He wasn't trying to fly. That's just how it happened. (chapter 7) (728 hits)
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Submitted by The Downward Spiral of your Mind (View user info) at 2005-08-20 23:04:59 EDT
He woke. Drifting towards his revealed eyes, a flock of dust filtered its way through the crisp blade of light spilling through a crack in one of his boarded windows. He remained, with neither motion nor thought, caught in the quiet miracle of a dream not yet escaped. He had fallen into sleep while dwelling on thoughts of winter. His eyes began to flicker from one mite to the next, watching languidly the twirling dust revealed in two dimensions of light.
He had imagined... a universe of colors, of sights and sounds. Scents that could carry him beyond the horizons. Revelations and laughing skies. Now he was back; he'd returned. Feeling that early-morning exasperation, he got up and walked over to his door, gathering his gauze shreds around him as they began to billow with his pace. He stopped before the thick wood, carved basely, with neither time nor art; pure function, a flat slab, a nothing. Not having anybody to roll his eyes to, he rapped three brisk notes and felt his breathing get slightly deeper. There weren't many mornings that didn't incorporate some level of frustration.
"What do you want?" a voice murmured behind the door's unseen side. He wasn't sure of any response he could give. He wanted to leave, maybe? Pointless to ask or even think about it, the only possible result would be disappointment -but even if it were possible, even if the sun weren't lethal, would he be able to live out there? To live happily? He knew all his limitations, was aware of his ignorance. Of course he wanted to step outside of this room, this house, this dry land. Find something worthwhile and beautiful, settle and interact with the rhythms of society and nature. His mind was unfortunately active; despite only knowing his own room and a few square feet of a forest rarely visited, he was able to envision far more. He had never been to a city, but he had read for days on various depictions of milling streets snaking through the toes of majestic pillars. Buildings and temples and people, people alive and bright-eyed with conversation and noise and taste; nights flaring up into the sky like meteors in reverse, expatriates converging, music tumbling down alleyways. And the sadness in them, too; people searching for life in the eyes of next-door strangers, afraid to approach anything more than a cursory nod. Families ripped apart by crime and vices, by the metropolitan pleasures so profound everything else disappears under their sweating glare. The acceptance of danger, the realization of death and harm as ever-present despite appearances. The seediness of the highest exemplars of moral value, reverends and policemen caught red-handed with money fed by the blood of South Americans, caught entrapped in the more grotesque aspects of breeding behavior, brought down to public hatred with scandal and lies.
His mind always ended up stealing the present moment away. Recalling himself to the question uttered as a response, he responded himself: "I need more books." It wasn't really true, but something needed to change. He was desperate for something containing excitement in its palms to encircle him and just squeeze, squeeze him as tight and close as it could, him nearly crushed in the grasp of something new and unexpected. He didn't know what to look for, and if he had he wouldn't know where to find it. He only know that what he did have now, what he could immerse himself into, was not enough. It left him feeling suffocated, this place. The room, combined with the darkness and the stale air and the knowledge that outside these festering walls was only miles and miles of dearth, of nothing at all but strangled dirt underneath and a killing sun above, and the assurance of a dying sack of flesh if he were to brave that sun. His only companions were the books that still lay piled about. He had read them all many times, forwards and backwards, could copy out most of them by memory. But, in truth, he didn't need more; they served as more than mere educators giving a lesson and then becoming obsolete. They entertained him repeatedly, they gave his heart and stomach a warmth, gave him a reason to keep his blood flowing.
He had thought of writing one himself. His guardians had refused to allow him any sort of pointed objects whatsoever, still believing his mad dash through the sun's anger had been an attempt to die. However, this was not the main obstacle to his imagined authorship. Even if he'd had writing utensils, he felt he would be defiling the society in which his books lived. It was a realm of secrets and joys, a place for the abandonment of the self. When he read one of his books, he gave himself to it completely. Reading was a sacrificial experience for him -to find himself abandoned, and suddenly enraptured in a world that had only ever come about in one writer's imagination. And, from there, disseminated throughout the present world and resurrected in countless readers' imaginations. In reading such a book, he could feel himself being gradually enveloped by the thoughts and feelings of untold masses of people he had never met. To write a book would go against everything he read books for. He did not have anything to offer to anybody but himself. These books had come to him as spirits revived from the grave, and had given him solace, peace, vision; they were not mere pages and ink, but true and inestimably close companions. He couldn't very well invent a companion for himself; it would be the closest thing to blasphemy he could think of. No, allow the books to be their own wonder. He could surround himself with them and relish what they had to offer if the sun refused to give of itself peacefully. In the absence of light, of human friendship, he could always rely on the timelessness of literature.
"Books? You don't need anymore books! We just gave you five new ones two weeks ago! What's wrong with you?" but he wasn't listening anymore. He had half-turned from the door, and was looking at a pile of books in one of the corners. He hadn't touched it for some time. It was coated with dust, much as he imagined the world outside was coated with snow. He could see some bits of dust settling down onto that coat, building it up little by little over the ages. The thin blade of light seeping into his room had slid its bottom edge over to rest at the tip of that pile, showing the slowly flowing stream of dust moving over it as a canvas. His eyes trailed up the edge of that blade, as it dipped and rose with the contours of his desk. At it's top, it hit the side of the porcelain pot. A glint bounced back towards him, white and cool. A triangle-tip silhouette lay over the diamond shine's upper edge, green. Having followed the trail of dust to the path of light, he was looking at his one and only other companion, the flower.
The flower. He felt himself freeze. The white reflection. The green silhouette. He wasn't sure he was seeing what he thought he was, was so used to nothingness that he was reluctant to accept the possibility of something having changed. He approached, slowly, one step pad down, then two. All of a sudden he realized he was holding his breath, his heart shaking and trembling inside him. Coming right up to the chipped pot, his breath began coming out in torrents, tickling the skin of his upper lip. There it was, as undeniable as the sun's rays pouring into his room eagerly: a sprouted leaf, rigid and dangling over the pot's edge.
User Reviews
Submitted by Anansie (user info) at 2006-06-08 13:27:14 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Fucking awesome. I like this one.
Submitted by Nellypaal (user info) at 2006-03-31 09:26:06 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-03-30 00:18:02 (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by ajanssen (user info) at 2005-08-21 02:18:42 (#)
Ranking: 2
Istaros, you put to shame the garbage they post.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-03-30 00:18:02 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by ajanssen (user info) at 2005-08-21 02:18:42 (#)
Ranking: 2
Istaros, you put to shame the garbage I post.
Submitted by GirleButterfly (user info) at 2005-09-26 21:02:08 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
He wasn't trying to fly. That's just how he was a jackass.
Submitted by Istaros (user info) at 2005-08-21 10:35:48 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
wow... thanks, y'all
-oh shit. my little Texan just came out
Submitted by joedaddy (user info) at 2005-08-21 04:14:17 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
It could be trimmed about 20%, but the underlying theme/idea is rock solid.
With a little polish, this vignette could shine.
Keep it up
Submitted by ajanssen (user info) at 2005-08-21 02:18:42 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Istaros, you put to shame the garbage I post.
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2005-08-21 01:09:59 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I certainly hope you are sending this to a publisher. You may be
wealthy in a few months.
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2005-08-21 01:07:12 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Fuckin' A! Now I have to go back and read the first 6. Good shit.
Submitted by Chroniclysm (user info) at 2005-08-21 00:56:17 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
It*
Submitted by Chroniclysm (user info) at 2005-08-21 00:39:02 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Just read the whole series. I contains flashes of brilliance.
Submitted by Barnymeinhoff (user info) at 2005-08-21 00:24:04 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by LadyPlural (user info) at 2005-08-21 00:23:28 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I'd be more worried if they *didn't* give me a pain in the ass.
Or I would if I were shoving them there. As is, well, you know how it is. I prefer to stick to this (http://www.erosboutique.org/store/merchant.mvc?Screen=PROD&Store_Code=erosbout&Product_Code=0901-05-cd&Category_Code=AnalToys)
model, generally speaking.
Link NSFW, obviously.
Submitted by Istaros (user info) at 2005-08-21 00:14:23 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
books give you pain in the ass? jesus girl, just stick with buttplugs, surely your rectum isn't THAT cavernous...
Submitted by LadyPlural (user info) at 2005-08-21 00:04:27 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I have that problem with books constantly. It's getting to be a real pain in the ass.