antonio rizzo
Bio
I am a college student and a writer living in the harsh oppression of the state of New York. I tend to write dark or very deep things, but I only write when I'm in a certain mood, so don't expect a lot of new content.
Stories (3/0)
The Machines of Humanity
We start our lives, thrown into a world our predecessors have already damned. We are blind, clueless, stumbling through our lives without any knowledge of what we are doing or where we are going. Our lives really begin once we get out of the mass prison system known formally as high school. We are told to go to college, and end up paying for it for the rest of our lives. We are told to abandon all hope, and get a job and become a part of the machine oiled with the blood of the sheep who work for it. We work our lives away, building the machine, enforcing it. And when a part breaks away to become its own entity, it is damned and its bones and spirit are crushed by the overwhelming weight of the world.
By antonio rizzo7 years ago in Poets
The Shawcrux Massacre
Andrew sat at the table, his mind racing with feelings of a dreaded nostalgia. He placed the letter he had written on the small wooden table. It was a cold and rainy December night. The rundown walls of the shack provided only a facade of cover from the storms. The sound of rain hammering down on the rusty tin roof drown out all other noise. The light of the lantern flickered, casting ghastly shadows on the walls. Andrew had never liked the woods, yet here he sat, in a rustic shack in the middle of the dark forests of upstate New York. He reached into his pocket, feeling the cold metal of the .44 in his pocket. He drew the gun and stared blankly at it. After all these years, this was how it had to be. He knew what he needed to do. Andrew checked the chamber one more time, as if some specter may have stolen one of the shiny brass bullets. He wondered if anyone would find him, all the way out here. As far as he knew, he was the only one who knew where the shack was, besides its deceased previous owner. The thought of Mr. Ed made Andrew shudder. It had been years since he last saw the old man. Andrew slowly set the gun down on the table and pulled a small black notebook and pen out of his coat pocket. Shivering, he began to write, and recount what had happened all those years ago......
By antonio rizzo7 years ago in Horror
Life Roulette
No one sees me. I throw up my hood over my head, and turn the world off and my headphones on. I glide through the crowds like a specter on a cold and eerie night. Nameless faces pass by, the drums of death beat on and on in my head. Icy rain pelts us all. The air itself is as cold and stiff as a frozen corpse, and they all rot away. The clock runs forward to 1 am. The other mindless ghosts have left the sidewalks in search of shelter. But I still walk. I'm never sure what it is I am doing. I look for something that cannot be found. I hunt for a beast that cannot be killed, but I refuse to give up. In school they tell us we can do anything, but life says otherwise. Life loves you while you are young. And then, like a manipulative succubus, life throws you down, stomps the air out of your chest and drowns you in the responsibilities and expectations of adulthood. We don't all make it. Many fail. Some don't even try. And then there are the fallen angels who end it themselves. They feel more than the rest. Life has been particularly spiteful towards them. They long for the feeling of bliss and darkness. They long for death, and sometimes, they get it. Whether it's in the bottom of a bottle of whiskey, or a quick bit of lead to the brain. The razors cut deep, the blood runs into the overflowing tub. The rope tightens. We can't handle it. This world is too much, too cruel, too angry and hateful. We are a people divided, and it kills no one but ourselves.
By antonio rizzo7 years ago in Poets
