Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Humanity's Lovely Downfall
The man walked through the forest, the scent of fresh blooming flowers, the same scent that was instilled yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that until the beginning, filled his nostrils. He came to an easy stop and sat down in the lush grass that covered the grown. It surrounded his body and held his weight like down. The sun was warm upon his bronzed skin and he smiled to himself as he enjoyed the passing of time. He looked up calmly, past the bright blue sky surrounding his field of vision and thought of everything beyond that. Everything new to his senses, his thoughts and desires. New was good. New was interesting. He closed his eyes once again, his mind empty to everything around him. But he was stirred by a sudden music.
This music filled his soul with hope and a passion he had never thought possible. He kept his eyes closed, afraid that if he opened them the music would leave. Slowly however, he began to peer once again into the sunny afternoon. The music did not stop. It continued on filling his soul with something…new. Standing up he followed the sound of the sweet voice. It led him into a small grove where a waterfall cascaded down a small cliff into a pool of water. The sound of rushing water always calmed the man, but with the added music it put him in a trance. He stumbled forward and saw bathing in the pool the figure of a beautiful woman. Her shape was petite and her long dark hair fell down her back until reaching just below her shoulder blades.
The man sat and watched the naked woman bathe but soon his eyes were closed and he was listening to the sweet melody of her tuneless song. He was lost in it, breathing it in and out. It seemed to flow perfectly with everything around the two. The chirping of the birds, the wind as it sailed through the tree tops, the rush of the water. Everything was in perfect unity.
The man once again took a deep breath, but as he exhaled the music suddenly stopped. He opened his eyes and found the woman staring at him. A look of surprise was on her face and then she smiled and walked out of the water, her body dripping across the pebbles she tread upon.
She kneeled down in front of the man, the smile never leaving her face. The man smiled back and looked into her eyes.
“I like your music,” the man said happily. The woman however only stared at him, the smile warm and inviting. “Will you sing more?” He asked.
The woman quirked her head to the side, still smiling, eyes still inviting. The man suddenly came to a realization and he frowned. She would not be able to understand him. She would not be able to understand anything.
But her music!
The man took her hand into his and held it tightly, smiling to her once again. They never parted from each other. They sat, watching each other. Being with each other. When the mood took her the lady would sing, and the man would sit and watch her, or close his eyes and focus on the music and the underlying tones of the world.
But his passion over took him.
He loved her too much and he knew it. But it no longer mattered to him. He could be banished and still he would regret nothing for having known this moment.
They sat down on a hill, her hands in his. It was blissful and looked out over the land, over the tops of trees and the spanning lakes. A large tree held them in a cool shady embrace as they sat under it.
The man stood up for a moment and from the tree he plucked a single red apple off of the lowest branch. Sitting back down he looked into the woman’s deep blue eyes and said “I want you to do something for me, Eve.”
And in the shadow, the white wings of the man shimmered darkly
This music filled his soul with hope and a passion he had never thought possible. He kept his eyes closed, afraid that if he opened them the music would leave. Slowly however, he began to peer once again into the sunny afternoon. The music did not stop. It continued on filling his soul with something…new. Standing up he followed the sound of the sweet voice. It led him into a small grove where a waterfall cascaded down a small cliff into a pool of water. The sound of rushing water always calmed the man, but with the added music it put him in a trance. He stumbled forward and saw bathing in the pool the figure of a beautiful woman. Her shape was petite and her long dark hair fell down her back until reaching just below her shoulder blades.
The man sat and watched the naked woman bathe but soon his eyes were closed and he was listening to the sweet melody of her tuneless song. He was lost in it, breathing it in and out. It seemed to flow perfectly with everything around the two. The chirping of the birds, the wind as it sailed through the tree tops, the rush of the water. Everything was in perfect unity.
The man once again took a deep breath, but as he exhaled the music suddenly stopped. He opened his eyes and found the woman staring at him. A look of surprise was on her face and then she smiled and walked out of the water, her body dripping across the pebbles she tread upon.
She kneeled down in front of the man, the smile never leaving her face. The man smiled back and looked into her eyes.
“I like your music,” the man said happily. The woman however only stared at him, the smile warm and inviting. “Will you sing more?” He asked.
The woman quirked her head to the side, still smiling, eyes still inviting. The man suddenly came to a realization and he frowned. She would not be able to understand him. She would not be able to understand anything.
But her music!
The man took her hand into his and held it tightly, smiling to her once again. They never parted from each other. They sat, watching each other. Being with each other. When the mood took her the lady would sing, and the man would sit and watch her, or close his eyes and focus on the music and the underlying tones of the world.
But his passion over took him.
He loved her too much and he knew it. But it no longer mattered to him. He could be banished and still he would regret nothing for having known this moment.
They sat down on a hill, her hands in his. It was blissful and looked out over the land, over the tops of trees and the spanning lakes. A large tree held them in a cool shady embrace as they sat under it.
The man stood up for a moment and from the tree he plucked a single red apple off of the lowest branch. Sitting back down he looked into the woman’s deep blue eyes and said “I want you to do something for me, Eve.”
And in the shadow, the white wings of the man shimmered darkly
Immersive Protection
The child’s eyes were glossed over as he sat a meter away from an old television set, staring into it. The room was dark, night sky was draped outside the window and the lights were off. The only source of illumination coming from the flickering box in front of the child.
In the background voices yelled and screamed through the thin walls. One was that of a young mother, high and frantic. The other was lower, deeper, with a heavy baritone. Through the wooden filter of the walls the boy could just make out what the two adults were saying, but instead of focusing on them he decided to tune them out, his entire attention being placed upon the flickering screen.
The child made no movement when he heard the volume and clarity of the voices increase. He sat there, watching. Almost immediately he was not really sure that he was hearing the voices.
He decided that he wasn’t, and sat.
He did not even bat an eyelash when the deeper voice seemed to explode through the entire house, immediately followed by a small wail and a heavy thump in the room over top of where the single boy sat, watching television.
Images flashed by and he absorbed each one, becoming a part of them. In one moment he was on the plains of Africa in a Safari jeep following a pack of tigers. The next he was in front of a counter while a tall slim English man showed him how to use a magical blender. As each scene floated by there was no disturbance when they changed. The boy floated with them, placing himself into each commercial as they were televised.
A heavy callused hand was placed onto his shoulder and from somewhere far away the same deep voice that hadn’t been shouting moments before said, “C’mon son, we have to go.”
But the boy couldn’t go. Not yet, he had to find out how affordable a timeshare could be.
From that same distant place the woman’s voice screamed out “You son of a bitch! Take your hand off my child!” She fell into tears then and started sobbing and sniffling.
A new show was going to air in eight days about his neighbours living in the big apple. They seemed to be getting into a lot of shenanigans down there trying adjust to the fast paced environment and constant reoccurring comedic situations.
A loud crack filled the air and the heavy hand that was lying upon his shoulder fell away. A hollow thump sounded behind him. It was followed by two hesitant footsteps coming from his left, but they seemed to falter and another thump similar to the first was heard.
The child did not hear any of this however, as he was currently driving a new sports car down a winding highway somewhere along a lush green hillside in Europe
In the background voices yelled and screamed through the thin walls. One was that of a young mother, high and frantic. The other was lower, deeper, with a heavy baritone. Through the wooden filter of the walls the boy could just make out what the two adults were saying, but instead of focusing on them he decided to tune them out, his entire attention being placed upon the flickering screen.
The child made no movement when he heard the volume and clarity of the voices increase. He sat there, watching. Almost immediately he was not really sure that he was hearing the voices.
He decided that he wasn’t, and sat.
He did not even bat an eyelash when the deeper voice seemed to explode through the entire house, immediately followed by a small wail and a heavy thump in the room over top of where the single boy sat, watching television.
Images flashed by and he absorbed each one, becoming a part of them. In one moment he was on the plains of Africa in a Safari jeep following a pack of tigers. The next he was in front of a counter while a tall slim English man showed him how to use a magical blender. As each scene floated by there was no disturbance when they changed. The boy floated with them, placing himself into each commercial as they were televised.
A heavy callused hand was placed onto his shoulder and from somewhere far away the same deep voice that hadn’t been shouting moments before said, “C’mon son, we have to go.”
But the boy couldn’t go. Not yet, he had to find out how affordable a timeshare could be.
From that same distant place the woman’s voice screamed out “You son of a bitch! Take your hand off my child!” She fell into tears then and started sobbing and sniffling.
A new show was going to air in eight days about his neighbours living in the big apple. They seemed to be getting into a lot of shenanigans down there trying adjust to the fast paced environment and constant reoccurring comedic situations.
A loud crack filled the air and the heavy hand that was lying upon his shoulder fell away. A hollow thump sounded behind him. It was followed by two hesitant footsteps coming from his left, but they seemed to falter and another thump similar to the first was heard.
The child did not hear any of this however, as he was currently driving a new sports car down a winding highway somewhere along a lush green hillside in Europe
An Omniscient Grain of Sand
I’m a single grain of sand, being tossed away in the wind, longing to be put down to be with my others. But the wind says “no”, and continues to carry me above the rest, showing me the shuffling and churning of the others like me. I’m alone, but I can see things others can’t. Every so often I bump into another grain of sand and for a moment we are blown in the same direction. We look at each other briefly as this happens, but we don’t talk. There’s nothing to say. So eventually we break apart and are alone once again. It’s fine, it’s how we would prefer things. I see a group of me, being tossed in a wild breeze, they're all imitating each other’s movements. I think to myself that it kind of defeats the purpose, but then, I am able to fly alone and watch it happen. Maybe they have forgotten?
Maybe.
Eventually the wind stops and lets me go. I fall. It’s an amazing sensation falling by my own validity from a mortally high distance of four feet. I hit the other pieces of sand and they greet me by immediately surrounding me, attempting to hide me in their swelling numbers.
I gasp for air and wish the wind would take me away again.
Maybe.
Eventually the wind stops and lets me go. I fall. It’s an amazing sensation falling by my own validity from a mortally high distance of four feet. I hit the other pieces of sand and they greet me by immediately surrounding me, attempting to hide me in their swelling numbers.
I gasp for air and wish the wind would take me away again.
The Usurper's Domino
“Father?” The young woman spoke, her eyes glazed over. A figured shrouded in mist stood on the other side of the bank of the stream next to her, his eyes were pleading.
“My Ophelia… I have been wronged.” The hollow wispy voice of the spirit spoke out in little more than a whisper. It took a step forward towards the rushing stream. As his mouth opened once more as if to speak, a lone stream of blood pool out of his lip, running down his chin to drip slowly from it. Drip….drip….drip… The lush green grass underneath became stained in crimson.
“Father…” Ophelia tried to begin, but salty tears began to run down her face. Her lower lip quivered in a force repression of the sobs that threatened to break out.
“Help me. Revenge me. Be the reaper to the creature that has done this to me” The apparition’s face contorted in anger and the blood bubbled out of the cold ethereal blue lips.
“Name him.” Ophelia pleaded.
“Hamlet.” The ghost spoke and clipped off, the revered name sounded through the trees as though it had been yelled for the world to hear.
Ophelia’s eyes darted to the rushing stream, refusing to meet those of her father, “I cannot.” She spoke, her mouth remaining agape in a stunned plea.
“You must!” he roared.
“I wont!” she screamed back, a new flood of tears began to stream down her cheeks.
“You will.” Said the Polonus in a tone as cold as steel.
“Leave me specter, for you are not my father. You are the devil shrouded in a mist to hide your true form! Leave!” Ophelia’s fist was clenched and shaking, her knuckles turning white.
The apparition stood on the bank, the mist swirling about its form like clouds being shifted in a deep storm. The dark eyes of a father’s disappointment gazed upon Ophelia in her withered angry state. Her dark eyes, so much like her father’s, blazed with life that was rarely seen in her.
“My daughter, this act of vengeance must be accomplished.” The shadow of Polonus said, “Until Hamlet lay dead as I, so must I wait in limbo.” The apparition turned around and began to walk away. Ophelia jumped down into the river and began to wade to the other side, attempting to catch up to her father.
Slowly the apparition’s head turned to the side, his eyes glancing at the anxious girl. Softly he spoke, “Be my blade.” Polonus’ head turned forward, and as he took his next step the sun’s golden light tore through the figure and the mist dissipated. The fathers voice whispered through the small forest, echoing “Revenge me.”
The daughter Ophelia stood dumbfounded in the rushing water, her light dress clinging to her body. Her head tilted down and she watched her face as the water played around it, morphing and changing it. The longer she looked at the image staring back at her the less she could recognize it. She became angry at the eyes that attempted to look inside of her, wanting to comfort her.
“I hate you.” She whispered to the image. The image stared back at her and smiled.
“I don’t hate you.” The image replied.
A tear fell down Ophelia’s face, splashing into the water. Ripples exploded from the entry point and distorted the image further. When the water began to calm, the same green eyes stared up into Ophelia’s.
“What should I do?” Ophelia asked the reflection. The reflection thought about it for a moment, then smiled.
“Kill him.” It replied.
“But I can’t.” Ophelia whispered.
“And why not?” Replied the image, “He had no trouble killing your father.”
Ophelia watched the image toss and sway in the rippling water, thinking to herself about the ways life had scorned her. About the way Hamlet had scorned her. Another tear slid down her cheek and hit the water.
Hamlet should die.
Hamlet must die.
“I hate you.” Ophelia told the image, “I want to kill you.”
The image smiled back at Ophelia, “Then do it.”
And she did.
“My Ophelia… I have been wronged.” The hollow wispy voice of the spirit spoke out in little more than a whisper. It took a step forward towards the rushing stream. As his mouth opened once more as if to speak, a lone stream of blood pool out of his lip, running down his chin to drip slowly from it. Drip….drip….drip… The lush green grass underneath became stained in crimson.
“Father…” Ophelia tried to begin, but salty tears began to run down her face. Her lower lip quivered in a force repression of the sobs that threatened to break out.
“Help me. Revenge me. Be the reaper to the creature that has done this to me” The apparition’s face contorted in anger and the blood bubbled out of the cold ethereal blue lips.
“Name him.” Ophelia pleaded.
“Hamlet.” The ghost spoke and clipped off, the revered name sounded through the trees as though it had been yelled for the world to hear.
Ophelia’s eyes darted to the rushing stream, refusing to meet those of her father, “I cannot.” She spoke, her mouth remaining agape in a stunned plea.
“You must!” he roared.
“I wont!” she screamed back, a new flood of tears began to stream down her cheeks.
“You will.” Said the Polonus in a tone as cold as steel.
“Leave me specter, for you are not my father. You are the devil shrouded in a mist to hide your true form! Leave!” Ophelia’s fist was clenched and shaking, her knuckles turning white.
The apparition stood on the bank, the mist swirling about its form like clouds being shifted in a deep storm. The dark eyes of a father’s disappointment gazed upon Ophelia in her withered angry state. Her dark eyes, so much like her father’s, blazed with life that was rarely seen in her.
“My daughter, this act of vengeance must be accomplished.” The shadow of Polonus said, “Until Hamlet lay dead as I, so must I wait in limbo.” The apparition turned around and began to walk away. Ophelia jumped down into the river and began to wade to the other side, attempting to catch up to her father.
Slowly the apparition’s head turned to the side, his eyes glancing at the anxious girl. Softly he spoke, “Be my blade.” Polonus’ head turned forward, and as he took his next step the sun’s golden light tore through the figure and the mist dissipated. The fathers voice whispered through the small forest, echoing “Revenge me.”
The daughter Ophelia stood dumbfounded in the rushing water, her light dress clinging to her body. Her head tilted down and she watched her face as the water played around it, morphing and changing it. The longer she looked at the image staring back at her the less she could recognize it. She became angry at the eyes that attempted to look inside of her, wanting to comfort her.
“I hate you.” She whispered to the image. The image stared back at her and smiled.
“I don’t hate you.” The image replied.
A tear fell down Ophelia’s face, splashing into the water. Ripples exploded from the entry point and distorted the image further. When the water began to calm, the same green eyes stared up into Ophelia’s.
“What should I do?” Ophelia asked the reflection. The reflection thought about it for a moment, then smiled.
“Kill him.” It replied.
“But I can’t.” Ophelia whispered.
“And why not?” Replied the image, “He had no trouble killing your father.”
Ophelia watched the image toss and sway in the rippling water, thinking to herself about the ways life had scorned her. About the way Hamlet had scorned her. Another tear slid down her cheek and hit the water.
Hamlet should die.
Hamlet must die.
“I hate you.” Ophelia told the image, “I want to kill you.”
The image smiled back at Ophelia, “Then do it.”
And she did.
The Corporate Vampire
“And this will be your station.”
He sat down at the desk. The typewriter was like nothing he had ever seen before. Each key struck out and narrowed like a pin. There was a man behind the desk next to his, old and wrinkled, his skin was paper-thin and his veins throbbed out against the white backdrop. The typewriter he was using clicked away as he recorded the necessary information.
Ting!
Ssscchhhhhrrrrip!
His eyes were hollow crevices full of murky repetitious thought. As the man typed away, each key stuck into his finger and drew a little blood as though he were testing his diabetes a hundred times a minute. Hooked into his arm was an I.V. A bag of blood was attached to a rack behind him, continuously feeding the crimson ink the typewriter was using. On the right corner of the desk was a dark blue-framed picture of a family smiling at the old typing man.
Ting!
Ssscchhhhhrrrrip!
There was a pinch in his right arm. Looking down he saw a thin metal needle slide into the vein at his wrist. A bag of blood was hooked up onto the rack behind him. The still warm fluid slid down the tube, eager to be of use once again.
Ting!
Ssscchhhhhrrrrip!
The typing at his side had stopped. He looked over at the old man to find the cause of the hesitation. Cracking his knuckles slowly, one, pop, at, a, time, the old man bent down to his desk, each movement seeming slow and exaggerated. Opening one of the drawers his hand retrieved a rusty metal scalpel. Slowly, ever so slowly, the man cut off the skin at the ends of his fingers. The circle sections of skin fell into a neat pile onto the desk one at a time. It was a casual movement for the man, as though he were simply trimming his nails. After trimming off the skin of his left pinky finger, he replaced the scalpel and looked up. His eyes stared into the newcomer’s, no inch of muscle out of place in a show of emotion. Yet deep in the dark orbs the newcomer saw his future.
And they both began to type.
He sat down at the desk. The typewriter was like nothing he had ever seen before. Each key struck out and narrowed like a pin. There was a man behind the desk next to his, old and wrinkled, his skin was paper-thin and his veins throbbed out against the white backdrop. The typewriter he was using clicked away as he recorded the necessary information.
Ting!
Ssscchhhhhrrrrip!
His eyes were hollow crevices full of murky repetitious thought. As the man typed away, each key stuck into his finger and drew a little blood as though he were testing his diabetes a hundred times a minute. Hooked into his arm was an I.V. A bag of blood was attached to a rack behind him, continuously feeding the crimson ink the typewriter was using. On the right corner of the desk was a dark blue-framed picture of a family smiling at the old typing man.
Ting!
Ssscchhhhhrrrrip!
There was a pinch in his right arm. Looking down he saw a thin metal needle slide into the vein at his wrist. A bag of blood was hooked up onto the rack behind him. The still warm fluid slid down the tube, eager to be of use once again.
Ting!
Ssscchhhhhrrrrip!
The typing at his side had stopped. He looked over at the old man to find the cause of the hesitation. Cracking his knuckles slowly, one, pop, at, a, time, the old man bent down to his desk, each movement seeming slow and exaggerated. Opening one of the drawers his hand retrieved a rusty metal scalpel. Slowly, ever so slowly, the man cut off the skin at the ends of his fingers. The circle sections of skin fell into a neat pile onto the desk one at a time. It was a casual movement for the man, as though he were simply trimming his nails. After trimming off the skin of his left pinky finger, he replaced the scalpel and looked up. His eyes stared into the newcomer’s, no inch of muscle out of place in a show of emotion. Yet deep in the dark orbs the newcomer saw his future.
And they both began to type.
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