Ah, the glory days. I was dusting off an old computer (Alienware Area-51m, circa 2002) and realized that i had FL 4-6 installed on it, so i figured, what the heck, i'll listen to some of the old tracks.
Most sucked. This one didn't. I had completely forgotten about this track. Yes, all nine minutes of it.
Written in 2002, partly during my tour of duty in Iraq, this track has a mellow, somewhat haunting, and slightly repetitive dark ambiance. If anyone can suggest a better category than Miscellaneous, please, do so.
I had to compress down to 112 kbps to get it below 8MB, but i don't think too much has suffered.
Surely, this track could be used for something?
OH BOY STORY TIME!
Yes, that's right boys and girls, tonight's track features yet another associated story written while the upload, well, loads. Again, i try to capture the feeling of the track with the words.
Darkness.
Darkness, then a ray of saccharine light. The stranger strolls through the trees, glancing left and right while snapping twigs off of branches with a grotesquely long arm. The rumble of distant storms graces the night with a macabre ambiance. The night is ripe.
Ahead, movement, a noise. Weak creature, soft and fleshy, smells of complacent living. At last, easy thrills.
Walking, then breaking into a run. Branches cracking, leaves stirred up in a witch's brew. Slashing, crying, sobbing, falling. The chase is on as the prey is faltering ahead of the unseen and unknown being closing in. Pounding. The blood rushing as fear calls for more speed. To get away, to live again, to survive. Adrenaline. The stench of terror fills the darkness.
Breath gasping, as behind cloven hooves spark against stone. Single impulse, run, run even if it brings death.
Darkness. Then blinding, calming light, blood rushing, flowing red as ethereal claws hungrily scrabble for tender meat and shatter bone. The desire to kill and devour leaving no room for thought as the stranger finishes the visceral act and leans back, breathing in the perfume of death. A howl, a triumphant cry. One long arm gently caresses the mutilated corpse staining the soil.
Victory.
Damn, that's dark.
