2 More stories...see post #5

[FleshEater]

These are part of my first 3 writing attempts; the first short, titled "Forever Black" (I just changed this title to "Delirium" as of 7/30/12) is for the time being "finished", though under constant review. The second short story titled "Welcom Home" is in progress and I'd like some feedback concerning it (very H.P. Lovecraft esque so far). For those of you that read my introduction you'll note that I've been reading many, many stories from the mid to late 1800's as well as the early 1900's so my language is reflective of those time periods. However, I also appreciate the emotions created by "period" pieces and have chosen to direct my language as well as topics to early horror stories.
I guess the lack of knowledge concerning everything from those times intrigues me greatly (think "The Balloon Hoax"). I've seen some of the most atrocious things laid to film but find them useless. I also like the idea that although you've seen it, read it or heard it before, imagining it for the first time cannot be surpassed. I have literally seen an influence from everything I've read used in countless films and the only thing separating them is the originality found in the original work as well as the language used allowing the reader to feel as if it's a worn out story being viewed with a brand new perspective. Enough rambling...here are the stories.

  Delirium

     Darkness…a thick, heavy, stifling darkness has laid itself over me. Not a moment prior I was gasping for breath, anxiously trying to inspire heavy loads of air into my lungs, but what has happened? My eyes, they are open are they not? I sense I’m awake, my eyes fully attentive but all that I see is darkness. Darkness so thick, so dense it’s created a tense calm, a calm like I’ve never felt. For it is not fear that sweeps over me, but it is also not completely void, for there is a lurking or creeping sense of distress permeating within my mind, within my soul. I feel myself acquainted with the essence of paralysis, although I believe I am not nor was not paralyzed; have I since become paralyzed? Have I also become blind? My senses are heightened, for my eyes are open although I cannot see, I can feel although I cannot move. What has become of me?
     I focus all of my concentration upon my senses; my impressions of touch and of sight have been defined but what of my other faculties? I attempt to devour the heavy, dense air into my lungs through my nostrils. My attempt is weakened, as if I remember the feeling but cannot emulate the necessary course. Though my effort seemed merely worthless, still the scent of a musty, slightly harsh aroma has filled my mind, my nostrils and even my mouth. The taste is horrendous; it has deviled my mouth, soured my tongue and reminds me of no other taste I have ever experienced. In my effort to rid my senses of such displeasure I focus my attention to that of my ears. Odd, as it seems, I’m able to envision every muscle, every effort being used in acquiring sound. I struggle to shut off my mind, to rest myself and create the utmost quietness within myself, to focus without end on the stillness. Alas, I hear nothing! Nothing at all, not the faintest whisper or the faintest sound at all, simply nothing. My God! Have I also lost the sense of hearing? If this is so, that I have lost all of my senses, then with which sense am I able to acquire all of these sensations?  
    These sensations, although they allow me to obtain awareness of my own being they are nonetheless wretched. If I can feel but cannot move, I can see but see nothing; I can smell but cannot breathe, I can taste but taste only horrid flavors, I can hear but hear nothing then can it be? No! This is not what I fear it to be, it can’t be true for if it was then how, how am I still able to retain a sense of self? I am fully aware of my existence, fully aware of my surroundings no matter how inane they may appear. I can think and still rationalize for I have since processed all of my thoughts, defined my senses so I must still exist. But wait! Wait! I cannot, no matter what draw forth a memory prior to the one of the darkness. Though I exist do I still understand; do I still realize myself? Why am I unable to remember, to remember anything at all?
     As I stare into the heavy, dense darkness I believe I can sense its vastness. Although there is absolutely nothing in front of me I can still see or rather peer into the abyss. The deep, deep abyss that I’ve been presented with is beginning to take form. How is this possible? For there is no light within this darkness to even hint upon a landscape and yet I can still see what is before me. Perhaps it is not sight that is granting me this permission, perhaps it is merely a sense, a sixth sense I presume. But how or why would a sixth, unknown sense takeover the sensation of all senses? I must calm myself; the uneasy anticipation is overcoming me, its dragging my mind into madness. I must still my thoughts, my being, but why do I still feel this darkness weighing its presence upon me?
     Lying, still as a stone lies upon the earth I wait for a sensation. I wish like I have never wished before to at least acquire a sense of locale. To possibly be presented with a hint of where I might be, for presently I cannot tell whether I’m lying down, standing or unfathomably floating. Suddenly like a bolt of lightning from the darkened sky I can feel as if I have my body again! What I feel however creates a spiral of emotion, of suffocating fear downward into my very soul. The feeling is that of hands, fingers and nails digging into every inch of my being. Why! Why! Why is there no pain! Dear God! I can make sense of what is groping upon what must be my mangled, gnarled flesh but I feel no pain! I must focus, calm my nerves and remain within my stability or at least what I feel is stability within my own mind. God! The sensation is maddening! I had thought myself paralyzed or without body but now have found I still exist as I believe I once did but the hands, the feeling of this wet and slimy flesh on flesh is absolutely maddening!
     Silence…at once, yet again nothing. Nothing! The hands, the fingers, the nails, they’ve all quit, retired to some detestable cavern in this darkness. I struggle to feel my body, to feel what might be left of it but cannot. It’s as if attempting to lift the weight of a building itself, for I cannot move my hands, my arms, my fingers. Why? Where could I possibly be? Again my sense of touch returns and I can feel a warm liquid caressing my skin. Still, why is there no pain? Why can I not feel pain? My mind begins to focus on the liquid and I imagine my body, torn and tattered with that of warm deep red blood flowing like a river upon my flesh. I attempt again to reach for what I believe is my body and to no avail I am still unable to lift the weight. All of my senses continue to prevail into the darkness; the weight is getting heavy, I feel myself becoming anxious again. God…where am I?
     Time passes on and still, the horrible sense of residing in a mangled shell continues to invoke my deepest, darkest fears, but I feel myself calming. As I come to realize the hopelessness of my state of being I’m able to realign my thinking. If there is no pain then I must be going mad with imagination, at least this is what I’ve concluded to ease my mind. Though the new sensations have made it difficult to think I do not deter in my investigations of this current predicament, especially considering my disposition. Collecting my wits about me I again continue to question everything about my current state of being, if only to question myself. I am once again unable to tell the position of what I believe to be my once worldly embodiment, as well as the matter of my surroundings. Is this Hell? I at first thought the unspeakable actuality of life after death but further concluded that I should not consider myself deceased if I’m still aware of my own presence, my own existence. But what if even in death we are in fact aware, just as I am, of our own entity, but have no recollection of that of the past?
     This must be Hell; for why would Hell not be such a terrifying underworld if one were not aware of one’s own existence. If awareness were to elude that of the sinner then how tortuous might Hell be? Why can I not recall dying and why have I not yet seen the Devil in the flesh? Yes! I am convinced, this must be Hell and if it were not then I would not be able to recollect this memory. I am unable to dredge up one former memory of my past existence and yet this thought of something of old has become apparent in my mind, but why am I so calm? I would believe a sense of sheer terror should strike my very soul at this revelation and yet I feel nothing at this countenance. Perhaps Hell is not filled with demons and devils but merely the pure insanity of one’s own mind, for the darkness itself provides enough torture considering eternity. Although I have believed to convince myself I’m still unsure of my thesis…but why? What leaves this glimmer of hope of escaping eternal damnation?
     As I exist, I begin to focus on the darkness minutely, seemingly attempting to pick out something within its confines. In my process of thought I’m suddenly interrupted by what is thought to have been a movement. I know within my very soul that I perceived a movement within the darkness, one that emulated that of a large snake entangling its victim. A serpent! I screamed within my own mind! Again, terror has risen within me; it has continued its vicious cycle of suffocating me as if I’m drowning in its claws. But why do I still feel petrified, I’ve come to peace with my damnation and yet I still am trapped with horror at the sight before me. Again it moved! Was it not a serpent! I screamed again within my own brain! No! The vastness of darkness has now been presented to me as I peer out over the landscape. Dear God! Its waves of humans, of people! I recognize the wave of human limbs clawing upon each other, each trying to climb higher and higher. Each one covered in a grayish, blackish filth tinted with red splashes, they flail and cry and scream. Oh the wretchedness! How I wish I could not hear again! But I can, it’s crashed upon my ear drums like that of a beating war drum, why now? As I watch the pitiful display of hopelessness before me I’m now suffocating, I cannot breathe, gasping and heaving for the thick and heavy darkness to enter my lungs to alleviate me of this feeling.
     Darkness yet again…the cries, the screams, the agonizing landscape has passed and been replaced with again the vast, deep darkness. The vehement feeling of suffocation has passed and I’m able to think once more. Confined to my own mind to dwell and to ponder upon these wretched visions and sensations I’ve been forced to endure. The waves of terror, of breathtaking horror are much worse than that of death itself. Oh how I wish I were dead, at least in death I’d be set free from this torment and if I’m ill believed then God forgive me, this damnation which besets me is utterly unbearable. Will I ever wake? What has become of me!

[FleshEater]

Surpassed Characters Allowed...

Note: I was losing focus towards the end of Welcome Home...I'm not sure how much of it will remain.

Welcome Home

     There are certain unavoidable instances in life in which are not chosen by the individual to endure but are instead beseeched upon them. The manifestation of this divine decree solely depends on that of the particular soul appointed to carry forth the predetermined course. It’s such as this, that exists well within the confines of our physical and spiritual realm here upon the earth and that I too, found myself carrying the burden of an untold, unknown fate when I had become the sole possessor of a cursed, a damned estate located within the heart of the north east. It was left to me from a far distant relation, a relation that was in the greatest sense unknown to me, for only lore spoke of the individual whom bears the title Damien Vitus or rather Demon Vitus as given to him by locals.
     My family had abandoned all ties regarding this distant blood line, going as far as to uproot the entire family and relocate, spreading many miles between our place of origin and our new, unfamiliar locale. The member of my family which has been so hidden in secrecy much like that of a dark heirloom was told to be a practitioner of witchcraft, a warlock to be precise. Legend told tales of demons being called upon the earth, sorcery being used to cripple men, to even possess their very souls and above all the inclination of Damien himself becoming possessed by Lucifer the Angel of Light, unable to be destroyed. The horrific and terrifying tales spread themselves amongst the colonies, inflaming wild fascinations and ultimately leading to Damien seeking refuge far from any form of civility to escape the prosecution he faced. Perhaps he himself was in fact possessed by the Devil; by Satan himself for most did not escape the fate of the flames of hell in which those considered witches were condemned to drown within.   
   Our family had since been forgotten in the local colonies but some still remained in contact through the writing of letters, sometimes there would even be a short visit to our once forgotten place of residence, though not often. It was through these contacts in which I was reached with the information concerning the Vitus estate and his unexpected passing into the netherworld; for a man of Damien’s stature would never see the realms of God. It was the fall of the year; winter would be running its cold fingers upon the heels of the north east soon and would leave the earth there blanketed in a white, bitter, coldness. I pondered within my soul, the decision to head to my once beloved homestead to greet my families wretched past, quarrelling with the fear regarding Vitus as well as my families pleas of reconsideration. I know not why I decided to go but I felt a certain fascination brooding within, a fascination that needed satisfied; little did I know this would be an insatiable desire.
   As I reached the mountains in which the estate was located within, I couldn’t help but drink in the scenery, the scenery which invoked the memories of years lost, surrendered to a dark clouded past. Nevertheless, the autumn season bathed me in its wonders, a time when the landscapes are wild with colors relinquishing one last effort of beauty before the sudden demise brought forth by the bitter cold of winter. Soon the landscapes which surrounded the Vitus estate would appear dead, decayed and hopeless but for the time being a presence of vitality flourished amongst the mountains. As we reached the grounds of which the estate resided a chill ran down my spine and through my very soul, all at once the glorious landscape was flushed from my eyes and what replaced it was nothing more than dark, toiling shadows. The sheer terror I felt looking upon this damnable realm should have been far more than enough to turn me away, running, screaming mad but I felt drawn to this cold and unloving place.
   Making our way up the driveway I couldn’t help but notice the tired, old rusty gates that greeted those that wished to venture thus far; two gargoyles sat perched upon the beams of the archway, their cold, hate filled stares lingering, following and their distorted mouths filled with misshapen teeth, reminding one of the demons thought to exist in only the deepest realms of Hell. The menacing gateway only invited the cruelest of emotions; for a lighter soul would have turned back reaching this point, grasping at their crucifixes confessing their sins and praying for God to shield them from the vile creatures. The carriage patron turned to look at me, the absolute essence of fright poisoning his eyes; it was but horror read upon his face and I could tell that he’d wished I’d chosen another for my journey. As we made our way closer to the house it dripped its architecture like that of blood from a dagger, for I have never beheld such a sight, such a work of structural art. The terraces seemed to pull towards the ground on all edges, the window frames ran over that of the lower, it appeared as if all the lines of the resurrection beckoned to the earth. Looking upon the magnificent structure it seemed to grow larger, towering over everything, leaving nothing but a shadow for many feet beyond its cast. The power of its aurora was enough to choke the words from your breath, for not a word was spoken between the carriage driver and me but I knew he wished me haste in relinquishing him of his duty.
   After relieving the carriage of my baggage I bid the coachman farewell and apologized for inflicting such malicious angst within him. In an unexpected, but chilling gesture he simply replied “may God have mercy on your soul”; not another word nor one less of his sympathetic remark of divine forgiveness, for he abandoned me hastily, never looking back. Though his comment at first alarmed me, the apprehension soon passed as I stood upon the entrance way of the estate. It filled my mind with horror but also of imaginative, unworldly wonders of the black soul that once resided here, creating a passive, submissive demeanor upon my very being as if it were reaching its cold hands within me. I approached the large wooden door which separated the internal darkness of this accursed place with that of the outside world, as if it were a passage way. It’s strange, but I could feel the overwhelming presence bearing its weight upon me, wantonly guiding me, for I knew the impending doom awaiting.
   As I opened the large wooden door a fierce rush of air escaped from the dwelling leaving a pungent stench buried within my nostrils. The rancidness of the odor reminded me of that which only lingers over the deceased as they rot and submit their flesh to those that feed upon it. I covered my nose and mouth with my overcoat to avoid the scent and the possibility of expelling the contents of my stomach in hopes of furthering my travels uninterrupted. The thought of my long since deceased relation lying within the confines of this house passed through my mind, but even the wickedest of humans receives at least an earthly tomb or a burning to rid the earth of the body. There was not an ounce of light that shone into the interior for it was black as pitch even in the afternoon’s autumn sun. Appropriately there was a lantern greeting my entrance and I quickly lit it illuminating my immediate surroundings.
   Walking through the entrance way precariously, I dared not remove my overcoat for fear of the distasteful scent infiltrating my senses again. Upon entering the first room I slowly made progress towards the walls eagerly searching for a window to permit fresh air within. To no avail I found there had been no such design to the dwelling, not a single window graced the inside walls. It had appeared there were windows from the outside, though I fear their design was that of an aesthetic one rather than functional. Realizing I could not continue breathing into my overcoat I slowly lowered it from my face anxiously awaiting the wretched odor. In exposing my airways I soon discovered that the aroma had taken on that of an old musty library, replacing the scent of a rotted corpse which so crudely greeted me.
   With my once occupied hand now free I set out to find more lanterns or candles to illuminate the lower floor of the home to assist in my investigation. I discovered candles lining the walls, sitting upon iron stands and even hanging from the ceiling in grotesquely designed chandeliers. As the burning light cascaded within the room it became apparent the source of the ever so stifling darkness which previously filled this confine; the walls were painted black, black as the midnight sky. In awe, I stepped back to the center of the room to widen my survey of this anomaly; I soon discovered that the walls were covered in writings, not of a cryptic nature, but confusing to the eye nonetheless upon initial viewing. Though I don’t fancy myself familiar with that of linguistics, the writing appeared in some texts to be that of a Latin origin which was accompanied by English writings that appeared to be written in reverse. The most dominate wall of the interior held what appeared to be a Pentagram with a goats head drawn within its circle and the passage written below as follows:

      Pro Bestia vadum quondam iterum have suus reign, suus divinus vox vadum wash super puter terra illae terra quod cubo suus per quondam iterum. A dethroned Angelus est is a resurrection of lux lucis, EGO ineo illud unholy res inter humus ut orior oriri ortus quod gero intus mihi vestri porro puter animus.   

   Though I’m unable to translate this passage there are certain pieces that illicit fear within me, which call upon pure ungodliness. If the English transcribed on either side of the illustration lends any hint towards the translation of its counterpart then I am sure, with no doubt, that this is or was an attempted demonic resurrection. Although that which I can decipher has been written in awful, shaky hand writing; I can, for the most part translate it to paper. It reads exactly as I write it, for I wish all to know what I’ve been forced to see. On either side the following passages are written:

.derewsna tub evah ew dna rewop ruo rof deirc, nruter ruo denokceb, denommus ev’uoY

.mih erofeb su dnamed llahs gniK enivid ruo rof erom tnemom a etsaw ton su teL

 
   This at first appeared discernible to me, however, upon further insight you can translate this quite simply with a mirror. As we would write these following passages they would appear; “You’ve summoned, beckoned our return, cried for our power and we have but answered.” “Let us not waste a moment more for our divine King shall demand us before him.” There is but only one “King” that can be referred to out of this damnable passage, for it can also be seen within the Latin translation as “Pro Bestia” which can be thought of as no meaning of holiness but only that of an unholy origin.

[aamontcalm]

Your writing style does remind me a lot of H.P. Lovecraft. I think the thing to aim for would be the feel of the 1800-early 1900's by using the attitudes and terminology of that era, but use a more modern writing style. Most readers and likely ALL agents and editors will not read more than a paragraph or two of a story written in a more traditional style. They could be missing out on an absolutely amazing story due to their impatience, but it doesn't matter because it won't be read. The author is stuck with the task of making his or her story as readable as possible.

You have a keen sense of observation and an excellent imagination. The one thing you need to work on is just making it more accessible to modern audiences.

Some tips:

1. Vary the lengths of your paragraphs and don't let them any of them become too long. Readers like to see a certain amount of "white space" (or black space here  ) in a story.

2. Show don't tell. This is very important and a bit tricky to get the hang of. Explain as little as possible so that readers can draw their own conclusions. It keeps them interested, like a billion micro mysteries to solve. Don't write: "Frank was nervous about entering the dentist's office," instead use: "Frank hesitated, his hand an inch away from the door knob. He took a deep breath and forced his fingers to wrap around the cold, unyielding metal." 

3. Don't repeat anything. Trust your readers to remember what you've told them. Also try not to repeat words too frequently, especially adjectives. Make sure you don't tell the reader anything he already knows or can figure out from earlier in your story. If a waiter's face is red after dropping a customer's dinner on his lap, don't then point out that the waiter is embarrassed--the reader already knows.

4. Try to use the least number of words to convey your meaning; just enough to let the reader know what's going on. Use modifiers, in particular adverbs, very, very sparingly.

5. Limit interior monologue. Try to convey personality with actions when possible. Some interior monologue is good, but too much will cause issues with the other things listed above.

6. Avoid using a passive voice. Lovecraft did and it's not incorrect, but it's a longer, slower way of showing events.

Here is an example of different styles in action. Let me start out by saying that I am doing this to inspire and not correct you. When you revise your own story it will be immeasurably better than when I do it because you understand your story, your voice, and your vision--I don't.

Original:

   Darkness…a thick, heavy, stifling darkness has laid itself over me. Not a moment prior I was gasping for breath, anxiously trying to inspire heavy loads of air into my lungs, but what has happened? My eyes, they are open are they not? I sense I’m awake, my eyes fully attentive but all that I see is darkness. Darkness so thick, so dense it’s created a tense calm, a calm like I’ve never felt. For it is not fear that sweeps over me, but it is also not completely void, for there is a lurking or creeping sense of distress permeating within my mind, within my soul. I feel myself acquainted with the essence of paralysis, although I believe I am not nor was not paralyzed; have I since become paralyzed? Have I also become blind? My senses are heightened, for my eyes are open although I cannot see, I can feel although I cannot move. What has become of me?

Revised:

Darkness. Its weight is thick upon me, stifling me. Blackness dense enough to create a kind of tension - a calmness Like the serenity, that cushioning of sight and sound, found within the hood before stepping off the gallows' platform.

I've ceased to gasp for breath, to try to inspire absent air into my lungs. As if I've become acquainted with the essence, but not the affliction, of paralysis.

Except... I try to move my hands but they won't respond. They remain still and useless, just lumps of flesh, like my lungs. And my eyes - I cannot tell if they are open. 
 
Anyway, my version is just a quick sketch, you could do much better, but it does show a different way to convey a roughly equal amount of information with more white space. I enjoy your writing and I hope you continue with this. 

[FleshEater]

Hey thanks for the feedback! I didn't think anyone would respond haha!

You definitely provided a lot of helpful tips and I definitely appreciate it. Since those writings (which the second story is an editing nightmare) I've written a few more and think that I've gotten slightly better. My hardest thing is stepping into the modern world. I don't enjoy it so it's really quite difficult to write in its contexts. For instance; I read all of King's Skeleton Crew and though I found it "fun" it didn't intrigue me like Machen, Lovecraft, Poe, Blackwood, Bierce, etc. Perhaps I'm destined for writing only as a hobbiest.

I wish to re-read your comments when I'm on a computer and not an iPad haha! Perhaps I'll post up my last two stories. I wrote an obsessive story in modern language and then in gothic language; I prefer the latter far more.

I have noticed that redundancy is a bloody poison!

[FleshEater]

I went back over those stories today and really, really noticed everything you pointed out. I'm not even sure I like those stories now...almost like they need to be completely re-written.

Here are two more stories of the same idea, using modern and early language. I really believe I'll become a better writer as I write more; those first posted entries were only my first writing adventures. I believe these two stories that I'm about to post are much more accomplished...of course I'll feel the same about them as I do the previous two in due time.

Here is the modern version;

Crimson Princess
By Matthew A. Campbell

Every morning I watch her; as she opens her eyes, she’s bathed in the warm glow of the rising sun, her hair sprawled about the pillow like ivy. She stretches her arms out above her head, the morning sun lights up her skin like a heavenly angel. This is the beauty I soak in, each and every morning. She doesn’t notice me gazing upon her. I take in every moment, watching her intimately, admiring every alluring quirk in her face until we must part. The time spent away from her feels distant and cold and I miss her, longing to see her again; she seems so far away.
Her work day ends at five o’clock; I anticipate seeing her again, knowing that the misery induced by her absence will be washed away. When she comes home, the casual business clothing is forgotten, as she resigns to her designer sweat pants and tank top. The comfort of these simple articles relieves her face of the daily stress, renewing her complexion. Her eyes lighten and embrace that same vibrant elegance as they did many hours prior. I watch her hair flowing freely; like a painter’s brush passionately dancing upon a canvas. She’s wearing her headphones, carelessly lost in the music. I sit and watch quietly, smiling at her. She reminds me of the most beautiful landscapes; I’ve never loved anyone this much before.
As the night wears on, I’m given another glimpse of her allure as she indulges in her books and television shows. When she reads I watch her mouth quiver, ever so slightly mouthing the words she’s reading. Her eyes follow along with the story as her mind wanders; her eyelashes, long and dark, flutter as she blinks, like a butterfly calmly resting on a leaf. When she watches television, I listen to her laugh fill the room; it is a joyous, upbeat laugh. Her happiness radiates through me, confirming my feelings for her. She’s the most beautiful when she’s carelessly laughing, not a single concern or worry could be read in her eyes. I realize now, this is love.
Darkness has settled in the night sky as she prepares for bed. Her skin is basked in the moonlight; its glow has painted the white walls and white linens in a deep, blue hue. As her eyes close and the expression on her face comes to rest, I feel myself calm, my heart filled with joy. I lie there thinking of her, imagining her staring back at me as her eyes penetrate mine; her hair framing her face as it caresses the air. She calls my name, telling me she only wants me; these are the thoughts I love most. Sometimes, though, my mind wonders about the thought of losing her, of never seeing her again; these are the thoughts I fear the most.
As the sun rose in the sky this morning I was sitting, watching, like I always do. I never tire of seeing her, of drinking in her beauty. Today I felt different, though. This would be the day that I made our love eternal, to ensure that she knows my love for her, that she’s embraced by my passion. I sat next to her bed as the sun flowed ever so slowly across her face. Her beauty was even more spectacular up close, in person. I had briefly felt its sheer magnitude in passing on the streets, but never have I viewed it this minutely. This morning would be different; I wouldn’t be watching her greeting the morning sun like I had all the mornings before. Not wanting to remember her filled with fear, those panic stricken eyes begging me for mercy, the terrified screams; I let her sleep.
Standing over her I felt myself drift into oblivion, reminiscing of her vivaciousness. I remembered her eyes; they were wild like fire, an angelic blue like the heavens above. How her hair danced through the air, seducing in its gestures. How her lips were soft and full, seeming to move in rhythmic perfection and how her skin radiated like the rays of the sun. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen and I loved her. Never had I felt a love like this before in my life, a love so passionate, so true; I knew she felt it, too. 
These memories passed through my mind vividly as I penetrated her skin with the cold, sharp steel. I felt her warmth wash over my hand as the blade caressed her, consecrating our love. I swore to her I’d love her forever; that our love would survive even in death as we became one. I relished in her sweetness as I ingested her love, her beauty contrasted vibrantly against the white sheets; she looked like a crimson princess bathing in a sea of rose petals. In this communion I consumed the flesh, the blood, of an eternal love; she was now mine, forever.       
        

Here is the traditional version;

“Her”
By Matthew A. Campbell

If there ever were a love so powerful, so pure, so paramount, it would have been that of mine for her. Never have I seen a woman with such exquisite beauty, which filled my mind, my heart, with such divine awe; she was a woman that could cripple me, engulfing my mind in malicious thought by her absence. This overwhelming allure, seductive in its vivaciousness, is what led me to commit such an immense, an atrocious, act of love.
   Each morning I would watch her, intently, with the utmost devotion as she woke. Her beauty was christened by the glowing rays of the sun; her face illuminated in gold, its elegance invoking heavenly imagery within my mind. She welcomed the warmth, as it fell upon her soft, pale skin. Her angelic blue eyes would slowly open, filling her with life, with love. I watched her intimately, my gazes falling upon her unnoticed; and though I longed to touch her, to hold her, I dare not interrupt the elegant display. I would stay, watching her, until time allowed me no more. As each morning ended, I promised her my return; I silently swore to her, every minute of my existence and to this I held true.
   When the monotony of the day would retire and my endeavors had been completed, I would return to her. On most days, I arrived just as the sun set upon the horizon; the dying, luminous light, cutting streaks through the impending darkness. Although the coming of dusk allowed us little time together, it also granted me the greatest of all sceneries. As the light dwindled from the interior, she would light candles amongst the rooms. The flames would flicker and dance about the walls, their subtle glow casting her delicate features in a radiant, celestial, golden intensity. Her hair, occasionally falling from behind her ears, like that of autumn’s dying leaves, shone in a vibrant, ember glow. Never had I witnessed such charming beauty; she was a spectacle of absolute perfection in creation. 
   As the hour grew late, she would extinguish the candles before retiring to her chamber. The darkness would cast beyond her as the moonlight’s dull, sullen hue would bathe her in a deep, dark blue. Lying upon the bed, her complexion contrasted against the white linens, creating a scene reminiscent of a fairy tale. I would drink in my last glimpse, as I bid her good night. My nights always ended in misery; watching her fall asleep, the loneliness of the room beckoning to me, her beauty agonizing me. I spent many months following her from dawn till dusk, each day consisting of a love hidden in secrecy, never sharing a moment together, always ending in torment.
It was on that one final night, that I realized the urgency of my disposition; the need then, to make my love known to her, to bind us together, forever. That last, lonely night, would undoubtedly mark the final farewell to my princess; for the following day would bring about the eternity of our love, the death to a love trapped within secrecy.
   The following morning I sat, watching her intently; her luminescent glow could not be defined by words, her unearthly allure entranced my mind. She looked more beautiful than she ever had; her complexion radiated immensely and life and love flowed from her very entity. Though I could have previously described the minutest detail of her face, never had I been as near as I was then. Prior to that day, I had only gazed upon her magnificent beauty from afar: through windows, lost amidst crowds, always keeping my distance. Then, in our most intimate moment, I could touch her face, feel her warmth, inhale her scent; everything I had ever wished, ever dreamed of, was coming to fruition.
   The sun rose slowly, washing over her face, its warmth flowing over her like a mellow brook. An intense feeling of trepidation rushed through me; my heart pounded with excitement as I awaited our first meeting. My mind raced with wild confusion, unable to conjure a legible sentence or thought. I concurred, then, with my conscience, that my actions shall speak louder than words, that she’ll understand my affection through them; no words could describe my immense feelings for her, I resolute that this would go without misinterpretation.
   As she opened her eyes, a look of impending doom, of sheer terror fell about her face, destroying all of her beauty. Her lungs filled with air, intending to relinquish a blood curdling scream, a din of absolute horror. I faltered momentarily, nearly fainting; I soon gathered my wits as I realized the actuality of the moment at hand. In a maddening, virulent reaction, my hands grasped her throat; the strength of a thousand men possessed my will. Her face became stricken with fear; her attempted screams of horror subdued merely to a whimper. I watched as her life-filled complexion fell pale and purplish; her beautiful angelic blue eyes, cast over like a deep, dark abyss, void of life. I held her like that for many minutes until the loving embrace fell cold. As I released my hands from her throat, the last and final breath of life escaped her body.
   I stared into her black, sullen eyes as they peered back into mine as she lay there lifeless; her pose mimicking a prodigious caryatid. The cold, empty eyes seemingly rolled about the sockets, never leaving mine, as if she were still alive. I sat looking over her, caressing her hand as I raised it to my face; I kissed her hand, a loving, sincere kiss. I reached into my coat pocket and retrieved my knife; the cold steel felt unwelcoming against the warmth of my hand. From the corner of my eye I saw her, sitting next to me, as alive and spirited as she was just minutes prior. Her hair was flowing in a seductive manner as light shone through it, illuminating her face brightly. Her complexion was pale, complimenting her white gown which also seemed a blinding, vibrant, luminous glow. Although her ghostly embodiment flowed with life, her eyes remained cold and empty; as she laid her hands upon my face, she kissed me, her loving embrace was warm and it was real.
   She stared into my eyes; I could hear her speaking to me, though her lips did not move. As I raised the cold, unloving steel, she guided my hand as the blade penetrated her skin, consecrating our love. I felt her warmth run over my fingers, over my hand, as she guided the steel deeper and deeper. Her beauty flowed like a waterfall, contrasting vibrantly against the bright white linens. She looked like a crimson princess, bathing in a sea of rose petals: an angel of sinister seduction.
   I watched as she reached within the bosom of her own body, her hands engulfed in the flesh and blood. Her grasp tightened as she tugged violently; her hand pulled from the wound, clenching a repugnant, dripping organ. In her hand she was holding her heart; its deep, crimson hues were accented by dark purplish tones, resembling that of a grotesque bouquet of roses. The once healthy, loving heart, which beat with vivacious vitality, now lay still, devoid of all spirit. I stared into her black, abysmal eyes as she raised it to my mouth. Without hesitation, I began to devour, to ingest the sole embodiment of her desirable love; I committed this with the most hideous and wild of passions. It was in this unholy communion, in which we became one: to live, to die, to suffer, together, forever.
   As I sit here, writing this, my love is here with me in this dank, dark, empty cell. She’s always present, never leaving my side, constantly reminding me of her angelic beauty and of the unholy passion that we shared, as I yearn to feel her again. I’ve even grown fond of her deep, hollow eyes; their soulless gaze no longer afflicting guilt or despair upon my soul. Come tomorrow, we shall endure this suffrage no more, to find our love pervading all eternity and I shall once more, hold her, feel her, revel in her warmth; for not even the devil himself, the condemnation of his fiery, burning pits of hell could separate nor perish our love. I will stand upon the gallows in absolute alacrity, begging the executioner to commit me to my ill fate. When life exhausts itself from my very being, as my final, dying breath escapes my lips, I shall live once again with my crimson angel, to peer into her abysmal eyes and embrace her, my True Desire.

[aamontcalm]

I'm glad you found the tips helpful    I haven't been online much, I have two tiny kids and we all managed to catch a cold. I need to go to bed, but I will read your stories tomorrow morning   

I'm wondering if you found a median writing style where you recreated the voice and feel of that era, but kept the modern pacing, that it might be something you would enjoy? I know it would great to read 

I think any writer can be as successful as they want to be. It's just a question of how much you want to put into. As Kurt Vonnegut said:
“Talent is extremely common. What is rare is the willingness to endure the life of a writer. It is like making wallpaper by hand for the Sistine Chapel.”

Personally, I would be ecstatic with a small cult following 

If you want personalized feedback, etc. I am part of a small writing group (although anyone is welcome to join, no invitation needed). There are only four of us that post regularly, but we do take our time with each story. All genres are welcome, there are two sci-fi/dark fiction writers, one Christian/kids writer, and one sci-fi/kids writer, and everyone is fine with each other's work. I know that at least myself and two others are Lovecraft fans. Just post a story and explain what you need help with.  Here's the link: http://creativityfromchaos.proboards.com

Regardless, I'll check back tomorrow

[aamontcalm]

I like the second one better as well. The twist with the appearance of her ghost/his fantasy added a lot to the story. After reading them both I do think what I mentioned about using the older time period and vocabulary, but with a briefer more active phrasing would work really well. It would be the kind of story I would be very excited to read.