@import "http://lib.zetabin.com/jQuery/facebox/facebox.css";
| Welcome to The Warp Pipe! We hope you enjoy your visit. Remember to register if you haven't already! http://s1.zetaboards.com/The_Warp_Pipe_Forums/register/ -The Staff |
| Lover in the Snow; A novella | |
|---|---|
| Tweet Topic Started: Dec 27 2013, 12:14 AM (136 Views) | |
| January | Dec 27 2013, 12:14 AM Post #1 |
|
The One and the Only
![]()
|
Lover In the Snow “Fear is pain arising from the anticipation of evil.” –Aristotle [1] It was a harsh winter. The gale chased cars, trees, clouds and the dark. Its hiss the roar of a car’s engine; its shrill, quick jab of frigid air a reminder. Up in the firmament, a lonely cloud exists to lie under the Moon, a cradle for the lunar presence. A man in a pea coat and slacks, attempting to hold his warmth within him, huddles through the town square. The stores are lit up with greetings, but this man cannot stop: he must go home. The snow begins to pile on, harder and faster. His steps are more frequent, his footsteps instantly covered and hidden. The air he exhales quickly leaves him as fag burn, and his eyes are nearly shut, for the snow will blind him if opened completely. As he passes the park, he sees someone on the swings. [2] “Who in there right mind would be out swingin’ at this time?” He thought to himself, but he could not afford to stick around. With a heart lined with hope, he trusted whoever was out there knew what they were doing. The Sun was dark and invisible; the sky was vague and illuminating. The Universe was left open to interpretation, for the cloudy night was not about, and the lights were all dead. Hence, he looked upon Andromeda and he beheld all the other bright specks. He was looking at himself, a reflection, into the Milky Way Galaxy. A home, a haven; and to some, Heaven. His home was—at this point—a beacon of safety, and he did not idle about. He moved to the egress, opened it and ushered himself in and the air out. He wished them good day, and a very good goodbye; but he yearned for a distinct kind of isolation. [3] His mind went back to the figure in the park. This enigmatic and odd encounter left him a bit confused. Was it just some drunk? Was it a ghost? Ha, he thought, “Ghosts aren’t real. They’re a fictional lot.” He believed this, and why shouldn’t he? There’s no indication of fay legends, but just because you can’t see them doesn’t mean they aren’t there. Perhaps the utmost of tangible things are the things you can’t yet realize. His home of refuge was of the dark; his breath still in sight, as the cold had breached the walls. Out his window, the snow was a series of hurried dashes through the air. They were moving so fast, it almost looked like the world was a unique partition of white. His favorite lounge chair awaited him, so after a long day of toil, he sat for a rest. [4] A park, foggy with loose vision and imperishable landings set forth; a journey with it led him toward somewhere. Where somewhere was, he was not sure; but the pull was automatic: it pushed him onward—wherever onward was. A girl, young with soft hair; a cute face impressions itself in a memory: a membrane latched unto it and held it dear. A mother in future, her fired eye and determination seeped like a cracked cloud. Eyes, eyes of blue: soft with dignity; mesmerizing even the angels. Even with such soft eyes, there held a confidence, as her stare was unceasing: with it, a small ember seemed to dodge in and out. Oh, it was love. Love was the ember that was lit with the match of lust; the match of lust was conceived by herself. She knew how to be and how to act in front of others. Never showing a hint of the uncompromising, unforgiving truth—wherever that truth lead. Only one man would see this truth, perhaps. It is not known what her thoughts are, for her expression remained docile and relaxed. Never tense, never angered: only benign and submissive. There was an inherent cuteness about her, and it would soon yield a beautiful woman. A beautiful woman that still held that cute scent, whether it be of the natural or unnatural. Body, body like that of a normal woman. It was not perfect, but no thing is; as anything that is perfect is not needed—it is useless. The lightness of her skin only added to the mystique. Her mysterious and odd nature seemed ever so prevalent. The way she walked, the way she talked, the way she did not talk; the way in which she would stare into nothing—the way in which she would isolate herself from nothing. Even if there was nothing to us, there was something to her. Even if there was something to us, we probably would be too busy to notice anyway. Yes, she lived in another world. Her world was not crazy or lazy: it was of much dedication. Many days spent thinking and building; creating and nurturing; perception and birth: it all lead to the new world that lied yonder. She was not odd, but everyone believed so. Even still, she instilled an inherent and unavoidable—mixed with unmistakable—curiosity about her. Everyone wished to understand. Everyone wished to know the world of Her’s. But she would teach no one man nor woman, her mind a paintbrush laid out in the sun: a meek and wild blister, a card of fire with aching alienation. An unbridled genius with a hope to escape the smallness of her Observable Universe. Her world is not much different from ours. It’s just a world that appeals more to her. Mind, a screeching tempest; an angered banshee; an empathetic whiplash with a nucleus of Goddamn Tenacity. Yes, oh yes, it held such promise. Anything could come such a mind: the unpredictability is comparable the element Hydrogen. It is such a simple element, but its oddities make it unique, but also dangerous, given the right conditions. [5] In his dreams, a watery syrup engulfed his vision. He moved through it slowly, as though he were in the ocean. And despite his strength, he felt as though he were slowly settling to the bottom of the ocean. He was desperate to reach the top: the light he saw, and was bright as such. Yes, he saw the light, and it was good. Such a good warmth was nearly his to own, yet the pull of someone kept him in the dank taint. Forlorn and defeated, he died alone and cold; his shivers the only life left within to any wandering eye. As he opened one eye one last time, he saw a girl. She held out a hand to him: a hand of which he wished to hold, so he did. He held it firmly, and she held with the same infirmity. “I do not wish to die.” He mouthed, his one eye quivering. “You do not have to.” The girl said in a soft voice. “Who are you?” He asked. She did not answer; she only brought him to the light. Above the water, he looked in all directions. He saw no land, no boats, no man. It was only him and the Sun. It shined in the middle of the dome of sky, and it was about to leave him. Suddenly, the Sun began to dissipate quickly. It was as though it were going into the deepest realms of Jupiter. It was becoming one with the Atmosphere, and its ringlets were now dying. This was the day the Sun was to die, and here lies this man: the only witness. The bearer of bad news; of bad bear luck,, waving so prettily. It grew and grew with expediting speed; he always wished to sail to the sun. Now, the sun was sailing to him. It grew red and hot, the atmosphere weakened and was then disintegrated. The ocean he was above was not gone, the trees of any nearby island were now gone, along with their gold sand: their warmness ever increasing in this tropic gone hell. He hit the sea floor with a wondrous flop and look upon his Mother. Her sunspots, black doorways into the abyss, now in full view of him. The moon was but a small dot behind a massive red storm. A red and orange scream of flares and fusion. In a matter of inconsequential seconds, he was disintegrating. He felt no pain, but he still screamed. His howls raged into the sun: like that of a blister in the sun. And the nightingale was heard to-and-fro, yet still remained elusive and haunting. A mysterious thing, indeed. Heave! For opportunity still glistened like a saturated leaf of a rain-forest: the droplets held together by the bonds they so hold close—a friendship that cannot be broken easily. He awoke with a chilling sweat: so cold it gave it a pain deep inside his head, gnawing at his brain—and even further still toward his very core. [6] When startled, the dark only grows darker. The only sounds within the silence lie in his breath and in the pelts outside. Paranoid, he shakes with the violence of a child afraid of the dark; his being so silent, anyone or anything there would go about their business unremittingly. In the corners of his eyes, he sees her: the girl. She’s in front of his bed, on the sides, behind the corners, on the ceiling; she is everyone. He stands, walking to his window, the snow still piling heavy. He cleans his window enough to where he can see through, and he sees footsteps in the snow. They lead to his window, then right toward a tree and then up toward his neighbor’s house. They were human, maybe size eleven. Again, his eyes wandered and played tricks upon him. He wondered if the forest younger held her, the woman of his desire. And why does he feel such passion? He does not even know if who he saw was even a person. It could be man, female or some other being. Something not meant to be seen. If it was to reveal itself as a woman, would she live up to his expectations? Is the sexual drive of males that strong, that even a woman you’ve never seen drives you mad? We seem to place our coveted lovers upon a highest of pedestals. We believe them to be the new thinkers, the rational minds in an irrational situation. We see them as the holders of all the opinions we hold, and we deem them some of the most intelligent people to grace this race. When in actuality, your center of your fancy may not be any of these. She might be a dense one, indeed. But still, we romanticize and believe: our dreams the dreamers and optimists. [7] When the day settled, and the snow left the world, he moved outside to study the playground. If there were any trace of her, it would be there. And so, he moved through the cherry trees, their oaks a rich brown, booming with blooming potential. Yes, once in bloom, time would stop itself to take a gander. The roads were covered with— [8] He was born on the west side of the Bronx River. In his youth, he was much a loner and did not enjoy people. He simply wished to be alone, always. In the Spring, Yonkers would be in view, and all the rest of Westchester County was within reach. In the Fall, he’d see the trees release their dead into the river, the collapsed ones creating natural bridges upon and upon still. Stagnate winds winded down properly, but when they raged, they did so in roars. And like the hills near the Hudson River, he heard their roars in the high tide. Lake Tear of the Clouds was a spot where children could hide away from their parents; in both anger and frustration—in loneliness and in alienation. If the Red Sea could see them there, then they would, for it would empty its mouth unto the city’s wake. In the Summer, birds would chirp both solemnly and brightly; during the cooler days, with a breeze collapsing from the highest peaks, light would collide with the mesh and reveal the air particles. In the Winter, the snow would fall in streams of light and heavy. The streetlights that hold fireflies ignite the world with a new ardor; and the time that never moved then did. [9] —footprints, and they were in all different formations and textures. Sizes and shapes, lengths and pressure; but all had the same foot-like features. Out of corners, he stayed paranoid and fearful of the unknown. Was he mad? Was he to go insane? He was a lonely man, yes. For most of his life, had lived a life of solitude; and his adult life was no different. He was so quiet his neighbors soon forgot he was there. They assumed the home was vacant, or they assumed he had died. Living in such a way is very lonely, even to those who feed off the feeling. This woman may be the one to lead him home, for good. [10] They ended there. Right here in this spot, near the broken swing-set and across the slide. A pendant laid restlessly against the slushy sleet. He picked up the pendant, studied its red-ruby luster—a pocket full of lust with the scent of sweat and disobedience seemed ubiquitous. Yes, there was a folly of youth upon this object, the swing of rebellion cock-tailed with a spat of individuality. But there still was a sweet cherry scent so strong it smelt red. He had never seen a pendant like this one before, with its silver chain. This was a woman’s: this was the scent of a woman. This only threw him further into the Sea of Love, and it was dangerous to drive a man with such tease. Especially a man such as this: a man with such divine lust. Manifest Destiny of this broad seemed the paramount of successes. [11] The killer got out of bed, he put his boots on. He walked on down the hall. He walked subtly and slowly, relishing in such an auspicious and suspicious behavior. Yes, oh yes! On there! He swam, and he yelled, and he screamed, and he danced, bobbing his head like a mad, livid, frantic, wild, frenzied, uncontrollable, mad— MAN! OH, HE WAS ROCKING BACK IN FORTH IN THE HALL OF THE DEAD BROUGHT THE THUNDER AND THE PERISHING OF A GODDAMN PSYCHOPATH! YES, HE DAMNED THEM TO IT; HE DAMNED THEM TO IT SO!.......... the killer walked into the mountain: the hollow spot of his mind; aroused, despite perversion: his window, an eye, spout the truth. the killer walked into the bathroom, thrust the tap forward. Indeed, it was a whoosh of water that withheld itself. “this is the end. tonight is the end.” he muttered ominously. The killer got out of bed. He put his boots on, gave a sigh of determination: his eyes half-closed: his mind half-dazed: his body then gone. He walked into the hallway. He walked to his Sister’s room, and he—he paid a visit to his Brother’s room, and he—he walked down the hall, and he came to a door. He looked inside. “Daddy,” he said. “Yes, son?” “I want to kill you. Mother… I want to murder you!” He screeched, veins pulsating, his skin growing a tomato-rubicund. The killer got out of bed. He put his boots on, and walked out into the hallway. It seemed as thought all the rooms looked the same: it was a purgatory; West, North, South, East of all Eden. He put on a face, a masquerade from the library of demeanor, and walked out again. His posture that of a strong Ox, and his eyes unwavering in a straight direction. Legs, bulky with strength moved with quickening pace. He started off with a barely-moving-pace, then moved to a quicker pace. To soon, he was running; he was sprinting; he was flying; he was burning up, and himself needed more than 5 years to catch up to him. “This is the end. It hurts to have to set you free, as I know you’ll no longer be with me, but this is the culmination. The close of laughter, the indulgent wing up on the wall; the end of loneliness trying to be purity; the end of the end, and there’s not much more to proclaim. The children are all mad.” [12] The moon of Io is a Greek lover of Zeus. Her qualifications are her beauty: a mesmerizing stare, a daggered tongue and a mind just as. In a muddle of affairs, she gave her love to a man that was King. She was a nymph, an Argive princess, a daughter of Inachus and a priestess of Hera; her hunger overcame her sensibilities, and hurdled her into endangerment. Nature overtook constitution. She did not see beyond horizon, and therefore burned. She was turned to a heifer as a precaution. Argus Panoptes, and his hundred mirrors watched her. Hermes, a man upon Mercury, stood against the guardian, to slay him. Io roamed the world for forty days and forty nights, seven years and eighty seconds—two light years and eleven-point-one-four-six-six seconds. Or perhaps, time is never time at all, and she never even left. All that was tempted by the gadfly sent by Hera. With her jealously brought her fury, and the crimson brought her anger: the sun had brought hatred. [13] Every footprint is a philosophy. Every print that stains the world is a person, a hand, a body. Every print has within it an ideology with beliefs, morals and compasses. Just as the one who made the print had. The man walked home, and this time the eyes felt every more present. The hundred eyes of the Guardian seemed upon him. The feeling was ephemeral, yet the impact was silently instilled; it would become a slow creeping into his eyes as he was sleeping. The rain came down hard, and with it, the snow went. Into the sewers it washed away, and the fog came down the sky. The hills were quiet, the forest a quiet-boy in trouble; a terrible fright to be outside at night. He studied the pendant at his desk. What was this? [14] This night he dreamed he was in a hallway. He had his boots on, he had his face on, and he was ready to walk down the hallway. An easy act for any normal man, but he was groggy. Punch-drunk he felt as though he were on an airplane. There was a girl at the end of the hallway, but her face was a blur. It looked as though she were moving closer and closer, and soon they were two souls in a fish-bowl: face to face. When he tried to speak, “Who—“ She stopped him, putting a finger over her mouth. Pointing to the door next to her, he knew she wished for him to go inside. Inside the room, there were— [15] The mother was an old-fashioned lady, with a strict code of ethics, but a deep-rooted affection for family, even if she never really showed it. Perhaps it was her religious beliefs that led to her believe that showing affection was somehow wrong, or showing lust for someone was a sin. She had her faults, but she always put the children first. Even if she was a bit overbearing, it was only because she saw first-hand was negligence could do to a child. She did not want to see the pain that brought again. She always spoke of breaking through to the other side. When you find yourself, your true self, then you must break through to the other side: the side of promise. The side where light brings a warmth unparalleled. She was no perfect woman, for she had a deep temper. Her tough sharp, her wit dry as the desert, she could tear a man down to his essentials in a sentence. Her tenacity for tidiness drove the groans of tired and lazy children to halts. Deep down, she had securities as rooted as a bud-root. And, in order to keep her appearance, stayed cold and distant. Though, tragically, she wanted desperately to prove more real—to be something truer. And she would regret not doing so until the day she passed away. She had dark eyes, almost as black as night. In the night, you could only see the pupils. The white blanks the only light illuminated inside the darkness. Motherly instincts: protection, nurture, care were all accounted for. She was a good woman. Wholesome and real, despite her best efforts to make it not seem that way. [16] —A thousand mirrors on the wall. Each one showed yourself, and each one showed only the truth. “What is this place?” “You must find that out. I am only a messenger.” “Messenger? Who sent the message?” “Someone you used to know.” She began to dissipate. “Wait!” She did not wait, despite his best pleas. What could this room need with him? A room that only shows the truth. What did he have to hide? If he had nothing to hide, could he just leave? In the middle of the room, there was a mirror as tall as him. He was a curious fellow, so he looked into it. Within lied a reflection of him, but there were others in there, too. Suddenly, a man with a wrinkled an sunken face came to be. The man looked into the mirror and was terrified. From the pits of his soul, pure rage boiled like a chemical reaction. He knew this man. He knew this man all too well. “No!” He yelled as he smashed the mirror. But the man’s image still stayed upon the inner wall of the mirror, on the shards, and soon all the mirrors held his face. “Stay away from me!” He yelled, covering his eyes from the man in the mirror. He tried his best to block him out, but he only felt him coming closer and closer; his eyes looking deeper and deeper. Then, he felt a hand on his shoulder. His eyes immediately opened and faced the hand, ready to attack. It was the girl. The man in the mirror was gone, but there was still an air of uneasiness. “I want to leave. I want to leave now.” He said, frantically. “Okay,” she said. [17] He woke up before dawn, visibly shaken. These recent lucid dreams were suddenly not fun. They were not useful, they were only painful. He boarded his windows, and sat under his bed. He soon came to realize he needed to go back. His life would never be normal again until he found the purpose of not only the pendant’s owner, but the cause of the dreams. He fell under the Sandman’s spell and wandered. [18] The killer woke up before dawn. He put his boots on, and moved into the hallway. Inside the hallway, there was the man. “Who are you?” The man asked. The killer did not answer, for he could not. He only did what he could, and that was walk. So walk he did, and walk he shall. He walked right past the man at the end of the hallway. The man let the killer go by with no issue, nor no quarrel. He knew not of this man, why bother him? This time, there was only one door to open. He walked toward it, and looked inside. There was a girl, lying on the floor, looking a the ceiling. “Leila?” He said, questioning as though he has had interaction with her once before. She did not look up, nor did she even recognize his presence. She was not rude, she was purely eyeless and deafened. The girl appeared. Her mouth still indulgent, her eyes grew stricter and more somber. Her complexion clean, yet dirtied with the tides of salt and weather. He then felt the truth push its way through him. The hate grew stronger and stronger. He began to look at her with pure disgust and vehemence. She was blissfully unaware of her brother’s rapture. [19] The sister was a nice girl, but rude to her brother. She blamed him for the death of their younger brother, Joseph. She still thought she loved her brother, but she always felt hurt whenever looking at him. This caused the two to grow far apart, the distance between them only growing as they aged. On the rye fields, the golden hues would transport the boy into the world of pretend. He could be a boy with a loving sister; a boy in a world with a sun that divides the day at any time; he could be in a world where the day destroys the night. In the rye fields, the gold transported her to a world where she didn’t feel hate for her brother. She didn’t wish death upon her brother. She didn’t fight her brother. She didn’t want any of these things, it’s just how it was. She had hazel eyes: strong and determined. She was so beautiful that all the village boys had crushes on her. She was the talk of the town, and of the rest of the world. Deep inside those baby hazels lied something dark. An obsession with something, someone, somewhere. It would haunt her until the day she passed away. [20] A stark red-blue sky erupted from the fiery hotbed of the discernible gamut. An eager neophyte, the boy laid upon the sandy beaches of the seashore, and he was in awe of the sky. Such diverse hues; what honored peculiarities in color. Reds, blues, oranges, greens—all filled the void-less sky, and thus filled a void-less boy. No one heard his cries, nor did they care, for they could not hear them. The stifled blubbing grew only more quiet, and more hollow as the boy grew. He was confused, unsure of one’s self and how one should be; he only wished to be himself—whatever himself was. And so, each day the weeps would come like a river. And in that river, the weathered rock only soiled and soggied into a cavern; and the hatred that seeped into the sonorous cracks loomed longer. His father would say, “Come as I want you to be.” He never quite knew what his father wanted him to be, but he dared not ask, lest disappoint him more. His father did view him as a disappointment on numerous occasions. He did enjoy baseball or football, he would rather cook and garden with his mother and sister. He did not wish to play with the other boys, for he yearned for the days spent playing pretend with his sister in the hoary white Narcissi. With time, his father grew old—his father grew drunk—his father grew ill. His father grew dead, then grew cold; his corpse was buried, then it gave growth to a tree: an Amaltaas. “Come as I want you to be.” “How?” [21] Up on the porch was a doll house. Inside the doll house was an escape: an escape to a world of mad appeal and broken hunches. The roof a cerise red. The walls a egg white. The door a pine green. The windows a bronzed chocolate. He played house alone, but his mind would create apparitions of self: true to one’s self—hisself. Sometimes, he’d be so isolated, he’d feel like an alien when called for supper. On occasions as rare as blue moons, he’d be able to stay within until nightfall. On New Moons, he’d forget to come back inside at all. He’d think about Lithium, Sodium, Francium, Barium… All the Alkali Metals. He’d mess with a Chemistry set; he’d mess with it, and he did not care whether it did harm to him or not: a true scientist. It could be filled with radiation, and though it felt harmful to others, he saw it as something beautiful. Perhaps it was because of his non-existent fear of death. Or perhaps, the radiation just suppressed his fear—or perhaps, he was too curious; and the temptation slowly bit into him: like an apple. [22] Chasing cars. He wished he could chase them as well as the neighborhood dogs could; and like the dogs, he wished he could forget the world if only for a moment. In a normal fit of teen angst, he felt the alienation and depression. Even if it were for nothing at all, his endocrine system was much at work, and his psychosis was much at bay. Soon, he withdrew himself from the neighborhood and from his family. His sister still struck with resentment; his father too drunk to care; his mother now sick, too. He was not bullied by others, but he bullied himself. He was taught that violence was wrong, but he had dreams of killing his father, his mother and his sister. Sometimes, he’d leave his mother alive and impregnate her. Other times, he’d kill his parents and impregnate his sister. Finally, he’d kill the females and torture the father. Sexual torture, violence and irreverence swept through his tongue-and-cheek reveries. His only wish was that for one day he’d be able to dream without the murderous desires flowing within like gore. “Come as I want you to be.” “Do I want what you want me to be?” [23] The hallway had no walls and was only a floor. The non-existent barriers that were once walls were now nothing at all. Well, there was something: darkness. And that darkness was infuriating, as there was nothing to see and nothing to do. No doors lie unexplored; no hatches lie unbreeched. No nothing lie nothing. The only thing that lied was the man. He knew there was something, but there was fear. A fear that he’d see something he’d be embarrassed or be judged for. Judgement filled his chest and stomach with a worry. A gnawing—not pain—but feeling of inner dread. Guilt, I suppose. But for what? Nothing… Yes, nothing was done. He was just a man with a pendant and a lover in the snow, right? Of course he was. He had a normal childhood with a loving mother, father and sister. Why wouldn’t he be normal with such role models. But what is normal? The lines begin to grey once you see the dark. And how many the public long to see the dark side. I’d love to see a man with a dark side. A serial rapist with a bad temper; a child molester with a cool disposition and a drip of charm; a bank robber with a devious sexuality; a chronically insane shoe salesman with a sad-case of the drunken tipsies. There is only what is, and what is grey is what is. The line soon grays has you go deeper in to it. [24] Larvae: the wicked and vindictive spirits of the deceased. They lie within the shadows, and the cracks, and the hate within a person. They feed upon it like a fat gastronome. They frighten those of the home, and dwell in that fear. One may reconcile the remaining humanity in their glimmer with ceremonies held on the 9, 11 and 13 of May: the Feast of the Lemures. The house’s master of the house performed these ceremonies by either offering black beans or chasing them away with noise. On the opposite side, the Lares are friendly and benevolent house spirits. They guard the house and the fields. They were worshiped and given food in barter. As a youth, he feared the larvae. He felt crestfallen every night, as his mind and heart turned the ash and intemperance. He was not a violent child, but he enjoyed playing with animals. To him, they were just bouts of fun and jubilation, but in them lolled a sinister Larvae. [25] The girl appeared again before the man. He asked her, “Please, can you just tell me where in God’s name I am? I mean, don’t you think I have a few inquiries?” She looked relaxed, a small smile elated across her face. Her posture of a girl with her boyfriend, a casual-representation. With this, she seemed satisfied and thus gave what the man desired. “I am honestly not sure what this place is. I am only the guide: the messanger, as I told you before.” “Well, that does fuck all for me, then.” He was frustrated, he had finally found his voice: that of a disgruntled neighbor. “Okay, well, can you at least point to our next destination?” She nodded yes, and with great energy pointed to a door. “Oh, more doors? Jolly good fun awaits?” She did not answer his rhetoric. The killer turned the corner and saw them yonder, and he stood still. like a statue, his stone tenure was set. And like stone, it was hard and grey. He did not move until the man moved, and with each step the man did, he did one more. When they reached the middle of the hallway, they were in front of each other. “Hello?” The man said. The killer did not answer. “May I ask that you move?” The killer nodded, and moved. “Who are you?” The man asked. “A killer; a cold-blooded monster.” The killer said. The man was stunned. He had never met a killer before. Immediately fear began to spread like forest fire, and his excitement only grew to worry. “Is this killer to kill me?” He thought to himself. Finally, he pushed the words out. “Are you to end me?” The killer did not answer. “Not quite chatty, are we? Well, good day, Mr. Me-Murder.” The killer walked away, his heavy steps heard even at the farthest regions of the hallway. [26] As a child, his wit was never dull. His remarks were both cold and distant, yet their wisdom was remarkable. Far from cynical, he was a defeated optimist. His idealism only led to disappointment, and that lead to hatred and feeling of superiority. “Why do we act like we’re so morally conscious at home, yet act so ugly to those in another home?” He never could understand the justification between such hypocritical thinking. “What good is the sun that shines? What good is the morning dew? No matter how sweet or lovely the morn, it’s no use at all if we’re isolated and fissured.” When he would sit on the sandy beaches of Rock-away, the golden powders cradled him; he’d look up into the night sky, and see the stars in full bloom. They were of all colors, but from his perspective, they were all white, twinkling sparks. He would ponder existence, life and death, morality. He’d wonder about why we—as a people—appeared to hate everything, and how we seemed to enjoy rescinding things: including our home. He’d think about past-lovers, both young and hold. How he spent long nights thinking about them, with each new love bringing kisses holding inspiration as nectar. Now, all those loves were the burning embers in stardust. The remains of supernova explosions, both big and small, left big impacts on his heart. Though he could not see them, and though he may never see them: he felt them. He felt their pulse, and he felt the heavy elements they discharged speed through the Universe. But that was long ago. [27] The killer walked through the hallway. His mind was surprisingly empty for a killer. You’d think there would be plots and conspiracies floating through that damaged noggin, but no: it was empty. He was an empty man, a sad man, a dead man, a lonely man. In his heart, there lied nothing, for there was no heart. How he existed, it is not known, but he is there. How did he come to be? That is as puzzling a question as the origin of the Big Bang, but what is known is he is dangerous. As a eradicator, I am sure you can make reason as to why. He is doomed to wander these halls, looking inside the rooms, looking for something. What could he possibly want? Let’s see: He got up. He put his boots on. He walked on down the hall. He went to the room where his sister dwelled, and he raped her. He surprised his brother, and he killed him. He continued on down the hall. He came to a door. He looked inside. “Father.” “Yes, Son?” “I wanta kill you. Mamma, I want to fuck you!” [28] In the room of mirrors, there was something he missed. Inside the mirror where the man appeared lied a woman. She was of similar age, and a mother. She was the mother. If the young man had stayed a bit longer, he could’ve seen her. What would his reaction be then? He, and the ethereal girl, walked through the halls, visiting room after room. Some holding little outlets and cafés. Others holding more people. Most people he recognized, but some were foreign to him. He met some best friends, some enemies and his mother. When he saw his mother, he saw her as the last memory he had of her: in her nightgown at dawn. He had issues with his mother, but she was his mother; and he could not hold back the urge to cry. He made it through everything he needed to, so what was the final challenge? “I just want to know the owner of this pendant. Can you please tell me?” “I will show her to you.” “Really? No fooling?” “No fooling.” His face boomed with glee. “Well, what the hell are we waiting for? Come on!” They walked, and they walked, and they walked, and they walked, and they walked, and they walked until their feet were sore; and their laces untied. Finally, the door they needed the most was in view. The killer stood at guard. “Oh, move the fuck out of the way, would you? I don’t have time for you, good man.” His command did not make the killer heed. He remained motionless, as if he were dead. “What’s this guy’s deal?” “He is the end.” “Well, can you be a little more specific? What’s he the end of? I swear, everything in this place is infuriating.” “You must accept him.” “Accept him? Who the hell is he?” “He’s a part of you that you have hidden. To see the pendant’s owner, you must first accept yourself.” The man looked upon the guard. He wore scuba gear, with black sea-legs and boots. Inside the helmet, he could see his eyes, and his skin, and his features: this was him. The Sea-Man pulled out a knife, covered in blood. “What the fuck?!” The man jumped back, expecting attack, but none occurred. The Sea-Man only held it up for a show-and-tell. The knife drew him in, with drops of blood plummeting to the floor. Instantly, he was completely out of reality and thrust into this knife. It stabbed its image into him, and he drooled with a tense feel. He wanted that knife. [29] When he was sixteen, he committed murder. It was an accident, but he ended another person. All that philosophy, all that empathy—it seemed to be a lie under a more immoral truth. He studied the body, took samples, and just stared for a long time. So long he feared someone had seen him, but it was only his inert paranoia. He hid the body nearby, and drove away. How did he kill him? The victim was a hitch-hiker looking for a ride. The man seemed nice and well, why not give him a drive? He would want someone to do the same for him, so he picked him up. They exchanged niceties, and soon grew accustomed to each others’ presence. The driver was all fine and good until the car broke down. They were both now hitch hikers. In a fit of blind rage, he hit the man until he died. The body laid there, beckoning for investigation. [30] “Deep down in your heart, you know what I am.” “Yeah, I do know what you are; but that doesn’t mean I have to like you.” “I don’t care if you like me. I just need you to let me in.” “I’d rather let some light in.” “Well, that’s too bad, there’s only the dark and I.” The killer lunged forward, grabbing the man’s right arm and pulling it forth. The killer then drove the knife through the man. Grabbing his wound, he fell to the ground, releasing blood through his mouth. The floor turned to a red sea, and the beating heart—still red—was turned down a notch. The man felt so very weak as is eyes began to falter. He was wicked, as even though he laid dying, he still was not regretful of anything. He turned to the girl, and gave a look of satisfaction. She did not form any expression, she only placed her hand upon the wound and let some light in. [31] The life came back to him, rushing forth like a monsoon. He stood, glided toward the killer and perpetrated murder again: he killed the killer. [32] The man and the girl went into the room once guarded by the killer. Inside, there was a light that brought the man back to the real world. He awoke, and looked around his room. Out his window, no precipitation fell, only the dead of night stayed still. He then remembered what the girl in his dreams told him: go to the café. He stood, and steadfastly marched toward the establishment. A fire in his eye, destined to meet this Lover. He moved so fast his feet were then rugged and unclean he thought and thought of all things he could be thinking of at a time or place or millennium left right left left right eyes moving looking trees ground street head-lamp-lights-on-stilts town-roads cars with people inside looking oh so depressed or confused look of good fortune upon own face happy to be dancing toward love on wake on wake on spite despite waking so very late on a new, new day without showering nor thinking about the water bill or the other bills such as the stove did he forget to turn the stove off such a question plagued and haunted and hurt such a man like myself and him and he still moved quick never ceasing to be moving as quick as a man with a quick moving movement with feet and hands and back and brain and— [33] He saw her. She was of light mood and quiet temperament. Eyes, eyes like bright chest-nuts on a chest-nut tree. Face, face so cute and soft: a texture of silk, like the softness of a new-born. Not perfection, but there was a modest and humble air in which she breathed. Quaint and docile, a look of innocence—without passionate seduction—laced with candy-cane lips of red-white. She and him caught eyes, and they locked like a key in a door. The café was busy and most gaudy, the rakes of vulgarity and debauchery was in the itinerary. She felt love for him, and he felt love for her. Perhaps not love, but attraction was a chord and a thirsty root. For them, though, it felt like love. He’d been waiting for a light, and for the longest time, he tried. There were flowers everywhere, but at the time, he could not care. He lived his life like pretend: to go along and fit right in. She lived her life afraid of the light, as it revealed all the lies then webbed. Crooked mouth, with an odd air about her. Attracted attention and wonder—awe and difference were multipliers. She could manipulate whoever she wanted, and everyone else knew it—except for her own-self. She’d ignore conversations and questions, indulging only her own thoughts and questions; she’d listen to you, and then ask something completely irrelevant; she’d look sincere and cultivating, but inside she only wished to leave you. In your tracks, you would stay alone, with no ear to heed your beckoning howls. Banshee, banshee, banshee: ban she who wreck and tempt the Basilisk of Evil. The Janus of Doors, and the Locker of Gate-ways—both sideways and back-a-way’s. Oblique, perpendicular and perfectly measured intellect. All her opinions stacked upon and stacked well. She was a liar, perhaps the best in the world. Most liars forget their lies, but she did not—no, she remembered each lie, no matter how complicated. No matter what way you told her to recite her story, she’d do so well enough. She did not lie for sympathy or for own gain, but for the intrigue of fooling a once unfooled being. They walked toward each other, exchanged names and left the café. She looked like the man’s sister, and they had a good laugh at the coincidence. She assured him she had never met him prior, and they got along well. Hell, he was beginning to fancy her for more than her looks after a good while. They were in the park when he sat her on a bench and asked, “Is this your pendant?” “Why, yes it is. Where did you find it?” She said, her face blushing with gratitude. A gentle trick for a gentle proposition. “In the park. I saw you in the blizzard at the park. What were you doing there?” He asked, cautiously, as it was none of his business. “I was supposed to meet someone. They never showed up.” “A lover?” He said, attempting to sound concerned, when really he was just being territorial. “An old friend. He was supposed to bring some light to a dark part of my life, a closure of sorts. I needed that information, and he never brought it.” She shook her head in disappointment as she spoke, “I should’ve never trusted him.” “We never know who to trust. We just take a faithful dive.” She looked up, seemingly comforted by his words. “I had a name for you while I did not know you.” “What was it?” She said with a look of divine flirtation fluctuating North. “Lover in the Snow.” “Ha, what a nickname! I feel honored.” All his life, he questioned a lot of things. But, with her, he felt like he didn’t have too many questions. He would turn off the light, and he was always on time for being late. Always on time for a mishap or a tragedy. His philosophy was, “Why do now what you can do later?” And this lead to heartbreak and unhappiness, filling him over and over again. He felt always in the way, like he was of no help. Though there were flowers in his hair, he did not feel like he could fit right in to any clique or social circle. He’d always assure himself that it wasn’t over. And when it was over, he’d let you and anyone else know: he was in control. He had shame, but he would not and could not ever show it. And though he wanted to be the man who could laugh at his own stupidity, he’d only feel anger and resentment toward his own mistakes, and the laughs that followed. He was in this life to begin, and he had no fear of being in this life to find an end. [34] He held her close to his chest. He kissed her head, and felt her sweater brush against his loose clothing. It touched skin, his skin, and instantly he felt a jump and jolt of integrity. A slice of his manhood and a whip of the cracking thunder came down upon this woman. He was a gentle man, with gentle hands and gentle manner. He was not a forceful: he only wished to hold and be held. He’d always make sure he got an o.k. for every action. He always made sure he was aware of his strength. He kissed her head, her cheeks, soon he dove toward a sea of neck; the life in her sprung forth and manifested as energy, thus leading to her assertive nature shaping. She pulled, and she shrieked. She moaned and she weeped, but to him, she was only making the sounds of a woman being pleased in a bath. What a romantic! He had game, even still. He was worried he was rusty; he was worried he could not perform. Well, she could take that to the bank! After lust passed and reality surfaced. The ecstasy lifted and the rationale unfogged. He looked at his love, and cuddled close to her: their heat going in and out of each other’s bodies. He held her close, as he was finally happy. He had finally found a lover. She was in the snow, and was unseeable for a time; but now she was warm and visible. He told her he would return when the robin makes its nest. He will come back, for she is his one and only: his lily. [35] Victim: Nelle Estlin Beck Age: 34 years Occupation: Waitress at Carlin’s Cause of Death: Strangulation and Asphyxia Report: Victim found lying in bedroom of a Mr. Townsend. She had been brutally choked and stabbed with kitchen knife. The knife wounds were post-mortem, and thus cause of death was asphyxia. Townsend had sex with her multiple times after she died. Her neck was practically destroyed, and it was a grotesque scene. He had beat her face until it was almost unrecognizable. He cut her hair, burned her clothes and removed her breasts. In the bathroom, his bath tub was filled with the victim’s blood, and we found the breasts in the fridge. He tried to get out of the state, but a squad car found him at the bus station. He has been shipped to Merriweather. [36] Tartarus: a gloomy void. Like Chaos, Tartarus is both an end and a beginning. It is the lowest region of the world, the same distance Earth is from Heaven. It is a sad pit with sad bronze walls, and beyond this lies a three-fold layer of nightfall. Chaos, Earth, Eros and Tartarus are some of the first entities to exist in the Cosmos. There lies the Titans, a group of power super-giants that were symbols of nature. In their raging tempest, there was an eye of serene; when defeated, they were punished with banishment. An era will come where the walls of bronze turn to liquefied copper and tin; and the nightness will be ended with the coming of Sun. Here comes the Sun. “Men shut their doors against a setting sun” –William Shakespeare |
![]() | |
![]() |
|
| 1 user reading this topic (1 Guest and 0 Anonymous) | |
| « Previous Topic · Art · Next Topic » |
| Track Topic · E-mail Topic |
7:45 PM Jul 10
|









7:45 PM Jul 10