A thriller writer in the making?

The monster

The monster. An abomination. Made up off repulsive, disgusting flesh – if it can be called flesh. Tree splitting lightning streaked across the crimson sky, illuminating cracked and deathly dry skin, like canyons made of parchment. Another bolt came hurtling downwards; the beast’s putrid face was drenched in eerie light.

 

It’s unfocussed left eye was like a mass of yellow slime, a white moon, dripping evil ore – like a river of hell. His stained and broken teeth were still sturdy guardians to his cavernous, blood red throat.

 

His grotesquely swollen gut moaned a deep, hoarse groan, it was a sound from the very darkest depths of hell fire. All of the soiled, disgusting components: veins, arteries , sirens, tissue; they were all tensing, readying for another lurch.

 

He violently convulsed a foul jet of evil hell life out of his sore, hungry mouth, spraying desperately arid lips, throwing him further from the distant hope of salvation; from his wretched, miserable life.

 

His bushy eyebrows furrowed, his tattered ears became sonars, his one good eye darted upwards, his entire body crashed forward, because of the lightening; his right arm didn’t quite keep up and was torn off it’s torso with ripping force, shattering his discoloured bones.

 

The monster’s skin, now even more discoloured, breathed out black smoke, into the chilling night air. Dark, unholy blood flowed out of him, his hair was flaming, his body broken and void of any sanity, as was his shattered soul. One last death-destroying roar of fury. WHY!? The monster is alive.

 

By Alfie Howis (13)

 

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