The title was for a previous thought, but I changed my mind..
I still liked the title tho, so I left it so I'd remember it for something else.
Here's a random piece I wrote for a short story I'm working on.
EXCERPT FROM UNTITLED STORY:
"Her eyes were deep, dark black. They glittered and opened and closed rapidly, like a raven's.
I tried, but was never able to see the whites of her eyes. It must have been the intrinsic nature of her eyelids,
shaped as they were by whatever esoteric lineage she claimed, that obscured the whites from view at all angles.
Two things above all unnerved me about her eyes. Firstly, though they were so black and
boundless, they didn't seem empty like you would think. They were alive with movement, as though there were
tiny clockwork gyros and gears moving miniscule lights around inside. Perhaps flourescent sperm were
swimming around in there, apparently driven mad, trapped in those spheres of stygian syrup, crying out with pinpoints of
frantic, spasmodic insanity. Choked, bleating, sickly pale lights without voice.. glittering in a disgusting, wet maelstrom of
slithering infinitesmal, barbed worms. Thorny, spiny, fishbones, sculpted of blanched moonlight, peeking and then dipping beneath
the oily, black slick to swim just beneath the surface of her madness. As nausea-inducing as this imagery appeared to me, so visceral and high resolution as to almost gag me, I found it increasingly more erotic... quite unnaturally and irrationally so.
Then again, maybe the tiny lights were flashing in carefully engineered patterns and levels of intensity to disarm me, brainwash me?
Was it the drugs? It felt mostly real.
The second unsettling thing was that I could see my face
reflected in her eyes, and In those black depths, I now appeared hollow and empty. Eyes sunken, skin grey."
