Bridge Into Tribulation and Teroka (A Monster Reborn) (721 hits)
Category: NoneLabels: monster2
Rating: 1.55 on 21 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Stagger Lee (View user info) at 2006-04-21 05:33:48 EDT
This represents the beginning of a second series involving the protagonist from an earlier one. The earlier series can be found here:
http://www.ubersite.com/u/Stagger_Lee/l/monster
I will endeavour to make this new series stand alone, so that having read the previous one is not necessary. However, while it is not necessary it may help to read the previous series. Now, onward I go.
Part the First
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By all rights, the sun should be high in the sky as make my way towards Teroka Town. It is surely close to noonday, yet the dense cover of cloud precludes me from receiving the sun's rays. A cold, biting wind sweeps across the hills and pierces my heavy coat. I feel naked, pinned to the surface of the world beneath the grey curtain of sky; despite the fact in addition to my coat I wear a hood and mask to hide my face.
I begin the descent down the final hill into Teroka. The road is surprisingly well maintained, especially given the muddy, torn state of the landscape surrounding it. From my vantage on the hills, I can see the whole township. It sprawls across mostly flat area of the hills, partially surrounded by a deep, swift river. A neat, cobblestone central square with tidy, well-built homes surrounding it. Outwards from that rather more prosperous centre the town becomes decidedly more rickety. Cobbles become patchy and then vanish altogether, giving way to dark, choppy mud. The solid grey stone buildings become wood-and-thatch, poor affairs. It appears to be the way of all the places and times I have visited. Nothing truly changes; it is the same framework, merely splashed with paints of different colour.
Ahead of me is a rather dilapidated wooden sign. Exposure to the elements and the passage of time has left scars upon its surface. It is clear that the paint is occasionally refreshed, however it seems to have been some time since it was last attended to. The sign reads: Welcome To Teroka. Below that, it smaller writing, it declares: A Haven To All. The paint is dark, faded red. Combined with the dusty, decaying texture of the sign itself it conspires to convey a sense of suffocating depression.
My stride takes me beyond the sign, and my feet touch the cobbles of the Teroka bridge. It is now I realise that the depression I sense is from the town. Perhaps it is the weather, or it may be a symptom of some larger and more deep-seated problem. I am no stranger to detecting these things. The gaps in my memory notwithstanding, I have a wealth of experience to draw upon. I have entered and departed from many towns in my time.
There is a distinct lack of birdsong, despite the fact that the western slopes of the hills above the town are populated with a sufficiency of trees.
I cross the bridge and enter the town on the main road. The wealthy centre of town seems to extend an arm down the main road, as it is well maintained and the houses are not the shabby constructs of wood that the poor quarters boast. There is a scarcity of people on the streets; most citizens must be keeping indoors in the overcast weather. I receive one or two suspicious glances from people in the road, due to my garb; my long black coat and concealed face. One or two glare at me with the hate to which I have become accustomed to over the long, endless years. It seems that no matter my disguise some people can sense what I am and unknowingly make me the target of all their bitterness.
Outside a tavern, next to the entrance, is a man with a piano. This is a strange sight indeed; for what reason is the man sitting at his piano, almost out in the street? He is currently not playing. He, perhaps noticing my gaze, winks at me and strikes a few chords. The piano has a sound that is almost charming, with several notes either tuned awry or left too long untended. After playing a few bars, he breaks into song:
It was the dirty end of winter
Along the loom of the land
When I walked with sweet Sally
Hand upon hand
And the wind it bit bitter
For a boy of no means
With no shoes on his feet
And a knife in his jeans
I began walking again, leaving behind the singer, wailing his tune to the dismal sky. I turn from the main road and strike out over the muddy surface of the back streets. I come upon a bar in a filthy back alley. A sign above the entrance informs me, in colours of almost insufferable cheer, that this is the Switchback Lane Tavern and Lodgings, Rooms Reasonably Priced.
Pushing back the door, I am greeted with a gust of stale air. The tavern is almost entirely deserted. A couple of sullen faced men sit at the bar, nursing half-finished drinks with a complete lack of interest. They do not even turn when I enter. Behind the bar is a woman, just beginning the slide down the wrong side of middle-aged. She has sallow, lank hair that hangs down in clumps on either side of an unremarkable face. She wears the same expression of dull boredom and something bordering on resentment as the men at the bar.
"Greetings," I say, making my way amidst the empty tables to stand before her. "The sign outside proclaimed that you had lodgings. Might I enquire as to their availability?"
She eyes me mistrustfully. "Ain't got no rooms if you can't show your face," she says.
I had forgotten the mask. I reached up and pulled it down, wearing an expression that I hope is a disarming smile. I have grown accustomed to small tricks to minimise the hatred I receive from people when they behold my visage. I try to form peaceful, relaxing thoughts in my mind, but the environment I am in always affects my own temperament.
In her mind, I can feel her suspicion of me growing, but she does not instantly dislike me, which is as much as I had been hoping for.
"Look, alright," she said. "We get the wrong types sometimes. Had to at least see your face, y'know?"
"Perfectly understandable," I say, hoping that my expression is still one of reasonable cheer. "Now, about the room...?"
She quotes me a reasonable price, and I hand over the money. She presents me with a room key and says, "You might want to keep to your room tonight. Old-timers reckon a storms a-coming, a real vicious one."
I thank her for the advice and make my way up to my room. Upon opening the door I discover that it is terrible. A narrow, rickety bed shoved into one corner and an equally shoddy, small table are the only furnishings. It is incredibly gloomy; the shutters are closed.
I cross the floor, with its ragged carpet, and open the window and fling open the shutters, so that I may observe the outside world and get some light into the room. I take a look at the sky and decide the woman downstairs is correct. The flat, slate-grey sky is beginning to turn into a boiling, rolling mess of clouds, growing progressively darker with the day.
That is not all. In the air above the town, I can feel something else. Something else is brewing. Tonight, I suspect there will be more than one storm falling upon the quiet streets of Teroka. Perhaps I have been drawn here because of it.
No matter. I pull the bed to a position near the window, and wait to see what will happen.
User Reviews
Submitted by darko (user info) at 2006-06-21 02:11:14 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I don't like you
Submitted by Method (user info) at 2006-05-17 06:58:02 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
arrogant asshole
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-04-24 23:38:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Thanks mockidol.
Saccy, that's very odd. It's clear enough what she's singing though, isn't it?
Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2006-04-24 21:47:52 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I want Saccy to sing Nolita by Keren Ann Ziegeld (or however you spell her last name)
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Man, I downloaded that song and it's very pretty. No one wants to hear me sing anything, not even happy birthday (trust me), but I am lyrically driven so I went to find the lyrics and apparently, they were nowhere to be found, all the way to the end of teh interweb. That's almost never happened. WTF?
Submitted by mockidol (user info) at 2006-04-22 22:14:43 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
good, good, good
I'm overwhelmed with a sudden sense of urgency. I'm not sure for what, but it's all your fault.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-04-22 12:05:11 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Thank you long time, Saccy.
Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2006-04-21 23:03:01 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-04-21 22:09:46 (#)
Ranking: 0
Thanks lads.
On another note, Uber is excellent this morning. Couldn't be in a better mood to go to football.
Red, Bubba and Jack all wrote excellent IGKTW pieces, and ghola and mockidol wrote a fucked up short story each. Beautiful.
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I've suddenly found myself in a bit of a dark mood, and this has only enhanced it. Your ability to set a scene with both painstaking description and charming language make your work worth reading, even when the particular genre or subject matter is one I don't generally pursue.
I agree with you so heartily on the ubergoodness, that you just made up my mind. I'm going on the board with it. I won't namedrop though, I'll make the bastards dig for the good stuff.
Submitted by Doodles (user info) at 2006-04-21 22:21:18 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-04-21 22:09:46 (#)
Ranking: 0
Thanks lads.
On another note, Uber is excellent this morning. Couldn't be in a better mood to go to football.
Red, Bubba and Jack all wrote excellent IGKTW pieces, and ghola and mockidol wrote a fucked up short story each. Beautiful.
---
I assume you mean soccer not American football, which is the best game in America, I might add. Soccer, not American football.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-04-21 22:09:46 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Thanks lads.
On another note, Uber is excellent this morning. Couldn't be in a better mood to go to football.
Red, Bubba and Jack all wrote excellent IGKTW pieces, and ghola and mockidol wrote a fucked up short story each. Beautiful.
Submitted by secret_of_nimh (user info) at 2006-04-21 18:30:50 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I like the point of view.
Submitted by Chroniclysm (user info) at 2006-04-21 18:04:59 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by redskieslookfake (user info) at 2006-04-21 12:50:43 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Needs more reviews
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-04-21 11:49:38 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Thanks everyone.
Submitted by simple_catalyst (user info) at 2006-04-21 09:24:50 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Doodles (user info) at 2006-04-21 07:40:46 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Stagger you're making me look bad, stop writing so good or I'm going to have to go all Bickerstaff on you. Got it?
Submitted by Ducky (user info) at 2006-04-21 07:08:51 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Nice. Very descriptive, without overdoing it...
...like Canadian literature, where 5 pages is spent discussing a leaf as it makes its descent from the tree to the ground.
Submitted by redskieslookfake (user info) at 2006-04-21 06:13:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
PFF's ratings do not appear to matter. It's like a defanged snake or something
Submitted by redskieslookfake (user info) at 2006-04-21 06:03:36 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Monster revisited? Lovely.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-04-21 05:38:11 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Shit, forgot the end note:
The song is Loom of the Land, by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.
Submitted by professorfuckface (user info) at 2006-04-21 05:38:02 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
kill everyone off and I guarantee nobody will care or even notice
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-04-21 05:35:59 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
WTF nobody's dead yet.