Horacio Quirrin
Stories (3/0)
The Carmine Rose
You were so small the day I found you in the forest, so weak. I could have devoured you. You smelled fresh of meat and blood. I could not stop salivating, my scales clamored, my spin tightened. My gaze never broken from your sight, my talons felt sharp and my nostrils burned with the intense blaze burning in my throat. I could think of nothing but hate. Your kind had killed so many of my kin, so many corpses lie at the feet of your ancestors. You unknowingly carry the sins of their past, of your future. I was ready to make every sin be paid in full, you were going to be our salvation, my vengeance followed through, my anger quenched…Yet, I stood there in sheer awe. How could eyes, deep in brown look as dark as night yet pierce into you like sun light breaking through amongst the trees. A face so innocent, how could it ever be taken as evil. I could see you were hurt as well, lost not just in the forest but in spirit.
By Horacio Quirrinabout a year ago in Fiction
The Everyday Life of a Space Junker
Audio Log 25 “Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say.” Great another knock off of the Alien Saga, oooh so edgy. It feels like authors now a days have lost the niche and nuance they once had. Where being depressed, alone and lost would cultivate the greatest of stories. Today’s stories are nothing but poorly regurgitated echoes of the ones you shared with me. You had taste, being a man of a century lost in time, you can almost feel the radiating greatness of this era. Stories that would inspire, question, and embark you on the discovery of yourself and the role you play. You left me your library, massive collection of these rare things called books. Books are quite interesting, they are made of what was called reinforced carboard, that was then wrapped in animal hide called leather. The best part was the heart of the book, filled with pages of inked on words. Not pages on a screen, with digitized lettering. There was something almost alive, when you hold a book, a pulsing sensation the author instilled. A very difficult feeling to describe to a generation of monitors, tablets and holographic displays. All I want is to return to your library, I guess my library now, and continue my exploration into a literary nirvana, the Valhalla of the ancient authors. All neatly collected by the open, slightly pretentious taste of yours. Now I’m thinking to much of you and the depression of space is starting to gnaw at my scalp.”
By Horacio Quirrin2 years ago in Fiction