He wasn't trying to fly. That's just how it happened. (chapter 4) (669 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 1.85 on 8 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by The Downward Spiral of your Mind (View user info) at 2005-02-07 20:44:19 EST
Sometimes he wondered what had happened to love. He would read about it in the leather-bound books that tumbled about the floor and spilled from the four corners of his living space. Musty, dusty, dead remnants of trees and cows. But still, in their death, breathing, vibrant, living; he would read about love in these, read about wars, about the sun even -about life. And in doing this the tomes would breathe, vibrate, live; they had long been the only living things in the room filled with dormant dust and reticent flesh. The wood of the floor, dead; the stones in the walls, dead, never breathing; the candle's fire, on the table, dead, still, as lissome in its nubile flickering as a buried maenad.
He liked to imagine conversations for himself, for the sake of something close to company. His mind was stuffed(packed tight and spilling over with recondite knowledge of everything under the sun, which he had come to desire and fear, fixating, forever undeniable, always enthralling, and always always fascinating!) and also constrained(jailed by the tight dark hedges of his stuffy room), so his brain felt as if bursting, at the seams or the stones, and there was no outlet except for the occasional clandestine conversations had with people never there. The ghost of a poet, the memory of a king; he paid tribute to these as best he could by inviting them into his four-cornered world. This only added to the aura of insanity with which others had clothed him(maniacally self-styled savants running amok), since every once in a while his guardians, sardonically rated as "Curators" by him, would hear his voice through the muffling wood of the thick, barred door.
But now, with a flower, oh! again a delightful companion, again a treasured pet, a charge, a child... An object of fascination with no threat of torrid punishment from above, a simple and precious item -no, no mere item; an object of fascination, yes, but also an object of affection, of the care and tenderness which he had so often read received, but never actually received or expressed himself- which he could cradle, and nurture, and delight. It would never demand his commitment, or exclusivity, or anything, and in return for absolutely nothing it offered nothing new to the world outside, but to him, oh, he was ecstatic, caught himself shivering when thinking about the happiness, newly found, resting in that clay pot, yes to him it offered everything short of everything.
In the back of his mind there toiled a few trolls, relentlessly pounding and hounding, IT WILL DIE IT WILL DIE IT WILL DIE!... For the moment, he could not even hear them, could not be goaded on towards their disparaging calls to sadness; still, they ransacked his brain, under the gauze, under his own awareness, slowly but surely lulling him into the eventual, brutal truth.
But, for the time being, the elusive whiff of "love" was still on his mind. Today(for him days were merely the intervals between sylvan excursions, and could last anywhere from a few hours to several weeks) he was reading Dr. Zhivago, back against wall, facing the clay pot that held his new joy. He had decided to let the flower breathe for now, leaving the pot open, giving the impression of the lively, dancing bloom of a ballerina, caught in still-life recollection, sprouting out between the pages, between the words "love" and "this." The irony was lost on time, the suggestion on him; but the beauty of the book would soon scald his eyes, and looking up, that flower would be the first blurred thing he would see after being stung so by Cupid's errant shot.
User Reviews
Submitted by Anansie (user info) at 2006-06-06 23:18:07 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Sweet.
Submitted by Nellypaal (user info) at 2006-03-31 06:53:52 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I'm going to stop commenting. Still a way to go.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-03-26 13:11:13 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I approve entirely.
Submitted by drfeggphd (user info) at 2005-02-08 08:30:01 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
... the candle's fire, on the table, dead, still, as lissome in its nubile flickering as a buried maenad.
this somewhat tangled metaphor seems to echo the tale itself. tantalizing, elusive, walking a fine line of sensibility, weaving the reader in and out of a tapestry of symbolic warp and woof. hahaha, can't even comment on any of the rest because it's freaking me out, man.
Submitted by Snark (user info) at 2005-02-08 02:40:12 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by GodLovesALittleLovin (user info) at 2005-02-07 20:54:42 (#)
Ranking: 2
dark and meandering. Me likes.
Submitted by GodLovesALittleLovin (user info) at 2005-02-07 20:54:42 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
dark and meandering. Me likes.
Submitted by FuckTheArmy (user info) at 2005-02-07 20:50:39 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
Carpal Tunnel Syndrome? No. Lumber Lung? No. Jugglers despair?
No. Achy-Breaky Pelvis? No. Oh, I'm never going to be disabled.
I'm sick of being so healthy! Hey wait -- Hyper-Obesity. If you
weigh more than 300 pounds, you qualify as disabled.
-- Homer Simpson
King-Size Homer
Submitted by Istaros (user info) at 2005-02-07 20:46:51 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
"Don't let Krusty's death get you down, boy. People die all the time. Just like that. Why, you could wake up dead tomorrow. Well, good night."
-Homer Simpson