[I don’t often post my writing on this blog, but I sort of like this bit I did awhile back, an excerpt from a character I’ve since formed and enjoyed.]
"The gods ain’t sleepin’, they’s dead." The boy heard it from the whore’s mouth, and he busted her teeth and he bruised his knuckles on her face. She sucked in blood amidst air, and her pain became a testament to why they were there, became a testament to mankind. She didn’t have to believe in gods, he’d make her pray.
Elijah, too, was vindicated that night, given poetic justice that his first act of unprovoked violence was against a defenseless harlot, a grisly underline carved beneath a shell-shocked heart whose daily palpitations pumped gasoline once the good blood dried up. An engine heart producing smoke through the lips that hung a burning wicker there which had remained since he was a boy.
If the gods or cosmos recognized anything Elijah did that night - or any night - it didn’t seem to much matter. He was another nothing lost between the silt and diamonds, floating forlorn through a life composed of more terror than of anything resembling joy. Sleeping or dead, divine intervention was not on the agenda, and gods didn’t intervene in the life of the loathsome degenerate, and so he did what he would do: he was made to walk hard and fight harder, and seemed to burn the very bridges that he stood on, as if by compulsion of seeing how far he could fall.
I’ve noticed a lot of disagreement in the communities I’m associated with lately towards the manner in which people write the iniquities of their characters whether prejudice, general sadism, or other. I don’t understand this. The point of writing an object, whether a person or otherwise, is to capture the essence of that object. Yes, I have seen characters, and have made them myself, who are barbaric and vile, savage and destructive, but is man not like that at his worst? I write characters how I feel all people should write them: ecstatically and without apology.