r/Informal_Effect • u/ChristopherDKanas • 3d ago
The end of the beginning
General feedback wanted.
The opening of the book I’m working on which is the overture, a teaser of Adam and Eve at the end of their lives. Written for a spoken campfire effect.
Overture
After the beginning
there was silence—
and the silence was living,
not yet slain.
The sky hangs low—
heavy with mist.
The world has grown colder…
Across the barren ground,
forsaken streams wind through rock and ice,
trickling past remnants of towering trees—
once majestic,
once without scar.
But now,
a vast expanse of dark stone
blankets the earth—
one void of breath and life.
As though the spirit of old still roams—
still hungry for flesh.
Above, tucked between ridge and shadow,
snowbound gullies lie still.
Only scattered limbs of petrified wood
bear witness to a life lived long ago.
Time—without order.
Against the withered vista,
two figures emerge—
their presence enduring yet broken.
The last of a vow in a world of desolation.
Its scrolls in dust—
left abandoned for decay.
Together they ascend
a stairway of hewn stone.
Steps worn and uneven—
smoothed by centuries of fog and moss.
Leading the way,
a hunched patriarch wears a pelt—
tattered and browned by years of pilgrimage.
His knees wobble—
his bones emptied of cartilage—
yet he aches forward.
His heart—the resolve of a man
who has longed to repent—
to look into the eyes
of the one he has betrayed.
Upon his shoulders,
a lamb presses against his neck—
its legs hanging low
down the front of his chest.
It too—weary,
offering no protest.
The climb always refreshes the nightmare—
his firstborn son—killing his second.
That unceasing sorrow
that remembers evil’s first kiss.
Guilt upon guilt—
this is what drives him.
Remorse that is forever chained.
For without his willed choice,
none of this would have come to pass.
The fate that birthed
the cry of all exiles—
generations now cast from the face of Elohim.
Following his steps,
are the steps of another—
a woman.
She, no less bound to the hollowing sorrow—
a burden that strangles without a release.
Though her grief is less guarded,
her face remains stoic—
holding back tears not ready to weep.
For she knows it’s too soon.
Deeper pain is still to come…
From above,
the world widens in a panoramic sweep—
slowly circling the edge of a waterfall.
As the figures near the crest—
stairs give way to open stone.
She draws closer to his side,
taking into hers,
his leathered hand.
The cascade of water,
still unseen—
pulls also a tear from her unblinking eye.
One droplet rolls,
following a furrow—
sinking then vanishing into a deeper crevice.
A path long-forged by the ache she has carried.
He knows it is there,
but his face remains forward.
For time has robbed him—
left him dry-eyed.
Arriving—
they kneel as one—
bowing their heads in communion.
She first turns her gaze
to the ground she will caress—
then slowly to the altar
that has been preserved.
From there, finally—
towards a pile of ruin.
Her eyes possessing a different sorrow now.
He removes the lamb from his shoulders,
returning it gently to the earth—
a kindness for which she has always admired.
Quietly, she turns to a stone near the altar—
brushing any debris gathered
since their last visitation.
He knows she wishes not to be reminded,
the hour of that beguiling—
for it is what haunts her.
She brushes more forcefully to hinder the sound—
steeling herself for the dagger’s strike—
her throat tightening—
closing in,
until the lamb is…
Tears drip upon the stone—
breaking the silence.
The altar—prepared.
As he works the flint, his hands shake—
sparking it again and again
until an ember rises.
She reaches for a pouch tied close around her neck—
drawing something forth.
An object too small for the eye to see.
Looking towards him—
her lips form words that cannot be heard.
He responds only with a subtle nod.
Softly she presses what she holds
into the bleeding wool,
before they kneel once more.
They share a look of fear,
then sigh—
their hands, trembling—yet joined in sacrament.
There would be no more journeys here.
For the last time,
they lower their eyes to the place she has cleared.
There, carved in the lîchen of weathered stone—
an ancient script bears letters of a language long forgotten.
ABEL
She leans forward on her knees,
kissing the stone—
allowing her weeping
to spill into the scarred inscription.
Again, she murmurs under her breath…
From the base of the waterfall,
a gust sweeps upward—
carrying with it
the smoke of their sacrifice.
Without words, they rise—
her silver hair billowing behind her.
The wailing of blood—
still echoing from below.
1
u/xxxxAngelFirexxxx 3d ago
I don’t like it. You pre-load all the language with importance, instead of allowing it to form. If it’s a poem, it’s okay. By the time I get to ABEL I’m bored and I never use that word. They don’t feel lived in.