Four miracles happen today.
The first miracle, today, is that Damian is still alive. The cancerous blithe that wracks his body makes him resemble a bleached corpse, with sunken eyes of faded jade. When he reaches his hand out to someone from his bed, it is to say one last goodbye.
The second miracle, today, is that Damian's wife, Charlotte, is still beautiful. She shares her partner's onerous malady, but the light of her soul could feed the candle-flame of her life a few more weeks (perhaps). Nobody lets themself remember that it has always been her husband's smile that made that light shine. When she reaches out to someone from her bed, it is to reach out for one final life to touch.
The third miracle today is that Leah came home. She came home with a smile that beamed hope and poured sorrow, on this golden-sun morning in the city. When she reaches her hand out to someone from her bed, it is to grab the hand that can pull her out of hell.
The fourth miracle is why I tell you this tale of what has happened today, in the golden-sun morning in the city. The hospice workers open the knocking door and let in a most peculiar, most haunting woman. She disregards their questions, and enters the apartment's living room. Gaunt Damian's face gets blotchy with excitement, and flustered, weakly stammers, "They say she needs her rest, I need Charlotte, they say she needs rest not me", as Leah is taking his outstretched hand.
Minutes later, the gold sun is covered in cloud, making Charlotte's room take on a shade that would threaten rain. She hears commotion from the hospice people, plus two voices that sound strangely familiar, but this means only one thing, and that is death. Damian is gone. She leans back in the bed, and the beautiful creature prepares to die, eyes closed, hand reaching out for one final life to touch: an angel's.
Darkness falls.
Life's termination brings the strangest dreams, the dream that an angel takes her hand, though Charlotte knows her hand must be cold and level on her breast. That angel is Leah, and behind her is Damian's soul, shining in the golden-sun morning in the city. It will be only a little time before she realizes this is no dream, and this is no death.
Perhaps there was a fifth miracle today, and that is the beautiful flock of birds, in every flying variety and every colour, flying through New York. They circle around one apartment complex, then fly off towards the golden sun; the golden-sun morning in the city.
...
Tomorrow there will be an identical flock in Patia, gathering in a desert maze. They will land all around a solitary man who's eyes refuse to close as the night brings on an orchestra of memories and prophecies in the open sky. The earth is his bed. When Dreamthief reaches out to someone from that bed, it is to give or to recieve, to create or to destroy. Tomorrow will be a beautiful morning in those lands... a golden-sun morning. But you already knew that, didn't you?
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
OVERTURE to Nocturn (Part Seven)
Castles of casualties line gutters, no higher than to the top of a combat boot, yellow lights in reflections of the puddles of a cobblestone cityway at night.
Roderick wakes up with a start from his strange dream, without realizing he's already cocked his gun and aimed before he'd fully woken up. He was fully conscious by the time he shoots his first victim with the rifle.
A victim would be a bad term, because that implies what just died is something that had actually existed. There's your first, the voice in him speaks up, the same from the dream, and it won't be the last Benefactor to snuggle up to you. He looks at the thing, a paperthin twist of green, luminous metal, mounting to a cumbersome glass, amorphous orb of rainbow, implying a head. A final cap of green metal spikes out on top of this glass... amazing how Roderick is entranced by just the very beauty of the pile of debris in his bed. A succubus. He'd been a lucky one.
Good job Roderick, just keep your head on straight. I'll look out for you. The dream voice reassured him. He meditates on this newfound comfort as he pours himself some coffee. No need to hurry.
Outside the tent set up in a corner of the cliffmaze, as the sun begins to rise early morning, are a few more tents and a makeshift fence that close a large rusty metal cylinder into the corner. Three times his height and secured with ropes and wheels , the Weapon was the most unsuspecting piece of wartime trash. He sipped his coffee as he looked around for his campmates.
One more was still alive Don't panic Roderick and he calmly watches the man die... a Benefactor isnourishing the poor trooper, stuffing food in the man's delighted face as his abdomen is splitting, as the victim engorges on all the Nectar the creature has to offer. It Don't get close, don't let it feed you doesn't notice Roderick as he lethargically loads his gun. The nectar is expanding inside his fellow officer, glasslike seed oozing out of all his pores.
The trooper, between mouthfulls from the spoutlike Benefactor's Nectar, smiles At the contraction of the muscles, even the ears and eyes ooze. "Come mffff on, Roderkkkhhh the froodsss grfffeat, mffff!" Rapid fire from the rifle, and he shatters yet another Benefactor (this one shaped more like a woman, and while still luminous green, has a spoutlike fixture as a head) then takes out the poor soldier, the hardened Nectar shattering like clay.
Amazing how he could take this all so calmly, he thought of thinking Forget Weapon, you're safe, leave now. Leave"SHUT UP!!! YOU'RE NOT ME!!!", he finally tears a handsized fleshy creature half out of his back, feeling a strange shock when thin hairlike members are pulled out from between his own spinal disks. "SHIT, DIE, MY GOD MY GOD, GET OFF!!!", the rest of his round of ammo spilling into the small creature.
He'd come so close to falling for their tricks. The Benefactors... even in war they'll speak so kindly into your ear. He struts over to the giant... bucket, the best word for it, back to his common overconfident gusto. Roderick grabs a rope and tips it over.
Roderick's head tilts when he sees what is inside.
...
"So you're Weapon."
"If you say that I am.", the threadbare fool meekly puts.
"Come with me."
Roderick wakes up with a start from his strange dream, without realizing he's already cocked his gun and aimed before he'd fully woken up. He was fully conscious by the time he shoots his first victim with the rifle.
A victim would be a bad term, because that implies what just died is something that had actually existed. There's your first, the voice in him speaks up, the same from the dream, and it won't be the last Benefactor to snuggle up to you. He looks at the thing, a paperthin twist of green, luminous metal, mounting to a cumbersome glass, amorphous orb of rainbow, implying a head. A final cap of green metal spikes out on top of this glass... amazing how Roderick is entranced by just the very beauty of the pile of debris in his bed. A succubus. He'd been a lucky one.
Good job Roderick, just keep your head on straight. I'll look out for you. The dream voice reassured him. He meditates on this newfound comfort as he pours himself some coffee. No need to hurry.
Outside the tent set up in a corner of the cliffmaze, as the sun begins to rise early morning, are a few more tents and a makeshift fence that close a large rusty metal cylinder into the corner. Three times his height and secured with ropes and wheels , the Weapon was the most unsuspecting piece of wartime trash. He sipped his coffee as he looked around for his campmates.
One more was still alive Don't panic Roderick and he calmly watches the man die... a Benefactor isnourishing the poor trooper, stuffing food in the man's delighted face as his abdomen is splitting, as the victim engorges on all the Nectar the creature has to offer. It Don't get close, don't let it feed you doesn't notice Roderick as he lethargically loads his gun. The nectar is expanding inside his fellow officer, glasslike seed oozing out of all his pores.
The trooper, between mouthfulls from the spoutlike Benefactor's Nectar, smiles At the contraction of the muscles, even the ears and eyes ooze. "Come mffff on, Roderkkkhhh the froodsss grfffeat, mffff!" Rapid fire from the rifle, and he shatters yet another Benefactor (this one shaped more like a woman, and while still luminous green, has a spoutlike fixture as a head) then takes out the poor soldier, the hardened Nectar shattering like clay.
Amazing how he could take this all so calmly, he thought of thinking Forget Weapon, you're safe, leave now. Leave"SHUT UP!!! YOU'RE NOT ME!!!", he finally tears a handsized fleshy creature half out of his back, feeling a strange shock when thin hairlike members are pulled out from between his own spinal disks. "SHIT, DIE, MY GOD MY GOD, GET OFF!!!", the rest of his round of ammo spilling into the small creature.
He'd come so close to falling for their tricks. The Benefactors... even in war they'll speak so kindly into your ear. He struts over to the giant... bucket, the best word for it, back to his common overconfident gusto. Roderick grabs a rope and tips it over.
Roderick's head tilts when he sees what is inside.
...
"So you're Weapon."
"If you say that I am.", the threadbare fool meekly puts.
"Come with me."
Sunday, August 23, 2009
OVERTURE to Nocturn (Part Six)
Benefactions of Benefactors, horizon like a Benefactory
Creams and greys, forgotten days, missile path's trajectory
Once upon a rampart we watch, we gaze
A husband is lost, a wife is won
to the cold copper, the blistering heat
-of a gun-
Incertainly the Incinerators, repenting in Insynergy
Glass and haze, forgotten ways, skeleton of a clergy
Once upon a deep shore we fight, we die
A dear friend is lost, a child is won
to the kindly barrel, the impartial bullet
-of a gun-
Engineers shall soon Engender, machinations they Engenerate
Burn and blaze, forgotten maze, a face they can't confiscate
Once upon a desert we build, we fall
A people is lost, tradition is won
to the dark of the metal, the light of the flash
-of a gun-
Creams and greys, forgotten days, missile path's trajectory
Once upon a rampart we watch, we gaze
A husband is lost, a wife is won
to the cold copper, the blistering heat
-of a gun-
Incertainly the Incinerators, repenting in Insynergy
Glass and haze, forgotten ways, skeleton of a clergy
Once upon a deep shore we fight, we die
A dear friend is lost, a child is won
to the kindly barrel, the impartial bullet
-of a gun-
Engineers shall soon Engender, machinations they Engenerate
Burn and blaze, forgotten maze, a face they can't confiscate
Once upon a desert we build, we fall
A people is lost, tradition is won
to the dark of the metal, the light of the flash
-of a gun-
--Ballad of the Benificent Day, Commen Patian Minstrel Song
OVERTURE to Nocturn (Part Five)
Leah wishes Dreamthief would, for once, tell her what is happening. All of this couild really get somebody killed. She is cold, and wants to go home. Why is she doing this again? Right. People depend on her.
Because otherwise her life is transient. Nothing.
"The Benefactors will be here soon," says he, scaring Leah into a shriek. "Why are you afraid? You're the most dangerous thing here. Next to me, of course."
"That's why I'm nervous."
"Naturally. Sit patiently, and your turn will come. So what have you been up to today?" He sits next to her under the stars, behind the moon. From this angle, to Leah, the moon apears a nocturnal halo behind him.
"I took the bus. Visited them in the hospital." A frown. This is good, she thought. He speaks up. "How are they?"
"He's probably dead. Chances were he wouldnt' last the day. As for her, she's hanging on."
Dreamthief is silent, staring at the desert sand on this craig. Leah puts an arm around him. "They missed you. All of them do. They're worried."
"You're concerned about all of them, aren't you?"
"They're dying. They don't want any favors. They just miss you."
His temper breaks, as he springs up. "GHOSTS! That's what they are to me, Leah, ghosts!.... I wish I could see them. But I will never return to Earth again. Not after all that's happened."
"You're selfish, and that's all there is to it."
"No, I simply hurt, that is all. I was hoping... that we would have a share in this battle, then face off ourselves over the ruins. It would have been fun. Wouldn't you say, Leah?"
She is disgusted with him. Powerful as he is, Dreamthief is in many ways just a child.
"Leah? Come here", he holds out his hands. Taking them, energy pulses within her. "This is the Gift of Recay. It will reverse all signs and effects of bodily decay. I would like you to have it, and give them my regards."
She can't meet his gaze, becasue she can tell: he knows this is what she came for. Another favor.
Proud, angry, and sad all at once, Dreamthief holds his head high and watches the soon-to-be field of battle in the desert maze below. Behind his shoulder Leah fades away with yet another of the Dreamthief's gifts. She has never felt so much sorrow in her life.
...
A mist behind what appears to be a glass sheet anounces the Benefactors are here. The horizon draws near. Beneath is the flotsam of camp where the Patian peoples await their enemy, and where Dreamthief assumes the form of yet another cream-color uniformed officer.
Because otherwise her life is transient. Nothing.
"The Benefactors will be here soon," says he, scaring Leah into a shriek. "Why are you afraid? You're the most dangerous thing here. Next to me, of course."
"That's why I'm nervous."
"Naturally. Sit patiently, and your turn will come. So what have you been up to today?" He sits next to her under the stars, behind the moon. From this angle, to Leah, the moon apears a nocturnal halo behind him.
"I took the bus. Visited them in the hospital." A frown. This is good, she thought. He speaks up. "How are they?"
"He's probably dead. Chances were he wouldnt' last the day. As for her, she's hanging on."
Dreamthief is silent, staring at the desert sand on this craig. Leah puts an arm around him. "They missed you. All of them do. They're worried."
"You're concerned about all of them, aren't you?"
"They're dying. They don't want any favors. They just miss you."
His temper breaks, as he springs up. "GHOSTS! That's what they are to me, Leah, ghosts!.... I wish I could see them. But I will never return to Earth again. Not after all that's happened."
"You're selfish, and that's all there is to it."
"No, I simply hurt, that is all. I was hoping... that we would have a share in this battle, then face off ourselves over the ruins. It would have been fun. Wouldn't you say, Leah?"
She is disgusted with him. Powerful as he is, Dreamthief is in many ways just a child.
"Leah? Come here", he holds out his hands. Taking them, energy pulses within her. "This is the Gift of Recay. It will reverse all signs and effects of bodily decay. I would like you to have it, and give them my regards."
She can't meet his gaze, becasue she can tell: he knows this is what she came for. Another favor.
Proud, angry, and sad all at once, Dreamthief holds his head high and watches the soon-to-be field of battle in the desert maze below. Behind his shoulder Leah fades away with yet another of the Dreamthief's gifts. She has never felt so much sorrow in her life.
...
A mist behind what appears to be a glass sheet anounces the Benefactors are here. The horizon draws near. Beneath is the flotsam of camp where the Patian peoples await their enemy, and where Dreamthief assumes the form of yet another cream-color uniformed officer.
OVERTURE to Nocturn (Part Four)
Sounds of drumming. Sounds of marching echo in this giant metal bucket. This would hold lots of soapy-water. Drumming. Who's drumming? Do fools drum? Are they allowed to? Subject is putting his ear to the side of the bucket. It jostles and he hits his head. But he could drum. He can keep time, he thinks smugly. He can keep time to a drum, and time could drum if he got confused. But it didn't matter if fools could drum.
He is a test now, he thinks while he stretches out, then trying to lie down inside the rolling bucket. No yellow aprons, no, now a blue pretty-suit. It felt good being a he, not an it. A test, not a fool. Subject, not Trash. But these were only vague thoughts in Subject's tiny head. He was busy wondering where the soapy-water was.
He is a test now, he thinks while he stretches out, then trying to lie down inside the rolling bucket. No yellow aprons, no, now a blue pretty-suit. It felt good being a he, not an it. A test, not a fool. Subject, not Trash. But these were only vague thoughts in Subject's tiny head. He was busy wondering where the soapy-water was.
OVERTURE to Nocturn (Part Three)
A sunset of red gently kisses a night sky. Stars poke holes in the darkness, giving us a glimpse of the light beyond. Beneath the dark blue sky is dark blue rock, or at least the dry desert appears so tonight. Natural canyons, graigs and cliffs turn this place into a beautiful nightime maze. On the highest point of the highest, most inaccessable cliff, two feet gently touch the ground.
These feet belong to a singular looking man. He is clad in a deep grey Asian shirt, which reaches down to his knees, unbottened at his waist, and thick leather pants and boots make several silvery blades stand out from his belt. Upon closer inspection one will observe the silvery substance is platinum, lining almost everything he wears, making his pale face and platinum hair turn his image into a monochrome effigy. Underneathe his marble skin lies a quality of darkness, like white painted over purple.
The greys of his eyes (for indeed to call them 'whites' would do no honor) outline steely blue irises that possess a luminescent air. He faintly smiles. His hair gently moves to a sudden breeze. Turning around, he faces a woman. "I thought you would never come."
She is very much the same as the man, except her eyes, and clothes, are a deep crimson, which is also to be seen in a solitary shock through her black hair, and her outfit just as outlandish as his, although by far more refined. She walks to him and they both look down to the desert, littered with scattered tents and capfires. She asks, "Where are we?"
"Kingdom of Bernhardt, in the land of Patia. On the eve of war. I thought you might like to see it unfold, yes?"
"Is this place feudal?", she asks, eyeing the various faction-camps below. While her crimson eyes are a tad unsettling, her eyes are white and her porcelain skin lacks the uncanny darkness her companion has, making her much more comfortign to behild-- however possible this is. While he goes on explaining the land-- such things like how their technology is much like 'back home on Earth', and such, niught fully blooms, and the sunset touch to the sky leaves for another day's end.
She frowns: "What about Dmitri?"
The man gently laughs. "Leah, you worry for him? We'll return to him in a few days. He needs time. Let his story unfold."
"But still--"
"No buts, Leah. Do not interfere with him." Silence reigns for a short whjile, and the woman sulks. Then she looks back at the man.
"Are we in danger here?"
"Not at all. I will protect you."
...
And she almost felt safe. What could be more dangerous than Dreamthief? Leah looked as the night's performance prepared to begin. She didn't want to be here. But with him guiding her, what harm would ever come to her?
These feet belong to a singular looking man. He is clad in a deep grey Asian shirt, which reaches down to his knees, unbottened at his waist, and thick leather pants and boots make several silvery blades stand out from his belt. Upon closer inspection one will observe the silvery substance is platinum, lining almost everything he wears, making his pale face and platinum hair turn his image into a monochrome effigy. Underneathe his marble skin lies a quality of darkness, like white painted over purple.
The greys of his eyes (for indeed to call them 'whites' would do no honor) outline steely blue irises that possess a luminescent air. He faintly smiles. His hair gently moves to a sudden breeze. Turning around, he faces a woman. "I thought you would never come."
She is very much the same as the man, except her eyes, and clothes, are a deep crimson, which is also to be seen in a solitary shock through her black hair, and her outfit just as outlandish as his, although by far more refined. She walks to him and they both look down to the desert, littered with scattered tents and capfires. She asks, "Where are we?"
"Kingdom of Bernhardt, in the land of Patia. On the eve of war. I thought you might like to see it unfold, yes?"
"Is this place feudal?", she asks, eyeing the various faction-camps below. While her crimson eyes are a tad unsettling, her eyes are white and her porcelain skin lacks the uncanny darkness her companion has, making her much more comfortign to behild-- however possible this is. While he goes on explaining the land-- such things like how their technology is much like 'back home on Earth', and such, niught fully blooms, and the sunset touch to the sky leaves for another day's end.
She frowns: "What about Dmitri?"
The man gently laughs. "Leah, you worry for him? We'll return to him in a few days. He needs time. Let his story unfold."
"But still--"
"No buts, Leah. Do not interfere with him." Silence reigns for a short whjile, and the woman sulks. Then she looks back at the man.
"Are we in danger here?"
"Not at all. I will protect you."
...
And she almost felt safe. What could be more dangerous than Dreamthief? Leah looked as the night's performance prepared to begin. She didn't want to be here. But with him guiding her, what harm would ever come to her?
OVERTURE to Nocturn (Part Two)
"Damned if I knew how", the old, dark cowboy drags on a ciggarette. "But he's just a novelty at best."
Captain Mausser watched his aging mentor from his desk with an air of disgust. "You mean 'it' is just a novelty."
Finally losing his temper, Mausser slams both fists on his desk, and the nameplate falls off onto the carpet. "Damn you, old man, IT says its name is Trash, IT! Now get on out of here, I though I'd have something you would be interested in, but you're only wasting my time."
For a brief moment the cowboy's eyes gleamed in the most threatening and serious way possible: "You seem to have forgotten that I made you what you are and I can take it all away any time I choose. You're wasting my time just by speaking, captain." Then immediately the cowboy's famouis grin spreads again, wild eyes twinkling. "Now why does our small friend call himself Trash?"
Mausser's fingers keep stumbling around a fountain pen, as it clumsily slips on the wood again and again. "We understand that fools are born without names. They simply have no need for individuality. Maybe they don't understand it. Once they have been assimilated into living among us--" He pauses while the old man puts a finger to the side of his nose and blows, then nodding a 'please continue' "-- er, once this happens they seem to take anything we call them as a name."
"Mhmm"
"Yes", affirms Mausser.
"Well?"
"Excuse me?"
"Anything else?"
The captain rises from his seat and takes a step around his desk to retrieve the nameplate while choosing his words carefully. The cowboy impatiently shifts from one foot to the other in the silence. Polishing the nameplate on his jacket and returning to his seat, Mausser begins. "This one is special. A fine specimen, muscle tone bordering that of a human, and while a fool nonetheless, he seems to bear a degree of intelligence. Craves a name more than the others. But that's not all."
He rises to pull aside the curtain to a window that is easy to miss, and gazes out. The light doesn't seem real. "This one is the only fool that I've ever seen or heard of to make eye contact."
The old man ruffles his unkempt white hair, curls his mustache: "That's not all. Usually you would kill a fool in a second. You'll say 'good boy' to a dog but not even admit this fool's a 'he'. So it's not that you feel this one is more human. What's eating you, then?"
"He's the only fool to not obey an order by a human", silently cursing himself for not referring to the fool as an 'it' as he turns around to face the old man. "It took three strong officers to drag him away from scrubbing the floor, which was covered in another fool's blood."
"Fools kill?", his ears perk up.
"This one did. Usually they will only attack if death is imminent. It happened right after a soldier roughted the two up. Something else made him snap, though."
"How'd he do it?"
"Tore... tore the other one limb from limb, neck broken, jaw ripped off. So any one of those." "Damn... A man after my own heart!"
Mausser forgot how disturbing the cowboy's presence was. The old man continued: "Well I have no interest for a defective subhuman. Put him in your troops, though."
"Preposterous! Fools don't fight, and fools will do anything they're told, regardless what side of the battlefield you're from."
"Apparently this one doesn't. Just think about it. I have work to do. Take care, and be a good girl."
...
With that he turns around, trench coat flitting about behind him, leaving only the clicking of boots and a plume of ciggarette smoke to reassure the Captain he didn't dream up the ludicrous idea he was now toying with.
Captain Mausser watched his aging mentor from his desk with an air of disgust. "You mean 'it' is just a novelty."
Finally losing his temper, Mausser slams both fists on his desk, and the nameplate falls off onto the carpet. "Damn you, old man, IT says its name is Trash, IT! Now get on out of here, I though I'd have something you would be interested in, but you're only wasting my time."
For a brief moment the cowboy's eyes gleamed in the most threatening and serious way possible: "You seem to have forgotten that I made you what you are and I can take it all away any time I choose. You're wasting my time just by speaking, captain." Then immediately the cowboy's famouis grin spreads again, wild eyes twinkling. "Now why does our small friend call himself Trash?"
Mausser's fingers keep stumbling around a fountain pen, as it clumsily slips on the wood again and again. "We understand that fools are born without names. They simply have no need for individuality. Maybe they don't understand it. Once they have been assimilated into living among us--" He pauses while the old man puts a finger to the side of his nose and blows, then nodding a 'please continue' "-- er, once this happens they seem to take anything we call them as a name."
"Mhmm"
"Yes", affirms Mausser.
"Well?"
"Excuse me?"
"Anything else?"
The captain rises from his seat and takes a step around his desk to retrieve the nameplate while choosing his words carefully. The cowboy impatiently shifts from one foot to the other in the silence. Polishing the nameplate on his jacket and returning to his seat, Mausser begins. "This one is special. A fine specimen, muscle tone bordering that of a human, and while a fool nonetheless, he seems to bear a degree of intelligence. Craves a name more than the others. But that's not all."
He rises to pull aside the curtain to a window that is easy to miss, and gazes out. The light doesn't seem real. "This one is the only fool that I've ever seen or heard of to make eye contact."
The old man ruffles his unkempt white hair, curls his mustache: "That's not all. Usually you would kill a fool in a second. You'll say 'good boy' to a dog but not even admit this fool's a 'he'. So it's not that you feel this one is more human. What's eating you, then?"
"He's the only fool to not obey an order by a human", silently cursing himself for not referring to the fool as an 'it' as he turns around to face the old man. "It took three strong officers to drag him away from scrubbing the floor, which was covered in another fool's blood."
"Fools kill?", his ears perk up.
"This one did. Usually they will only attack if death is imminent. It happened right after a soldier roughted the two up. Something else made him snap, though."
"How'd he do it?"
"Tore... tore the other one limb from limb, neck broken, jaw ripped off. So any one of those." "Damn... A man after my own heart!"
Mausser forgot how disturbing the cowboy's presence was. The old man continued: "Well I have no interest for a defective subhuman. Put him in your troops, though."
"Preposterous! Fools don't fight, and fools will do anything they're told, regardless what side of the battlefield you're from."
"Apparently this one doesn't. Just think about it. I have work to do. Take care, and be a good girl."
...
With that he turns around, trench coat flitting about behind him, leaving only the clicking of boots and a plume of ciggarette smoke to reassure the Captain he didn't dream up the ludicrous idea he was now toying with.
OVERTURE to Nocturn (Part One)
Worthless continues to scrub the floors of the quarters it had been allotted today. Dunking a wrinkly-wet hand into the bucket of soap-water, he pulls out a dripping rag, and the warmth of the water, the sound of drops spilling back into the bucket from the rag, provide a degree of comfort. Sensations Worthless feels so much every day.
Worthless and a handful of other fools continued to clean up the quarters they had been allotted today. With their usual confused, sluggish stupor. Their matching aprons, their matching caps. Yellow. Worthless was special, though, you never named a fool. He had been named. The officers called him Worthless once.
From his hands and knees on the damp tiling of a just-scubbed floor, the fool saw a handful of soldiers move through the quarters. They towered a foot or so above the fools. They were men. Contemptuously grimmacing at their species-cousins, they left boot tracks all along the puddles of soap, making Worthless cry.
The other fools continued to clean the quarters they had been allotted today. Floors had to be clean enough to eat off of. What else did the fools have to eat off of, anyways? Worthless cried. It was special, though. Named. The officers did. And dirtied floors.
"OUT OF MY WAY, TRASH!" shouted an officer as he bashed another fool's head into the wall. Worthless wasn't special anymore? The fool named Trash giggled as the bruise burst into blood. It was named. The officer looked at Worthless: "WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT, TRASH? STOP DROOLING, GET TO WORK!" Kicked Trash-- he was now Trash as well.
Alone, the fools continued to clean the quarters they had been allotted today. Trash stared and drool, holding its side where it had been kicked. The other trash giggled and cried, nursing his wounded face. Trash-that-had-been-Worthless hobbles to Trash and decides there cannot be two of one.
The other Trash understands, the kind giggling fool offers an "I WILL", not fully understanding.
So trash begins the process, throwing it towards the favourite soapy bucket. Starts to push Trash's head into the bubbles. "NO I WON'T, I WON'T, NEVER MIND" Trash protests simply in words that do not convey its panic. Begins to resist.
Trash-that-had-been-worthless feels a pain shoot through its body as a now-soapy, giggling Trash punctures its skin somewhere with something sharp. Now in a primal defense, Trash-that-had-been-Worthless flies into a rage. Red.
Trash continues to scrub up the floors of the quarters it had been allotted today. It is crying. But it is special. Only he has a name. Nobody's named the other fools. Red. Must clean the floors. Clean enough to eat off of. What else did the fools have to eat off of, anyways? A crowd gathers in horror around the floor-scrubbing fool while the others go on cleaning.
Worthless and a handful of other fools continued to clean up the quarters they had been allotted today. With their usual confused, sluggish stupor. Their matching aprons, their matching caps. Yellow. Worthless was special, though, you never named a fool. He had been named. The officers called him Worthless once.
From his hands and knees on the damp tiling of a just-scubbed floor, the fool saw a handful of soldiers move through the quarters. They towered a foot or so above the fools. They were men. Contemptuously grimmacing at their species-cousins, they left boot tracks all along the puddles of soap, making Worthless cry.
The other fools continued to clean the quarters they had been allotted today. Floors had to be clean enough to eat off of. What else did the fools have to eat off of, anyways? Worthless cried. It was special, though. Named. The officers did. And dirtied floors.
"OUT OF MY WAY, TRASH!" shouted an officer as he bashed another fool's head into the wall. Worthless wasn't special anymore? The fool named Trash giggled as the bruise burst into blood. It was named. The officer looked at Worthless: "WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT, TRASH? STOP DROOLING, GET TO WORK!" Kicked Trash-- he was now Trash as well.
Alone, the fools continued to clean the quarters they had been allotted today. Trash stared and drool, holding its side where it had been kicked. The other trash giggled and cried, nursing his wounded face. Trash-that-had-been-Worthless hobbles to Trash and decides there cannot be two of one.
The other Trash understands, the kind giggling fool offers an "I WILL", not fully understanding.
So trash begins the process, throwing it towards the favourite soapy bucket. Starts to push Trash's head into the bubbles. "NO I WON'T, I WON'T, NEVER MIND" Trash protests simply in words that do not convey its panic. Begins to resist.
Trash-that-had-been-worthless feels a pain shoot through its body as a now-soapy, giggling Trash punctures its skin somewhere with something sharp. Now in a primal defense, Trash-that-had-been-Worthless flies into a rage. Red.
Trash continues to scrub up the floors of the quarters it had been allotted today. It is crying. But it is special. Only he has a name. Nobody's named the other fools. Red. Must clean the floors. Clean enough to eat off of. What else did the fools have to eat off of, anyways? A crowd gathers in horror around the floor-scrubbing fool while the others go on cleaning.
PRELUDE to Nocturn
Loading his gun, Dmitri forces himself to fight the gag reflex. -Click- Holstering his gun, he loses control and begins to spew all over the pavement. For some reason this makes him cold. Spitting out the last few bits of phlegm, he stumbles onward.
Back up the road is one of those damned dogs, bleeding out onto the pavement, making it reek. Took a whole round of revolver fire to put it still-- something about the dogs, lately, Dmitri muses. Something about the whole city in general lately. Was he the only one to see it? Hell. No use in chasing aimlessly through the neighborhood. Conrequiet was not the place for that.
Eyeing around through shades of midnight blue and black on the uniform white of the city, he eventually spots some tones of warm yellow light down an alley. His only choice, he follows the light and arrives into a fairly nice corner of the town, mainly a closed-in set of shops. The light above one door explains the source of the glow. A shop clerk most assuredly sees a fair skinned man in dark clothes draw to the glass door... Everything on him is dark, really: eyes, hair, expression... The clerk definitely sees the desperation on this stranger's face. Of course he opens the door, appearing gilded gold under the solitary light. In a tremulous voice the clerk asks: "What can I do for you, sir?"
Dmitri, never breaking eye contact, reaches into his jacket...
...
"I'm looking for my wife", as he pulls out a photograph of the most hauntingly beautiful woman the shop owner will ever see.
Back up the road is one of those damned dogs, bleeding out onto the pavement, making it reek. Took a whole round of revolver fire to put it still-- something about the dogs, lately, Dmitri muses. Something about the whole city in general lately. Was he the only one to see it? Hell. No use in chasing aimlessly through the neighborhood. Conrequiet was not the place for that.
Eyeing around through shades of midnight blue and black on the uniform white of the city, he eventually spots some tones of warm yellow light down an alley. His only choice, he follows the light and arrives into a fairly nice corner of the town, mainly a closed-in set of shops. The light above one door explains the source of the glow. A shop clerk most assuredly sees a fair skinned man in dark clothes draw to the glass door... Everything on him is dark, really: eyes, hair, expression... The clerk definitely sees the desperation on this stranger's face. Of course he opens the door, appearing gilded gold under the solitary light. In a tremulous voice the clerk asks: "What can I do for you, sir?"
Dmitri, never breaking eye contact, reaches into his jacket...
...
"I'm looking for my wife", as he pulls out a photograph of the most hauntingly beautiful woman the shop owner will ever see.
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