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Thread: Excerpts

  1. #1
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    Default Excerpts

    Who knows, this might become a one-shot thread. But keep in mind that I will rarely be posting bright and pretty things here. :<

    And for the record, this was exactly 2 pages with Tahoma size-12 :p




    -one shot-

    -start-

    I understood why I did it,
    Even though I never knew why.

    I felt alone,
    But I feel even more isolated now.

    Perhaps I was always this isolated.



    I really wanted to write. A one-shot I mean. The ones I read were so inspirational. I hated how deprived of ideas I was, even when I had the urge to write. There were just so many possibilities, but I never had a gift for finding or using them.

    I never got the bother to draft with pen and paper. I think I didn’t want anyone to find out about my writing. I was too overprotective. I didn’t like it when other people knew how I felt - it took that special thing away from me. I didn’t know what that thing was, but it left me very insecure.

    It was an odd sense of insecurity. It wasn’t the paranoia of being attacked for who I was. It was the paranoia of being considered equal. I didn’t like that. I could be superior. I could be inferior. But I didn’t like it to be equal. Perhaps it was a selfish desire to be special.

    This I achieved. But I wasn’t revered. I was simply known. This gradually became my isolation. I was neither superior. Nor was I inferior. I was in a different world. It was a world where I could freely bottle up my emotions, to keep secrets.

    It was a bland world. It was generic. All people have access to their own sections of this world. It was still bland to them probably, but they still had that other world to attend. That world was where everyone shared their own snippets of this world.

    But I didn’t. If someone asked me about it, I wouldn’t tell them anything more than would reveal the nature of my part of the world. Either that, or I tell a different story altogether - an acceptable story. I was too lenient back then; I revealed too much and now I was going to pay for it.

    Even for writing this. It’s a rant after all. About how I couldn’t write one-shots. But maybe I could be cured. Or I’m just being too hopeful. It’s a poor rant anyway. There were things I wanted to mention. Abstract things. But l didn’t want to, because that would make the rant harder for someone to agree with.

    Is that what I want? Sympathy? I didn’t know. There were reasons I had where I would’ve been glad to have someone sympathise with me. But what if they didn’t? Then I’d be equal. They’d purge my ideals and spread the word out. I didn’t like the prospect of that.

    It was all a vain attempt at being unique. I never had many gifts. There was a bit of intellect, but I was widely outclassed by others. I didn’t like letting others found out how awful it was in being outclassed at so many levels. I led a meaningless existence and this was the only thing I could do about it.

    Maybe if I died people would bring me into consideration. Then forget about it a few days later. No, I needed to persist. Ultimately, I’d like to publicise my part of the world. But I didn’t want to do it so as to be mocked after my death. If I took it down the grave, then people would only hypothesise about what my part looked like. I wouldn’t like that.

    The human mind was shallow after all. I seemed equal as much as I hated it. They’d just dismiss my death as being a victim of physical stress. As stressed and dejected I actually was, I would’ve liked to call mental illness into question about my suicide, rather than basic human limits. Maybe that was another vain desire.

    I don’t know if I am depressed at all anyway. I most likely am not. I only notice and judge things by short-term benefits or sacrifices. Even if suicide would help me achieve my goal, I am still afraid of the nothingness that follows.

    ...

    ...

    ...


    I think it was a good rant. It was short. But I don’t think I could do it again. I don’t want to read it. I went away midway through a paragraph and my mood changed. I don’t know what else to write anymore. It’s pretty loud outside. I wanted to rant when I started this, but I don’t think I’m morally allowed to now.

    I’ll stop now. Maybe I can come back later and continue without referring to anything above. Maybe one day I’ll actually decide to reread this. Then I’d hate myself even more. People don’t change. Not even I do. No matter how much time passed between me writing this and me rereading this, I wouldn’t have changed.

    Not one bit.

    -end-
    Last edited by Yonowaru in Chaos; 13th March 2009 at 2:42 PM.



  2. #2
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    I like the formatting. Yes, yes I do. It really adds to it.

    Perhaps even, this would be good as a kind of diary entry. :3
    [.Three: H/Rt-314.]

    тѕє ѕцтсєыяєр омон

  3. #3
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    -two shot-

    -start-


    I knew what I had gotten myself into.

    You said you wanted to find her, so I helped you.

    In that delirium of waltzing spirits, of those who steal one’s intentions away, I did to your cause.

    I don’t know how much time I had wasted on you.

    I knew I was going to waste more and that I was never going to fully admit that I was a fool in doing so.

    But hey, I’m just ritual fodder.

    And in the end, you found her all by yourself.

    I didn’t find anyone.

    But it wasn’t a terrible feeling at all. I’m used to it.

    I suppose you didn’t know how lonely I really felt.

    How lonely I really feel.

    There’s no doubt you care. As a friend.

    Even when the hall emptied, I stood by your side, convincing her.

    I had an intention to do so.

    I don’t know why.

    A part of me wants to cut the thread, but the other is convincing me that I’m doing this to make you happy.

    Must’ve been the spirits.

    We left the musty hall together and the crisp air in the aftermath of rain slapped me awake.

    But I refused to let it go.

    In the end, I cheered you on until I had to leave when the others came up. The ones who didn’t hesitate to be a spirit. The humans.

    I held a conversation with the wind as I left.

    He was my ineffable side, so I didn’t understand what I was meant to do by following his words.

    I threw my mask back on in the end as I was driven back home, the wind whispering through the window.

    You didn’t want your night to end.

    In a sense, so didn’t I.

    I know, I am totally reliant on you.

    If you wanted to leave, I would’ve followed you.

    But you found your fork in the road.

    And I followed to support you.

    Yes.

    You do know why I did that.

    So stop acting so unbeknownst.

    It kills me when you know why, but you question the cause without questioning the act.

    How am I supposed to answer?

    “It’s not a big deal.”

    It’s pretty big to me. Especially when you’re not mentioning your role.

    Do you even know what you did?

    I fell in love with you, Goddamn it.

    ...

    The wind hasn’t won yet, but I still have nothing to cherish.




  4. #4
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    To him, I was quite a stranger.

    I don’t think you’ll ever know that feeling, to be such a close stranger to the wind.

    I can’t communicate with him, but his presence is like a requiem to the dead.

    Even that night, he was by my side.

    Maybe it was later on when you found out.

    Because I certainly wasn’t prepared.

    I never knew you’d take it seriously. But now it seems strange.

    I still feel lonely, and the more I become, the more my thoughts contradict.

    I’ve already come to blame you for it.

    ...

    He lives in a valley, or a depression of sorts. It was the middle of two hills, the entirety covered with grass.

    I’ve never been down there. A concrete structure borders perpendicular to the valley. Opposite the valley is an intangible horizon.

    I don’t know what it looks like.

    But it’s where the wind goes all the time.

    Whenever I’ve been there in my dreams, I would always climb down the structure, but I would never reach the middle.

    I would always stay on the slope where there were a few boulders under the structure, resting in the shadow.

    It was always an afternoon when I was there.

    The wind would be away, but his presence would surround me.

    I’ve been there with another person, but he stayed on the structure, resting on a pillar.

    But I didn’t know what he did.

    There was a reason I dreamt of him, like how I dreamt of you once.

    But I think he left. I didn’t climb back on to the concrete structure, because the wind brisked me away somewhere else before I even thought of it.

    It was my favourite dream.

    Even though you weren’t in it.

    ...

    That part of me can survive without you.

    But I can’t imagine it. So I reject it.

    Lately, it’s gone off with the wind.

    I try to tempt it back, but that feeling was gone.

    Maybe that’s why you won’t know it. If I ever get to be with you, I would give anything to have that feeling back.

    But it seems destiny never had any thought for us.

    Hence, the scenario’s distorted now.

    You’re not taking this as seriously as I need you to.

    And I don’t know what to do.

    Go off with her.

    It’s time I cut that thread.

    ...

    ...

    ...

    Wait.

    -end-








    I split this one up because one, this is supposed to be a two-shot after all, and two, Synthetic said that this would look pretty on its own xD
    Last edited by Yonowaru in Chaos; 5th April 2009 at 12:03 PM.



  5. #5
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    Rated MA15+ for blood, gore, psychological themes, very mild sexual themes and surgical procedures.

    Not suitable for children under 15. Under 15s must be accompanied by an adult or adult guardian.






    -vanity-

    I glance sideways, to see the roll, whiteless and empty.

    Like eyes - cold emotionless eyes.

    The bronzed dispenser, bare and hollow.

    It stares down, across the mismatched tiles until its gaze reaches my feet, where I cringe.

    I take my thongs off and pat the floor with my bare feet.

    I meekly kick the thongs towards its depressed gaze, hoping to keep it busy.

    In doing so, I stare at my feet, sallow and black.

    I fiddle with my toes, playing them like a piano, stringy bone casting jumping shadows.

    Fun...but ugly.

    I don’t like them, so I move on.

    I move up, past my mechanical ankle and up the shaft of my leg. Worms cling on tightly, fearful to let go.

    They make my leg black, so I pull them off, hit them off. But it gets blacker everytime I do that.

    There are so many holes and canyons there now, but they still don’t let go.

    I don’t know why...why they don’t come off.

    I hit them again, but to no avail.

    I continue to move up, to my bulging knee. It looks as out-of-place as anything but it just doesn’t sink back in.

    I want to push it back in, but it doesn’t go back in.

    I don’t know why...why it doesn’t listen.

    I look across to its twin, who is also as disobedient.

    I smack them both, but they still don’t listen.

    My thighs have gone pink over the years - pink, but not pretty.

    They’re too sallow, so I hit them to make them paler, but it never works.

    They grow red - dark red - but then fades back to that musty colour again, incompletely.

    I hate them. I imagine driving a knife through them, but I still cringe.

    I don’t know why...why I cringe.

    I don’t want this.

    I look up; away.

    White, everywhere.

    But black instead.

    Unclean, everywhere.

    I tear it off, but I cringe.

    I try to dismiss it, but it just doesn’t let me.

    I grab my knife and try to cut it off.

    It works, but I smash my face, shattering it to bits.

    Clean...everywhere.

    I grab fistfuls of it, pounding it onto my bare body, my bare face, smudging it in.

    Purify me.

    Purify my skin and flesh.

    I pound it in, as if I was forging a sword.

    Make me...

    It makes my skin pink, bursting it. Black, everywhere.

    It’s working.

    Soon it’ll be all gone.

    The black, gone. Dirt, gone.

    Then the clean will replace it...

    Make me...

    It glows, and I push it in, force it in.

    But it doesn’t stay on.

    It falls at my feet and I scoop it up.

    Make more canyons, more holes, clean them out.

    Make me...

    Make me beautiful.

    But it doesn’t work.

    It doesn’t stay on.

    They fall off, down the tainted waterfalls.

    They don’t like it - the dirt.

    They don’t like me...

    I stare at the blackest of them all, that filthy nest between my legs.

    I shout and cry, but it only smirks.

    They leave, down the drain, away into the blackness.

    No...wait...!

    I beg them to come back, but they don’t.

    I hack at the nest with my knife. I cringe, but I know it’s for the better.

    It squeals, but I feel relief.

    The dirt gushes out, flushing away...

    Don’t come back.

    I hack at the hairs on my legs. They still don’t come off, but still, I hack.

    They’re going. The more dirt that gushes out, the faster they turn away.

    I grovel at the drain, but it’s too late.

    Come back...

    I manage to save a few and I quickly rub them on my thighs.

    Beautiful...purify me.

    Make them...whole again.

    They still don’t stay on. I’m too dirty. They know that underneath, there is only more dirt.

    I can’t stand it.

    So I hack. Again and again.

    I show them that I’m sorry.

    Look, there’s the dirt...but I don’t want it...

    Make me...please...make me...

    I beg, but they are disgusted.

    I apologise, over and over.

    But they don’t listen.

    No one listens.

    They turn away, like the others.

    Down the drain they went, away from me...

    I feel empty.

    It surrounds me,
    and I shiver.

    I turn to the dirt.

    But even they can’t stand the sight of me.

    Down they went, away, draining away.

    I grab the dead bird, lying near my thongs and I try to put it back where the nest used to be.

    But it doesn’t stay. It lies limp, on the dirt-stained tiles, no longer mismatched.

    Regret fills my eyes...dirty regret, only partially purified.

    It stings my eyes, subtly.

    I can’t blink them.
    I keep them painfully open.

    They see me, how beautiful I am.

    Shallow eye, it sees me too, now that
    I lie, on the dwindling floor.

    Tell me...

    Tell me that I’m beautiful.

    But it doesn’t answer.

    I don’t know why...why it doesn’t answer.

    Maybe it’s because I’m not beautiful.

    I look for the knife. It lay next to the drain, but
    I caught it before it ran away.

    I hack again, plunging it into my hollow stomach.

    I cut where the ridges of my pelvis form.

    It spills; it bursts, like a fountain.

    A beautiful fountain.

    I no longer cringe.

    How can you cringe...cringe at what you think is beautiful?

    People do that.

    They cringe.

    Because they’re not beautiful.

    I look up, at the shallow eye, and I repeat my request.

    But it is no longer looking at me.

    It gestures up, towards my ruin, my shattered heaven.

    I clutch the basin, still white, still beautiful, but I taint it with my beauty.

    My efforts wasting, I pull myself up, but my legs cannot support my weight.

    They stumble, but
    I still clutch onto it with my spidery hands.

    I climb up and bring my face into view in front of the ruined mirror.

    I utter its name.

    I ask.

    But my arms stumble before it gives me an answer.







    Well I hope you enjoyed it.
    Last edited by Yonowaru in Chaos; 28th July 2009 at 10:03 AM.



  6. #6
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    Disturbing, but fascinating. DIY surgery is always creepy to read, but you pulled it off well; it pulls you in. It may seem an odd choice, but I think the most haunting line is probably;

    Quote Originally Posted by Yonowaru in Chaos View Post
    Tell me...

    Tell me that I’m beautiful.
    I eagerly await another entry.

    PASBL Trainer level one. Wins:4 Losses:0 Draws:0 KO's:3 TP:8 SP:0
    Quote Originally Posted by PartyPokemon View Post
    Alternatively, you can drug her and stare at whatever you like as long as you want. Your choice.
    Quote Originally Posted by DarkLegend View Post
    PS: Somebody sig this...

  7. #7
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    Thanks for the reply

    This came at the spur of the moment while I was flossing (first time I've really done some proper flossing >___>;; ) and I saw how yellow my bathroom was. Reading Blood Rush (by Synthetic; it should still be on the main Fan Fiction forum's first page /shameless advertising) sort of inspired this as well. Then I spent a few hours on it before finally sleeping at 3am xD

    Well I'm glad you like it and I hope I can pull off another one. This thread only gets sporadically updated, though. Otherwise...I *try* to work on my other ones ^^;



  8. #8
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    I like these a good deal.

    The format is unique and looks really good and also adds the mood to the piece. Makes me thing of a dairy entry of a blog. I like the Vanity one the best; I thought that was a good read and had some really nice ideas. I thought the reputation of make me gave a good effect. The descriptions and the tones were really nice as well, and also added to the mood.


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  9. #9
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    Haven't posted here in ages, and I'm not sure if I can still pull these off. Many apologies to C.Gholy; I haven't ignored you ^^;;;



    -the gazer-

    A cute one flies by, without a care in the world.


    A second one comes, with a group of friends. They greet me with their acts of charades. It’s not long, though, until their separated and shooed off.


    A fat one rolls by, collecting and losing, like a giant ball of dust.


    An army of flat ones skim across, leaving neither a break nor a lump.


    A dark one passes by, fleetingly, without relinquishing a drop.


    Soon, a bigger one comes, too, but it’s as greedy as the previous one.


    A hazy one stays for a while, but he doesn’t tell me why. He tells me that they’re losing up north. I’m not sure I understand what he’s saying. When he goes off, he doesn’t leave like the rest of them. He just...goes. I hope he’s all right.


    A really bad one comes afterwards. He has bad breath and sweats a lot. He tells me he comes from the north, where all that live are smelly and sweaty ones like him. He doesn’t stay for long.


    A fleet of huge ships passes by. They’re really impressive, and they cast beautiful shadows on the dusty landscape. I greet the captain of one of the ships, and he says they’re going to the sail around the Earth. I wish them luck, before they promptly head off.


    A maiden comes by next. She seemed lost and all over the place. She was young and didn’t know what to do, so I told her to follow the wind.


    A whole stampede of them come from the north. They say they’re escaping from the north, but they don’t stay long to chat.


    Another ship flies by next. It’s surrounded by a whole variety of them who seem to be in a hurry, but don’t want to become separated from the group. The captain looked grim, so I didn’t greet him.


    Days pass with the usual visitors, until the annual tourists come. They stay for a long while, shedding droplets of money everywhere. They’re generous, but they also ruin the landscape with their careless ways.


    They’re gone after they’ve finished shedding their money. They said they’d be coming next year as usual.


    A city passes by next, its spires piercing the skies; some ruined, some supporting another structure high above and some that effortlessly twisted around each other like some serpentine emblem. I greet their citizens, but like the others, they’re escaping from the war. They come from the west, which makes me worry a bit.


    A few days pass on without a freckle. I see mountains of them coming from a distance, but they never seem to arrive.


    The mountains never arrive, but an ocean arrives from the south. They don’t stop to chat as they head up to the north to fight the war. They leave soon enough, leaving the sky somewhat more barren than before they came.


    Jets stream by, leaving a silken ribbon trail behind. It fades eventually into the deep indigo.


    They keep coming now; ships with their civilian hold heading south, and armies and jets heading north. Some coming directly from the north are as dirty as ever, but they usually don’t pass by here as often as the others do.


    The distance proves to be a wonderful, yet anguishing landscape. They’re all fighting and fleeing, but it all conforms to one giant range of swirling mountains. It appears dark and shadowed at a distance, with some white ones escaping the turmoil to meet up with a carrier. I hope the mountain doesn’t arrive.


    A few days pass on without much incident. Fewer ships and armies are passing by now; I don’t know what’s wrong. Maybe they’re losing the war, maybe they’re winning, but I can’t tell, because the skies are empty. It’s alluringly calm, but there’s something very wrong. Should I be anticipating something? Or has it already happened?


    I hear something faint in the distance, and a mushroom pops up amongst those mountains.









    It's admittedly a bit shaky, but this is supposed to get me back into writing, so yeah...



  10. #10
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    Font change. w00t.

    This was an entry for a writing competition that had to address a social issue - any social issue - with a word limit of 1000. Entries were judged by creativity rather than writing skills, but I think I failed in terms of both. Well, you be the judge. Most of this was written while I was half awake (procrastination ftw), so the original had a few typos which have been edited. God forbid, if any of you spot one, tell me so I can bash my head on the wall sofa.

    Rated PG:14+ for potentially being religiously offensive.



    Portrait of Our God
    I looked upon it, as one would stare into the depths of a crystal ball, finding some sort of semblance of empathy within. Smoothed out and fractured where it had been handled carelessly by time, it rested in my palms, crumbling into dust as I caressed it.

    I sat down below the window where the dust filtered the sunlight, filtered the features of my subject which I cast dancing shadows over with my fingers. I was fascinated by the caverns extending deeply into some ineffable abyss; if it was brought up to my ear, I probably could’ve heard a surreal echo that whispered of its existence.

    I lifted it up, bathing it in the ancient sunlight.

    It shown like enamel, warm and softly tanned, but the caverns remained obstinately pitch-black and soulless.

    The caverns were once filled with my good friend’s animated eyes, but now that he had gone, they were unframed and left to decay. What was left of his eyes became nothing but windows into a dimension of darkness and hidden truths.

    I cried for days until night would comfort me to dream, but yet, my curiosity was unspurred and as lifeless as his grin. My only yearning was to join him and reunite with him in a world that would be as tangible as infinity.

    Yes, I wanted to die. And close I was to dying – how close I was to bringing his face within the grasp of my caress, until reality regained its hold and pulled me back to the lamenting strokes of his crumbling jaw.

    I was revived by a dream one night – a dream summoned by my grief and his will. It was my epiphany, releasing me from my cyclical depression and reinserting me back to my locus. It felt indignant, to leave him forgotten by time, while I, the only bearer of his memory, move onwards, eventually abandoning the dead man’s burdens. I couldn’t bear to consider it. Saddened, I was, but his manifestation reassured me that there was no need to upset the equilibrium established by Our Father. It would be an act of violation, to cross the scales without the consent of Fate.

    And so I sat in daybreak’s rays, peering into his skull, peering into the abyss that he had so accidentally, yet fatefully, fallen into. My curiosity lay beyond those empty frames, rounded so perfectly as if crafted by the Destroyer himself.

    Death, so often the malignant one, so often abused and neglected, and yet, as the most powerful of deities, why is it that he be so distant from sympathy and affection?

    He takes us away, into that abyss, ending our ephemeral existence – he is the wicked one, the one whose decisions are always rendered premature. Yet, is it not he who urges us to cherish? Memory is worthless without His judgment – above all, he gives us meaning and purpose.

    I shunned Death, and still do us all.


    ***


    It started with a blank canvas, until I lay my first stroke of paint upon it. As easily as it had been devoid of detail, the canvas became the abyss, became the ethereal echoes within those empty frames.

    His head will forever be hooded in the darkness of fear, in the darkness of the abyss, and this became His cloak. It was what dreams were made of – his cloak, swirling into ribbons that formulate the abyss and become so entangled in a dream catcher. They were the wispy clouds that enshrouded the moon and gave us the chance to relish a fleeting glimpse of it. They did not become the trail of despair, but the strings that keep our hearts together.

    The glistening crescent of His scythe shone as brightly as the sun’s final moments before the consummation of eclipse. Its lustre became the flashbacks of a dying man, not able to grasp his memories for the fear of cutting his hand, because only then will he know how evanescent his halcyon days really were. The dramatic arc of the scythe is defined over His head, towards the displaced centre where we all finally gather; its gravity hooks the blade slightly, as if triggered by the sensitivity of emotion and memory embedded within.

    And there he lies, within the skeletal arms of the Destroyer. He is asleep; his head resting gently within His chest, as far removed from the recesses of reality as possible, never to return. He thinks of nothing but to leave and to leave behind the burdens and virtues of life – myself included.

    My heart aches as his placid face comes to life. Tears that well in my eyes are resisted, but they fall into the palette anyway.

    I brush them off and they become his quiescent eyes. They will always be closed in repose, never to open, never to reveal.


    ***


    It is hung, but it is never sold. It may have, out of a sympathetic heart, but no one ever gives sympathy for the One who takes without return. They are blinded by the memories that pain them in their sleep – my painting becomes the nightmare that clogs up their dream catchers, the unfathomable memory that cuts at their attempt to grasp it. They are trapped in a cyclical progression that reduces them to no more than their grief and sorrow. Emotionally weak, they are not carried off completely when they are collected; their depression clings on to the living, and the infection spreads like an evil shadow.

    If only Death be examined like a crystal ball. Then perhaps, one may see that it is not the brink that ensnares its casualty so abruptly, but the respite that escalates the mind and soul further than infinity.




    .



  11. #11
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    Attempt at juxtaposition, from down-to-earth-like literal to over-the-top-like metaphorical. Arguably also an attempt at minimalism. I was going to do a third piece to balance the weighty second one out, but the inspiration never came. Perhaps later. If I'm lucky.

    happy birthday to me~




    -op 1 suggestions-

    No 1 -the hitchhiker-

    The sky does not resemble

    It is merely blue, almost white where the heat of the sun reduces the clouds into fog

    No, today, the sky is devoid of inspiration – and beneath, nothing but a large expanse of dead meadow, only a chain of fence or a structure of cable in the distance marking the region

    But they may as well have melded in with the shaking horizon

    Between the horizon and I, there was nothing


    I turn around – and there is something after all

    A truck passes by, its bellow mutating as it rumbles toward, and then away from me

    From one horizon to the other, it leaves me in its dusty wake

    Too, it leaves the road behind it in dust - once the colour the ash, but now olden and grey, just like the meadow

    Just like the clouds


    The sweat trickles from the hairline down my forehead, irritating where lackadaisical curls pricked at their paths

    For the umpteenth time, I sweep them back to the side

    And the sun capitalises

    I squint as the sky turns increasingly white


    The horizon pulsates, madly, as fast as I blink

    And then it stops - just before my body touches the dust

    Rests

    And fades

    No 2 –the diver-
    Water paints the abyssal night sky

    Stars are blurred, and the moon sifted, as if a chalkboard duster had dragged itself gracelessly across, back and forth

    As if the creatures of smudge left behind had become animated out of revenge for their savage creation

    Dancing around in their naked distortions, the flickers of blade and bullet extend beyond their conceived surreality

    And for a moment there, the water – the horizon between sea and sky – seems to give way to its unsatisfied inhabitants

    No, that was only an illusion


    And then the first one comes

    Followed by a second, and a third, a fourth - and before long, the exact number doesn’t matter anymore

    The shadows surround me like a converging spiral, all heading towards the tiny central point that was a univalve’s last retreat.

    Initiators of Death - with neither heart nor brain, their trailing sickles swaying through the water slowly, reservedly, their amorphous heads resonating with a piercing shudder of strings...

    And then the first one comes

    Followed by a second, and a third, a fourth –

    Touches me

    (the water slowly fades)

    Embraces me

    (the creatures come out to play)

    Shreds me apart

    ( )
    Last edited by Yonowaru in Chaos; 23rd January 2010 at 10:12 AM.



  12. #12
    Join Date
    Dec 2007
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    Looks like it came after all. This ends Op. 1.





    No 3 -the earth-
    And then the sky turns black

    Or red – dark red

    Not yet a horizon, for there is not yet a foil for the sky

    Surrounded by sky

    By water, air and thunder

    Surrounded by glass

    Suspended in glass

    It jolts - and then the sky turns black


    Stones collide with the sky of glass

    Shadows that fly and weave their webs on the sky

    The jolting continues – relentlessly

    Eyes to the left

    Eyes to the right

    Relentlessly

    Blink and flash – red and black

    As if panicking

    Up, down, up, down, goes the chisel in my chest


    The thunder stops, leaving the sky to resonate with the pulse of the chisel

    Expanding

    In and out, arousing, unsettling my chest

    Blood gives me consciousness – a dip into the surreal

    Or out of the surreal?

    The sky gives no indication

    It is merely empty; black and meaningless

    It looks cold – distant and eroded by age

    Yet simultaneously timeless


    Bewildered by time, I gaze, unwaveringly into its transparent depths

    And I forget all about my beginning

    Or at least, the question springs into mind

    As if from behind

    Sending the chisel into overdrive

    The sky is indifferent, of course


    Until the lightning shunts me forward

    And thunder too

    Light breaks like a sun

    A sun that I soon forget

    And a sun that soon begs the question


    The fractures in the sky break the veils over my eyes

    And the chisel lurches forward

    Beyond the brittle sky

    Towards the sun


    And towards a new horizon
    Last edited by Yonowaru in Chaos; 23rd January 2010 at 2:48 PM.



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