fanfiction account is: deamonofalone
Here goes nothing...

Red Visions

I could feel it. The icy hand of death was caressing the nape of my neck. Sending chills of dread, sorrow, and regret slowly down my spine. My heart was racing. Beating faster and faster, threatening to betray me, and fail. My vision grew hazy; I was going to have another fainting spell. ‘You may not!’ a voice in my head shrieked, ‘If you faint now, you will die. Do you want to die?’
“No,” I managed to breathe in between my sharp wheezes. “I will not! Not before I see him.”
Quickly, I must make haste, for they are here. They are searching for me, and they will find me. Those visions clad in red. Visions, not entirely, visions only in that their faces are always cloaked, never to be viewed by any mortal’s eye. These are my last moments, for they are fast, they run. They run with a purpose, while I scurry. Scurry: to lope without purpose, and to attempt to flee without any progress. How ironic. For I, have never before now done anything but run. Quickly, I must make haste.
It started long ago. I distinctly remember the smell of poppies, and pine. I was engrossed within the painting I was constructing. It was a field of wild flowers. Colors of hunter’s green, maroon, lavender, and fiery amber was adorned upon the vast valley. The sun was hitting them in a way that a hauntingly beautiful aura seemed to emanate from off their soft, silken petals. The sight was a bitter sweet scene, for one knows that such a moment only existed in one’s purist dreams, and the humans were not pure. Creatures who know no beauty, know only pain and suffering do not deserve to witness such a sight as breathtaking as this. Not even me. Only children cannot even fathom such a bewildering sight, with their innocent, delicate imaginations.
Warm arms wrapped around my shoulders, pulling me into a strong embrace from behind. The burly arms held me close to a fit abdominal region, still pulsing with that intoxicating warmth. Pulling me closer, I felt a soft peck upon the crown of my head, and stared at my unfinished painting in bewilderment. I felt soft hair from a weathered beard touch my cheek, then a mouth by my ear.
“Guess who,” whispered, so softly it was almost inaudible, a voice too familiar and loving to ever forget.
I turned to look at my captor who had disturbed my train of thought. “Father,” I stared into his dark abyss of an eye, “you of all people should know how rude it is to interrupt an artist while they are in the midst of finishing a painting.” I smiled and returned the embrace after pecking his cheek.
“Aye. That I do. After all, your mother was the same way—“
“Truly then, tell me why you continue to do such things,” I finally asked while returning to my painting.
“Only you, my dear, can answer that,” he announced. Then, as if in a daze, he gazed deeply, sorrowfully, into my uncompleted work.
“What brings you such woe? You stare as if you are reliving a painful memory. One that you wish you could forget…”
“My life is a trivial thing deary, only a blind oaf could see any importance in this wretched life of mine,” he mumbled, reverting back to his natural tongue’s accent. A tongue, that of a poor Irish man.
His emerald eyes held some deep recognition, a deeper understanding of the things to come than I. He knew it then, I know he did, for he would not have said the next thing without premonition of the coming events, or past ones occurring once again.
“Remember child, there are two types of men in the world. Those men who see the black, dark abyss of unyielding sorrow, thinking it is their only fate. And there are men who only see the white, the façade of the world. These ‘puritans’ choose not to acknowledge any manifestation of the ‘other side,’ the bad in the world. They will give you a choice: live with us, in our ways of life, or die a death so that you know that your life was meaningless. Beware of these men, for they will always look for any weakness in the society, capture it, and break it.” He looked at me with two eyes the size of saucers, his once red-brown hair flipping lightly in the evening breeze. There was no joy in his words, there was no fear, or hate, it was only the monotonous drone of a man who lost the will to live, and is sending his last wishes with the person he trusts most. His emerald eyes no longer shone with the fire of an old, jovial Irish man, they were steely, clouded, and dead. It was as if his green flames had been extinguished, and he was merely the shell of a dead soul.
“You mentioned ‘men,’ then tell me--- what of women?” I questioned, starring deeply into those eyes, looking for the slightest spark, the faintest flicker of life.
I got it. A slight smile began to hesitantly creep across his face, gently spreading until his stained yellow teeth were fully visible. “Women,” he began, stifling a laugh, “women are not of either world. They do not reside in clear black and white. They have their own world. That, be the world of grey.”
I half smiled expecting him to continue, but instead he silently twisted so that he was perpendicular to the setting sun. Splashes of marigold, rose, and peach adorned his skin; his lashes shone with a soft scarlet tint, his hair took on the appearance of its color from when he was a young lad, lips shining with a vibrant rose, he was again the man of his youth. He was once again the happy man I remember to be my father. I as well shifted so I was also facing the shrinking light. I had a short vision; I was in a valley, much like the one in my oil painting, and not but a few yards from me, was a cloaked figure. The cloak was a deathly crimson, and I felt a pang of relentless fear surge through me, stretching to every fiber of my being. I wanted to run, run away from this cloaked figure, but my body persistently held its ground. The lights went dark, and there was a blood curdling scream.



So... how was it? someone post a reply to this entry, and I will post another chapter upon request! Looking foward to comments! ^_^