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  1. Daniel Thomas Reynolds

    Exclamation Poetry transformation into a short story

    I just need some help editing thankyou, (Chimney Sweeper by Willam Blake is the poem of which im doing)



    I completed ‘weeping the flue and I brushed away the filthy black soot from my eyes. I then contemplated the truth that my father had sold me on the crowded streets of London like a piece of merchandise. Without delay I was condemned to an existence of brutality and tyranny; punished to toil within the flues of the affluent citizens of London. A great deal of time passed... I had become a lonesome creature, discoloured black like a piece of coal; I suffered of affliction and undernourishment caused by these circumstances...

    “Get back to ‘weeping boys, do not defy my orders. There are flues to be cleaned”.

    I was raised by the stern hand of a master sweep, taught like a poor lamb through ritual shavings, cruelty and exhausting work. I ‘wept with Dick, Joe, Ned and Jack. The master sweep was awfully rigorous to all the apprentice sweeps, we had not been given so much as a scrap of garments, proper bedding and a quilt to slumber; nor were we washed in routine or feed more than a morsel of food. In spite of this I had an appreciation of the Master sweep. Before being taken in I was destined to wretchedly pace the streets of London after my mother’s death; the chimney Master had set aside that life of squalor and provided me with manners of devotion, certainty and virtue.

    “If all of your duties are fulfilled and you are a loyal worker, you need not fear harm”

    I began my profession as an apprentice chimney sweep and the master sweep, taught me the duties of the craft. The first few weeks of serving the master sweep were agonizing. I rose in the early dawn, darkness cased the old cobble stone road, on the corner I waited for my master with brushes and bag in hand. I was not at all used to wandering the streets alone in dimness. So it was time to be trained, first the flesh of the young chimney sweep needed to be primed, to acquaint us with the irregular stone interior of the flue of which we climbed. This lesson was more instruct full than Sunday school; where in the voice of a seraph the minister would speak. This clergy gave me an incentive of energy, strength and lust, enveloped in a holy light of salvation behind a tainted shade of black. This glowing light inside of me preserved into warmth throughout the lengthy bitter mornings.

    “Endure these days of hardship young Tom Dacre, as God will be your father, and never want joy.

    This dignified duty may have appeared to be fraudulent and intricate in the eyes of a disbeliever. But it had given me the light of salvation. The earliest flue whereas I had swept, made me cough to a great extent and gasp for a lungful of air. I discovered the in and outs of the flues, collecting the soot in bags, on which we slept in the cellar. My elbows and knees were skinned red raw, profusely expelling an abundance of fluid; the flues also left my ankles perverted like a curly white lock of hair. This was an aide memorie of the repulsive black creature I had been developed into. In spite of that the voice had given me the aspiration, optimism and prospect to continue in search for my afterlife bliss.

    “Be a good boy, tolerate your morality, and you will be rewarded with afterlife bliss”

    For as Jack’s morality had made him ill and suffering with intolerable agony, without doubt this familiarity was the most horrible in his existence. The black transgression of filth I had been ‘weeping started to devour the remaining of Jack’s spirit; as the serpents of black handled his innocent essence, Jack began having difficulties breathing and descended to his knees.

    “Stop being an ungrateful sinner, on your feet boy”.

    “Do not lose hope; you can only be set free once you have completed your duties”.

    For fear that Jack was angering the ecstasy. I prayed. I declaimed a prayer spoken by the house of worship, for my words I managed to converse. Jack rose unwavering to his feet. I feared for Jack being demarcated by the Lord and Saviour; he ascended the slender smokestack, only departing to rest when the duty was complete. In them hours of darkness, I did not relinquish the deliberation of Jack being in absolute desertion.

    “For when your dues are complete, the angel may free you from these flues you know so very well, Jack; with a golden key the angel will release you from your tomb”.

    I rose in the darkened empty cellar entirely insensible to the foretold experience. I searched the street corner where we once convene. All the chimney sweeps had vanished. The headmaster had told me they had completed their dues, they were unchained from this existence and had found contentment in an eternal life. When could I expect to be unfulfilled to by no means sweep flues to any further extent? It was now evident they all had conceded into the afterlife, where a golden gateway meets threshold. In a green plain, bound with delight laughing they ran, bathing in a stream and shimmering in the sun. I had to just embrace hope, rather than filling with doubt. God had been my father all along; when my dues were complete I would be his son.

    “When your dues are complete, may you hope of being risen above the smoke and the ash, to shine in the sun”.

    I no more fear harm, nor I do death, I am patiently waiting to collect my afterlife bliss. The Lord is my shepherd, and I his lamb. I have unfilled desires which are yet to be rewarded; this is only likely by agreement of this hierarchy. I must be able to survive though the hardships of this life and next having a sustained existence though strength, sprit and desire. So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm, this is a threat to all who opposes this powerful class…

    • Join Date: Nov 2007
    • Posts: 5,409

    Re: Poetry transformation into a short story

    Duplicated post.

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