A tid bit of my book.

[Piscivorous]

   Just a couple paragraphs of non-sense. And yeah i know it's need editing. But for the frist and dirty what do y'all think?

               The sheets were my defense, unimpeachable. The room sank. The white blades of the ceiling fan where nearly striking my head. The white face grew from the wall level with my eyes. He transformed into what I knew him as. His cloven hooves crushed my nightmares. His long horns curled into the spire of abysses’. His eyes broke the shadows the yellow slits on jets walls. His ears jutted out at the beginning of his horns. He was passion, and not much more.
   He was cut; pride and heritage left his hands, chest, and head. Small dots of pain sprinkled his crown. Even his wings of eagle’s purity were damaged; skin wrapped and stretched around a shard of his ghost jutting out. He felt pain and I felt pity for him. His voice was deep; almost as deep as Ingrid’s lead as base. His force rang as a sunder through my dream but its stillness chilled my spirit.

[Relym]

So surreal. It really makes me think. May I ask what this is about?

[Piscivorous]

It was a dream from the main character.

[Relym]

Ah. I just love reading that. There are so many things I can pull from that. "Small dots of pain sprinkled his crown."

Beautiful.

[Piscivorous]

Here's most of that chapter if you'd like to see it/

   The metal shard was a rough black with silver hiding its pain. I balanced it on my finger the hilt and blade wear made to be grace of each other. Few knifes were made this well anymore. My knife is a black Special Ops Smith & Wesson. I had pride for my knife. Pride has its ends though, a bitter truth for all things really.
   The knife will cut me someday. It will slip sliver across the knuckle of my thumb. It won’t bleed to seal its self. No pride of the body will be seen. Just it’s ghost as white and haunting as the clouds. Like a cloud it will take the shape of something else. The skin spread from the sphere the eye opened. It will stare back at me as cold and still as the statue across from me.
   The bone will have a scratch across where the knife struck. It will appear to be like the eye of a goat but still white and dead. Stale pain wracks my hand. I bend my thumb back and forth. The eye blinks. Its life based on my actions. Theirs still no hope of red health, just pain. I will hide the eye and hope for its scar.
   The face, I remember who he is now. My glasses brought his face from the wall. His eyes where blank even my bones will have more depth. I carve him new eyes, goat’s eyes. I gave him horns and ears too. My knife’s tip dulled from the scratching of hard silicon. I drew his symbol under him. The pentagram upside down, he is Bophamet.
   I went to sleep and fell into a griped chaos. Life changed in the instance of slumber. I thought I was awake. I at least remembered what pain is. I was in the bed I slept in; the floor around me was in a swirl of shadow. Scorpions, black and heartless, crawled through the murk. I was alone on my island of light, death’s sea carving lines in my beaches. The black pains swarmed the walls bringing shadow with them.
   The sheets were my defense, unimpeachable. The room sank. The white blades of the ceiling fan where nearly striking my head. The white face grew from the wall level with my eyes. He transformed into what I knew him as. His cloven hooves crushed my nightmares. His long horns curled into the spire of abysses’. His eyes broke the shadows the yellow slits on jets walls. His ears jutted out at the beginning of his horns. He was passion, and not much more.
   He was cut; pride and heritage left his hands, chest, and head. Small dots of pain sprinkled his crown. Even his wings of eagle’s purity were damaged; skin wrapped and stretched around a shard of his ghost jutting out. He felt pain and I felt pity for him. His voice was deep; almost as deep as Ingrid’s lead as base. His force rang as a sunder through my dream but its stillness chilled my spirit."