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Mangle Fnaf

The Discarded Book 1

The Umbrae Lunae existed before man, beautiful abominations birthed in the nightmares of mad gods. They wait for humanity to misstep, for the angels to look away. For the moment when they can cloak the world in moon shadows once again. But even horrors have children. Even nightmares must feed. One child, unlike the others, finds his way to a school for young abominations. Will he be a sheep cast before the wolves, or a terror that wears the skin of wool to entice the wolf close? The flesh of his body was his only coin, strips cut to pay debts that never ended. Everyone has scars, stories in a life led, lessons learned, and licks taken. Luminous bodies touched by darkness. There are a cursed few that are the opposite, black shadows consumed by scars, twisted minds devoured by diseased hungers, bodies tortured misshapen works of gouged flesh, silver lines of blade thin cuts, ragged tears of teeth and glass. For them, the scars are marks of homecoming, the mangled wasteland the only place they feel at peace. Hell is a place. It's made of concrete, steel and glass. It's the sounds of starving kids crying themselves to sleep, huddling into small balls as creepers come and take their due of innocence and tender meat. It's eating rotten food and carrying ticks in your hair. It’s having no one and nothing while surrounded by everything. It's the life of a street kid. What abomination was birthed in the corrupt womb of man’s cast-off shit? Pretty people don't know the power of ugly. They can't see the strength in a broken soul or the power in a calloused heart. Those secrets are for the discarded alone. Only the broken understand the grace of darkness. The blessed folds that hide scars and tears, the protection of its concealing umbra.
UncleanSoul · 154.8K Views

THE NEEDLE

Synopsis The Needle in this fiction embodies Martial Law. The skull mangled exemplifies the Filipino people specifically human rights victims from all persuasions – enforced Desaparecidos to combatants, students to academicians, civilians to soldiers, peasants to landlords, laymen to religious, ordinary taxpayers to oligarchs, voters to politicians, officials to professionals, – all victims of militarization offered as sacrificial lambs in the altar of Dictatorship. The crucifix and holy rosary, guns, and bullets symbolize the protagonists – heroes and villains - and the causes and institutions they represent. The red roses, a love affair that blooms and blossoms among the main characters. The timeline was September 21, 1972, covering fourteen long years of dictatorship when Martial Law was declared until February 24, 1986, during the restoration of democracy ushered in by People’s Power at Epifanio de Los Santos or EDSA. Post EDSA events from Fidel V. Ramos to Benigno “Noynoy” Aquino III or PNoy to Duterte’s presidency and Ferdinand “Bongbong” Marcos Jr. are briefly treated in an Epilogue. The choice of fiction was deliberate because of its timelessness and very important lesson drawn from that historic event–the restoration of democracy no less by President Cory Aquino. Whether it succeeded or not thereafter doesn’t matter. Filipinos are that unpredictable. Their memory is way too short and the hardest to please. But what is important is we have thrown away the tyrant, award-winning Investigate Journalist Shiela Coronel emphasized restoring fourteen long-lost hostage democracy in 1986. Add to that is the consequent didactic message to all Filipinos especially the Post Martial Law babies: “Beware and never again Martial Law!” In format, the author uses four of Irving Wallace's criteria in writing fiction from his “The Writing of One Novel” with some innovation on grounding characters using flashbacks and other tools characterizing bestsellers like Dan Brown, Grisham highlighting the author’s premium on the relevance of the said historical event and its political ramifications surrounding the subject throughout the story. First, no loose ends in the plot. This one is a tough act to follow. The subplot should be tied together as much as possible to the end. Second, narrative excitement rings the bell for readers. Third, is the use of research to disabuse and mitigate elements of violence and sex. Treating this work as social commentary on different implacable social issues of the day was deliberately utilized by the writer given his Philosophy, Theology, and Sociology background. Note that pictorials used in the work unless indicated in the caption are meant to highlight the theme of each respective chapter. Lastly, the most unlikely ending squeezing creative juices of the imaginative mind. Breaking the rules of writing known to man is also a challenge here. Ergo, treating the subject as fiction against the social commentary backdrop to make the narrative captivating journey instead just plain Martial Law account which is surely dry and monotonous story. How these criteria are treated and addressed by the writer especially the first, third, and fourth is left to readers and critics. Copy editing of the first draft has been done by the author using Grammarly, relevant creative writing tips culled from the internet from the likes of Ernest Hemingway, Jeff Goins, Catherine Reid, Cynthia Jones-Shoeman, Joe Bunting of NaNoWriMo, Billy Wilder, and Pruelpo, an FB friend and OFW dabbling as free-lance writer and guru. The third is actual editing from Ricardo S. Maulion Jr., my son, doing the proofreading. I have yet to accept any copy editors to do the favor for me packaging this project into a cohesive whole work. Ricardo F. Maulion For book order: Email ad: ricardomauliond1205@gmail.com
Ricardo_Maulion · 15.4K Views

On the other side of death - A story of love beyond the grave

When I was little, all I knew was fear. Fear of the gnawing hunger that consumed us from the inside. Fear of the biting cold that seeped through walls and wools and nipped at our toes and fingers. And fear of the ruthless lords who partied in the castle, up on the mountain, living off our work, our tears, our blood. We thought fear would keep us safe, make us cautious and wise. We prayed to our gods for protection, and paid our tithe to the vampire lords, and hoped for peace. Fear kept us in our place, my family and I. And it is in fear that they died. When I found them, mangled and covered in blood, l swore I would never live in fear again. If I were to die like them, l would at least die a brave death. I didn’t think that I might die a stupid death. All it takes is one wrong step. Tread on a twig, and they will hear you coming. Step on a viper and you will never have a chance to take on the vampire. There are so many things that can go wrong in the mountains. One moment, one tiny slip, and your life flashes before your eyes, every memory vivid and painful like a knife through the heart. And when you breathe your last, labored breath, the last thing you see is the vampire, leaning over you in the dark, moonless night, savoring his victory. My last thought, as I lay dying, was that, at least, there would be no vampires in the afterlife. Whether I was going to heaven or hell, I knew I had escaped him and his kind. There is no eternal rest for the undead, no passage into the world beyond. We would never meet again. Or so I thought. For the briefest moment, when I woke up in the tight coffin, I thought that I’d survived. But only for a moment. Then the painful realization hit me: my heart wasn’t beating. And, instead of the hunger that had ruled my entire life, I felt a dire thirst.
DarkestNight81 · 6.4K Views
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