He was near

He sighed with eyes affixed, the hall covered in a dense mist of fear; he was near. With his back to the wall he cowered so tall; clutching his veins. He took deep breathes to calm, but all in vain. He loosened the grip on his palms. "They will remember" he whispered; "they will remember my story". His was not one of fame or glory, not bound by sorrow or weighed down by shame. His was a story of truth; his existence served as proof that there lived savages. In these moments he felt no remorse, for he held none dear. The sound came again, he could feel it, it was near. The sweat streamed down his face, the acid made his flesh ache. He inhaled, and before he could rid himself of this foul stench, in came the blow. He lay there; impaled. Now there wasn't an itch, he had no time to twitch. His soul left, taking with it his life. Then, on came the lights; his image beyond smeared. Up stood the crowd, veraciously exhaling their raucous cheers.

Author's Note

A short excerpt of a piece I am thinking of writing. Would like to get some feedback on the imagery.

Reviews

[Baby Ricochet]

Not sure what it's about but the imagery is good.

[gombeggar]

ok...nice writ...no where to say where yer going...take that away and make a story of it

[Pollai]

Thanks :). I'll be expanding on it soon.