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A Whisper on the Wind: Le Random Creepy Story I Thought Up Just Now... Please Comment, this REALLY needs CC!!!!

A Whisper on the Wind: Le Random Creepy Story I Thought Up Just Now... Please Comment, this REALLY needs CC!!!!

Posted July 8th, 2012 by HeatherB

by laurel
in articulate

July 8th, 2012

A/N: Thought this up on the spur of the moment, fell out of my pencil when I was supposedly doing geometry, and didn't know if I should post it or not. AA convinced me ^.^ Thank her if you even like this. Also, I have no idea what genre this is. I put SciFi, but really, no clue :3 It could probably be Romance just as well. I apologize for the inevitable typos and grammar issues and crap that happen when I write things with a pencil instead of typing them. Here ya go.


A Whisper on the Wind

In the world of Darkness, a creature of Light.

He was birthed from the maid Evangeline and her master Smith.

He was not supposed to be born.

Why was he made of Light?

Surely Evangeline and her master Smith were nothing but Darkness. Perhaps Smith was the Darkest of all...

He was a swindling businessman. She was a hollow shell.

In the world of Darkness, negatives do not cancel out, but merely multiply.

Shouldn't the child, then, have been the Darkest of all? Overthrowing Smith as expected, not being sent to the Darkest place of all--the Wastelands--in order to have the Light stomped out of him?

He was the heir of Smith's fortune. No one Dark would in their right mind give money and estate to one with even a small speck of Light in them.

As the years in the Wasteland went on, the child remained alive and sane. A miracle to say the least.

He chose a girl, then.

Her name was Victory.

Strange how Light names invade the Darkness.

She was the daughter of an eccentric black marketer and his maid. Dismissed for being a girl. She might've taken her father's estate had she not been female. He kept it instead. Became bigger, still eccentric, yet genius. Smith's top rival.

The child, he was now a man, man enough to own a piece of the fortune Smith denid him.

He had never been given a name.

Eighteenth birthday, and it was the only present he wanted. Not even Victory could console him when Smith denied the man everything. She knew what it was like to be hurt for something you could not help being.

Light. It was so weak. Had it really once been cherished, the most brightest thing around? No more.

Smith. He was so strong. Had he really once been a boy, the legend of desire making him a man? No more.

The man confronted Smith. He used a word foreign to his own ears. Father.

Back to the Wastelands.

Victory smuggled him food and held his hand.

They found out. Smith was furious. He wanted Victory executed. The man begged no. He did not love Victory, though, in the way Light cannot love Dark. He admire her. Was attracted in the way of a magnetic pull, not Love, that was impossible.

Victory was not executed.

She bore Smith a child, unwillingly, a boy who died within the hour. The man wept. He was shoved aside, deeper into the Wastelands.

Smith locked Victory up under his mansion. She was given food and water, just enough to survive. Slowly, years melted by. She went slowly as well, slowly insane. The man did not know.

He begged to see her. Smith cruelly obliged, and the man fell to his knees in front of her and wept.

Victory was a smaller replica of Evangeline.

Both simply hollow shells in the end.

The man realized, too late, he had loved her.

Twenty five years since he had been born, only once had he loved another. Not his mother. Never his father. Victory, always.

He asked her blank glare if she had loved him back. She babbled nonse words, each an axe striking his heart.

The man resigned himself to work. In the Wastelands, you saw beautiful things and you had to destroy them. It was his job. All others were not affected. He was, though, this creature of Light loved the beauty that remained, almost as strongly as he had loved Victory.

He closed his eyes and pretended he was destroying Evil. It barely worked.

No. It did not work.

Smith came to see him, bearing news, and a body. Victory was dead. His Victory.

She had been Dark as a person. As her soul floated away into the land beyond the Wastelands, ghostly but broken and hollow all the same, he glimpsed it.

It was Light.

Love was made not so impossible, after all.

So many years passed then.

He wondered if only the consistency of the Wasteland kept him sane. It probably did.

Smith died.

Evangeline was now property of Victory's father.

He was the Darkest of all with Smith gone.

And he killed Evangeline when she proved so frail she could not carry a teacup.

Why, then, had Smith kept her on his staff?

Was it possible...


The man could not think that. Smith was not capable of love, no, impossible, no one was anymore.

And yet what other reason could there be?

The man had been born purely Light because he had been made from purely love.

It made sense, in a way.

Had he shared his love with Victory sooner, had she felt the same way, they could have birthed a child like the man, a creature of Light, with a soul like Victory's.

Did the man have a soul of Light, too?

He did not know.

There was only one way to find out.

The man took up the dagger carefully, the one he used in the Wasteland. It was made for destroying beautiful, Light-struck things.


His heart was already broken, so with the dagger he split and broke his neck. Not his mind, where his soul was stored--unlike most souls, that were stored in the heart.

Had he put the dagger to his mind, it might've split his soul.

His human body lay slumped to the ground, and watched as his soul floated away. And how curious was this!

His soul was Dark.

The man without a name spoke the first words that came from his mind and slowly disappearing soul through his cold lips.

I love you.

On the edge of the Wastelands, the whisper was carried by a polluted streak of wind into the land beyond.

It was not a statement. It was a question.

For Victory, of course.

Today, now, the wind tickles your ear.

It breathes a message to your soul.

Merely a whisper on the wind.

But do not  wave it away, as so many others have done.


Give it life, blow on it sure and strong.

Do not hesitate to send Death's final message, a belated question to his lover.

It is not just a whisper on the wind.

See more stories by laurel
Oh. My. OH MY GOD! That was

Oh. My. OH MY GOD! That was SO amazing! I love it! So interesting, how the man made of light was pure darkness... AMAZING-ZING-ZING! (I just had to do that. *Instructs orchestra* "Applaude for Le Wombat Girl, ladies and gentleman!" *Applaude ripples through the orchestra, and they start to play dramatic music* "WWOOHHOO!!"

- Generation3. when you see this, post it on your sig as a sign of epykness with the next number. Social experiment.- "You love me. Real or not real?" I tell him, "Real.”~Katniss, Mockingjay

Posted by SuttonLover (Br... on Sun, 07/08/2012 - 20:47


That was creepy. o___O I love how the whole thing practically flows as a poem (almost... a little... I dunno), and the last sentence was SO epic. 8DDD


Posted by Pokey on Tue, 07/10/2012 - 10:01
Teehee. Thank you. I was

Teehee. Thank you.

I was afraid it would come out as a summary more than a story.... so.... yahs. And yes, halfway through writing this I was like "I should write this as a novel in poems." But then I didn't. And I posted it. And.... well... the rest is history.

Also: @Brianna.... please call me Hedgebat! It mah new username ^.^ I'll take off the part in parentheses so it's less ambiguous. Thanks :D

"Never fear shadows. They simply mean there's a light shining somewhere nearby."-Ruth E. Renkel


Posted by Hedgebat (Le Wo... on Tue, 07/10/2012 - 19:43

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