Seirenes

In the darkest depths of the aloof, merciless night, an icy wind glides through the barren branches of the dead trees that bend and moan as they sway. The cold moon does not concern itself with the hypnotically melodic tune that serenades the gloom night after night.

Beneath the indifferent moon lies a winding dirt road, sometimes sharply turning, sometimes bleak and monotone in its linearity. The slender, sickly trees adorn it on either side, bowing in sorrow to the occasional passing traveler. The ground is cool to the touch, lying dormant in wait.

The road continues on, luring possible vagrants further down its curving surface, ever deeper into the night's despair. A rapturous aria drifts through the air that seems to suffocate those who dare breathe it. On and on and on winds the path, further, further, further... until it can go no more. For above its end stands a gate, an old, creaking, rusting gate, hanging open in disrepair. The chilling breeze slips past the gate, through the brambles and thorns that have claimed the ground during the long years without care. The captivating voice becomes clearer, forcing aimless vagabonds to drive on in search of its source.

A towering château looms menacingly, looking down with contempt at the scene in which it resides. Past the rickety open drawbridge, past the stone entryway, down, down, deeper into the castle the beguiling air can be traced. Below the stone floor, below the cool earth, the spiraling staircase descends into the depths of the living realm. There, in the lowest dimension of the known world, she lies.

She rests delicately on a throne of carved marble, so carefully chiseled it appears to move gently in the fluctuating glow of the flickering candles that burn interminably. Her auburn hair glistens in the unforgiving light, curling gently down her shoulders, her back, her waist, cascading and flowing with every rare move she makes. Her defined jaw rests in a permanent state of decision, of resolve. The light reflects off her high cheekbones and rests in her eyes, her wide, staring, unblinking eyes. She sits, and waits, and is almost entirely immobile.

She sings. She sings, and those who hear her worship her. They are enslaved by her voice, by her beauty, by her. They seek her, they descend, they throw themselves at her feet.

With wintry disinterest, she mechanically rises from her throne and, limb by limb, organ by organ, cell by cell, she pitilessly rips apart the seams of their very existence. Then, through the splatter of the blood, the fresh blood that is the only source of warmth in the world of solemn darkness, she returns to her place and sits. Waiting.

© 2015 bewarethejabberwock

My Review

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Reviews

LastMonth

First of all.
Your Nickname is pretty damn cool.

Now to the review;

1.
You used a method which I was familier with, yet didn't pay special attention to until now. You broke it down to pieces. You started big, and gotten small. Then big again, and once more you splintered everything and zoomed in until you reached the designated area. It did well to amplify the effect, and the way you wrote it was splendid.

2.
The descriptions are superb. Sometimes it can be too much, I somewhat feel that three adjectives is sometimes too much to chew. You often used two, and only on occasion three, but more often then not, it worked well. I'm pointing this out because after all we're here to help each other improve.

3.
The Plot. The idea behind the Siren is carefully thought and planned. You delicatly weave your story, with a degree of patience seldom seen. And it does this story very good. It feels almost like the reader is staring at the abyss, slowly yet surely slipping towards it, unable to avoid it, yet clearly seeing it coming. Which makes the whole ordeal so much more powerful.

I thoroughly enjoyed this.
Also, thank you for entering my Contest.

Cheers.