Hello there! I am currently working on a Twine's Character Creator interactive fiction that blends sci-fi with Sublime horror, inspired by the works of Sylvia Plath, William Blake, and Rainer Maria Rilke.
Stay tuned for new updates these weeks. Have a good day!
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If someone should awake, they must be aware that Lights have their colours, even when the eye is not kind to see. Preparation is folly. For beauty is nothing but the beginning of a terror, which we can still barely endure, and while we stand in wonder, it coolly disdains to destroy us.
Every Angel is terrifying.
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There has been no a single cold breathe on the House since the Three Fatal Sisters claimed it as a home. They live in the Mirror, for they shriek voiceless on the anaemic corridors of this Colourless Haven.
You, the XVII—the Light says–have come back to this place. A Candidate is a rare thing, isn't?
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Your breathe expands the emptiness between redish metalic opaque walls. Amidst the darkness of the gloomy and crimson belfry, tolling yourself so that if the Moon smiled, she would resemble you, leaving the same impresion.
And if what is of Earth forgets you, say to that Earth of silence: I...
(In the final version there will be three more options. They are already handwritten on my journal, I need to write them on Twine).
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You are the Epistolary of Tarsus
What enquiry awaits those who tread from the skies of Cilicia toward the Gate of Damascus? A light, too fierce to be shunned, sears through glass-hued veils. It strips the eyes, revealing brethren cloaked in truer hues:
"Beware the Light that does not require secret knowledge to be bare or savoured."
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A vision, luminous yet severed. Barnabas discerned it well—the art of Touch is a Meditation on Death. Among the Corinthians, Galathans, and the Romans, scarce are those angels, yet their wings murmur certainties—of their dominions, labyrinths of thought, metals transfigured, and the secrets that weave flesh anew.
And the Light comes among an elephantine jade tongue, an agave scented field, and nectar oozing from the glands.
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The emerald walls of that ministry were lustful Gardens of pleasure-seeking routines in theirselves. There, we striped their bodies, below the Dragon Tree—an exquisite banquette.
You refused to eat cherries with the Great Suns—the Light says—and so They sunbathed you with a gift. Then, the Light come to a crescendo, erupting in Delight and says:
An eulogy.
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You are a Doctor
If we could see further our knowledge and yet a little way beyond the outworks of our divining, perhaps we would bear our sadness more confidently than our joys.
The pits of the cherries, early Delights.
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Your visage asunder with crevices, the words come as a miracle, but they were deeply rooted in you.The Stars sunbathed you with a gift—the Light says to the Mirror and then asks:
Where is rooted within?
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Amidst the echoes of a future ordeal?
You shall go on your way with this prevision; if by murmuring you it has been deceived, true things hereafter will declare it to you, since this office is a gift.
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Over the radiant scales on your eyes?
The keenness of Light would have bewildered you, if but your eyes had been averted from it. Sight on Infinite, painting our effigy. A vision of Heavens.
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On the hands of your heart?
It’s here in all the pieces of the Shame that now you find yourself again. You yearn somewhere to belong to, that sees you as the same thing.
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Your visage asunder with crevices, the words come as a miracle, but they were deeply rooted in you.The Stars sunbathed you with a gift—the Light says to the Mirror and then asks:
Where is rooted within?
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Now you remember. That corpse might seemed defaced and might not glistened like a wild beast’s fur, and yet its torso was still suffused with brilliance from inside. Its gaze gleamed in all its power.
You were a baptised/gospeller/minister in the Sublime Natural Philosophy of the Lights.
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text/gemini