The Book Marketing Network

For book/ebook authors, publishers, & self-publishers

BLOODRUSH: THRESHOLD OF THE PARTAKER by Chad Fleagle (Only the first chapter for comments.)

BLOODRUSH: THRESHOLD OF THE PARTAKER

By Chad Michael Fleagle
@COPYRIGHT 2005



The darkness moved and with it destruction followed. A hand of God-like judgment raked the land with flesh-encrusted claws. The masses caught in the wake cried out. Not out of pain nor agony, but in the thralls of grand passion and satisfaction. They had been waiting for this moment, praying for an arrival. In this world he was God and to be answered by such a deity is a blessing that seldom came. When it did those that were forbidden to partake in the Bloodrush cried in the black streets.

The Partaker stepped from the Rows of the Rush. He had experienced the pain that was the bloodrush a thousand times. It was the Partakers duty to partake in each new bloodrush. His body had been segmented like a jigsaw. Torn asunder and brought together again very much to his dismay. To be segmented was all one could hope for. Only he was allowed to experience the pain that was the bloodrush and live. Then the pain was stripped from him, he felt empty and unwanted.

He was discovered through way of mass selection. The Defilement came once every five hundred thousand years. The God of the world would choose to spew forth a stream of darkness like vomit. Whomever this stream of darkness enveloped became a Partaker. Though a very special privilege in his world, there have been an infinite number of Partakers before him.

He walked down a large street. A black street, like coal, yet it shimmered with a mirror-like luster. The Shunned Ones stared up at him from their knees. Which were bloodied from constant kneeling, their long faces . . . sunken eyes . . . skin pulled tight against bone from fasting in hopes of gaining the Partakers interest. Only the Partaker may select the next lucky few for the bloodrush. Fasting seldom enticed him. Selection was a very serious undertaking. He had his ways of making his selections. The Shunned Ones quickly placed their hands in his path. He stepped on each hand without emotion. The crunch of brittle bones resounded beneath his boot-heels.

He laughed.

The line of hands was long. They attempted to impress him, yet it only gives them free pain. These hands had been broke an untold number of times. Never had he selected from the like. The Temple of the Tingling pulsated in the distance. The pulse sent a purple glow that caused minor surges of pain throughout the bodies of all in the realm. It felt more like an episode of cramps in human terms. With each pulse a great moan carried its dread throughout the void.

"Choose us, Partaker," the shunned ones groaned.

He looked down upon their worthless carcasses. A woman discarded her tattered robe of black. Beneath was a vile mockery of supposed womanhood. Skin pocked and scarred, blue veins trailed pathways about her gray-white skin. Breasts like over-ripened melons on the verge of caving in. She couldn’t weigh more than eighty pounds. She approached him and licked her thin blue lips in an attempt at being seductive. She touched his manhood. This didn't arouse him. She hardly stirred the instrument of procreation between his thighs.

"Choose me, Partaker," she moaned. “Do you not find me worthy?"

Pleasures of the flesh were so petty. Triviality humans held dear to their hearts. He'd enjoy it for a few moments. If carnal pleasures is what she sought, he'd cast her to the Catacombs of Wanton Lust. There she'd be bombarded by never-ending pleasures of the flesh. She’d soon beg for an escape.

"Take her," the Partaker said.

The Gatherers growled and roared toward her. She believed he'd selected her for the bloodrush. But as the shapeless forms grabbed her and began to drag her away. She realized she hadn't been chosen.

He soon approached the Bridge of the Blessed formed out of former shunned ones; it’s their job to allow the Partaker to cross the Threshold of Pain that surrounded the temple. This threshold was an accumulation of all the pain ever felt or experienced. Nothing could survive direct contact with the threshold. Those that formed the bridge were mere corpses; they rotted ever so slow and knew no pain. His boot touched the first of the sprawled corpses, foot sinking slightly into the soft flesh. The threshold emitted an unseen force that rose from its wavering, multi-colored surface. It caused great, monumental pain to grip his body. The pain was so harsh; no pleasure was extracted from the spasms that rocked his form.

Yet his separations had strengthened his tolerance to pain to unheard of degrees. With a focused mind, he managed to re-gain control of his body. The pulses from the temple made it hard to concentrate. At the end of the bridge a slime membrane opened for him. Instantly he was released from the intense grip of the threshold's power. Only the minor, more pleasurable pain caused his nerve-endings to scream. Within the temple were the arteries of many worlds, many dimensions. The Partaker must monitor the flow of pain from each. If the flow is to low on a world, he'd see to it that it was raised. His world relied on the pain of others to survive. Without pain his world will fade into nothing. It appeared the pain on the mortal world was dangerously low. This world was one of his world's main sources of pain. He must travel there to investigate and cause pain.

In a great flash of purple light the Partaker found himself standing in an alleyway. A breeze blew trash around; he stared up at the night sky. The moon cast its white glow upon his face. His god had sent him to the Human World. Now was the time to cause any mortal that crossed his path immense pain. Failure was not and could not be an option, or he’d pay dearly.

A drunken bum pushed his way out from beneath a smashed cardboard box. He coughed and nearly fell to the street. His clothes were tattered, dirty and dried vomit caked the front of his shirt. The smell that rose from him was repulsive. The foul stench reached the Partaker; it was rather pleasing to him. Yet the minor pain that seeped from derelicts old joints only made him homesick.

“Who in the hell are you?” The bum coughed.

“A visitor to your world, old man, I seek those worthy of the Bloodrush.”

“I gave blood yesterday,” the bum replied. “They won’t allow me to give again for another day or two. Got any spare change, mister?”

This was an amusing little man; he’d test his ability to take pain.

“Do you feel any pain, old man? How much do you feel every day? Please . . . tell me I’m very interested to know.”

“That is an Odd question, mister. Hell, I’m an old man. Got the worst case of arthritis in both my knees, and just before it starts to rain, I can hardly move the pain is so intense. Why? Are you some kind of Doctor?”

“No. Yet your pain is appreciated. It gives life to my world. You mentioned the rain. The pain grows intense during a rain storm? This is Very interesting indeed.”

On his world when it rained, it was but his god urinating upon its followers.

The Partaker looked toward the clear sky. A small cloud appeared the wind began to blow with the faint smell of rain upon it. The cloud spewed fourth more cloud cover; a flash of lightning followed a roll of thunder. He turned toward the bum. The man appeared uncomfortable and pain vibrated from his knees. It grew with intensity as the storm clouds took the sky for their own and the first droplets of rain started.

“Oh, God, Not tonight,” the bum groaned. “The pain is starting, I can feel it. Can you help me, mister?”

“Your pain is sweet, old man. Do not fight against it; allow it to flow through you freely.”

The bum knelt against the concrete his knees screamed in protest. It felt like a knife being jammed into them and twisted. As the bum bursts into tears, the sky fell in a downpour. He dropped face first into a newly created puddle of muddy water and squirmed.

The Partaker was disappointed; he expected a derelict of the streets to be used to pain such as this. He felt the old mans heart failing him, this was a pain worthy of taking pleasure in. Yet those selected for the Bloodrush needed to survive, embrace the pain and gain pleasure from it.

The old man reached out for him and died.

“How disappointing. . .”

The rain stopped and the cloud cover dissipated.

In another flash he disappeared.

Views: 16

Comment

You need to be a member of The Book Marketing Network to add comments!

Join The Book Marketing Network

© 2024   Created by John Kremer.   Powered by

Badges  |  Report an Issue  |  Terms of Service