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1. Red duffelcoat, red bonnet, red gumboots running – into the white of snow, the black of boughs, the deep-green of pines: running, a little boy lost, running scared – that long rainbow scarf rippling behind him like a ribbon in the wind.
2. It’s as if he was lowered into this landscape by a hook; a hook piercing the scruff of his hooded collar; a hook attached to the end of a rope dangling from an unseen airborne craft.
3. His ankles buckled as his treads thudded onto the powdered earth, and as he stumbled upon his knees, the hook detached and the rope swung silently away into the heavenly blue. Look up, see the sky! – there are cherubs pretending to be clouds picking marshmallows from ivory cups.
4. Let me transport you into the pursuing eye, my eye, a benevolent eye – its vision blurred, transforming the world through which we move into a watercolour sketch hurriedly brushed. The colours are dripping and merging, yet the overall picture remains strong.
5. My, this boy can run! It’s difficult to keep apace: a tiny red blot almost dancing across the pristine white . . . Should I give this runner a name? (Nadir? Nihil? Nixie?) – No, it wouldn’t be fair.
6. Weaving through the boughs now, which in close-up shimmer softly with a maroon glaze. The boy is descending a hillside as if clopping down giant steps. The rainbow scarf has peeled away; we swipe to grasp it . . . we fail. It matters not; tracking the unnatural boy is what counts.
7. And we are gliding along and down the hill’s curve with arms wide and legs together: a spectral crucifix, or, if you prefer, a scarecrow brought to life by a magical art; and yet, all this happened moments ago, just before we saw the spires: the aquamarine pinnacles puncturing the suddenly-there smog: it has unleashed a stormfall of snow – a slanting left-to-right blizzard.
8. But make no mistake, the boy is not running from us – no, it’s the thing above which has caused his fear to boil; and if we look up, the thing has replaced the sun as the most brilliant object in the sky. I should tell you that it (the thing) plans to descend – in fact, it is doing so right now . . . Get ready, fellow watcher, I hope you aren’t squeamish.
9. A great circular shadow captures the running boy like an inverted spotlight. Its initial pale-grey hue is deepening – deepening with every millisecond of descent . . . grey, to dark-grey, to charcoal, to sable, to black, to midnight – here it comes . . . here it comes – NOW!
10. A dull thud, embellished by a delicate squish. Quite exquisite; like a tomato stomped by an ogre’s boot.
11. We can stop now. The chase is over. He did not make to the citadel’s pointed gates. Such a shame. (I laugh.) Blood in the fake snow – yes. Incarnadine puddings – oh yes indeed, nicely depicted gore. Congratulations me.
12. Now watch as my hands frame the scene with a simple black frame . . .
—Dark pine trees left-and-right – the rainbow scarf curled like a dead snake around the base of a bough.
—A convex of snowy foreground flecked with tippytaps of gorgeous wan-yellow.
—Above, a wintry sky enlivened by a silvery sun; the skyline glorified by the dream-green spires of the ghostly castle.
—At the heart of the canvas, the cerise remains of the never-returning boy: he is splattered, yet his form can still be distinguished. Perfect!
—And a bounce-and-roll to his left the – what is it? . . . ah yes – the glossy, dimpled sphere; the transient traveller of arced flight; the white obeyer of gravity thwacked by the club of a unseen colossus –
13. FORE! – Too late now, but that’s the name I’ll give this painting. Here, let me sign it for you. Hang it in the clubhouse between my portrait of the hippopotamus caddy and my pastel sketch of a golf buggy on the moon.
2. It’s as if he was lowered into this landscape by a hook; a hook piercing the scruff of his hooded collar; a hook attached to the end of a rope dangling from an unseen airborne craft.
3. His ankles buckled as his treads thudded onto the powdered earth, and as he stumbled upon his knees, the hook detached and the rope swung silently away into the heavenly blue. Look up, see the sky! – there are cherubs pretending to be clouds picking marshmallows from ivory cups.
4. Let me transport you into the pursuing eye, my eye, a benevolent eye – its vision blurred, transforming the world through which we move into a watercolour sketch hurriedly brushed. The colours are dripping and merging, yet the overall picture remains strong.
5. My, this boy can run! It’s difficult to keep apace: a tiny red blot almost dancing across the pristine white . . . Should I give this runner a name? (Nadir? Nihil? Nixie?) – No, it wouldn’t be fair.
6. Weaving through the boughs now, which in close-up shimmer softly with a maroon glaze. The boy is descending a hillside as if clopping down giant steps. The rainbow scarf has peeled away; we swipe to grasp it . . . we fail. It matters not; tracking the unnatural boy is what counts.
7. And we are gliding along and down the hill’s curve with arms wide and legs together: a spectral crucifix, or, if you prefer, a scarecrow brought to life by a magical art; and yet, all this happened moments ago, just before we saw the spires: the aquamarine pinnacles puncturing the suddenly-there smog: it has unleashed a stormfall of snow – a slanting left-to-right blizzard.
8. But make no mistake, the boy is not running from us – no, it’s the thing above which has caused his fear to boil; and if we look up, the thing has replaced the sun as the most brilliant object in the sky. I should tell you that it (the thing) plans to descend – in fact, it is doing so right now . . . Get ready, fellow watcher, I hope you aren’t squeamish.
9. A great circular shadow captures the running boy like an inverted spotlight. Its initial pale-grey hue is deepening – deepening with every millisecond of descent . . . grey, to dark-grey, to charcoal, to sable, to black, to midnight – here it comes . . . here it comes – NOW!
10. A dull thud, embellished by a delicate squish. Quite exquisite; like a tomato stomped by an ogre’s boot.
11. We can stop now. The chase is over. He did not make to the citadel’s pointed gates. Such a shame. (I laugh.) Blood in the fake snow – yes. Incarnadine puddings – oh yes indeed, nicely depicted gore. Congratulations me.
12. Now watch as my hands frame the scene with a simple black frame . . .
—Dark pine trees left-and-right – the rainbow scarf curled like a dead snake around the base of a bough.
—A convex of snowy foreground flecked with tippytaps of gorgeous wan-yellow.
—Above, a wintry sky enlivened by a silvery sun; the skyline glorified by the dream-green spires of the ghostly castle.
—At the heart of the canvas, the cerise remains of the never-returning boy: he is splattered, yet his form can still be distinguished. Perfect!
—And a bounce-and-roll to his left the – what is it? . . . ah yes – the glossy, dimpled sphere; the transient traveller of arced flight; the white obeyer of gravity thwacked by the club of a unseen colossus –
13. FORE! – Too late now, but that’s the name I’ll give this painting. Here, let me sign it for you. Hang it in the clubhouse between my portrait of the hippopotamus caddy and my pastel sketch of a golf buggy on the moon.
Best simile ever: like a tomato stomped by an ogre’s boot.
Great writing, never quite knew where it was going until the end, like a puzzle with a missing piece turning up at the last.
Great writing, never quite knew where it was going until the end, like a puzzle with a missing piece turning up at the last.
I do worry about you sometimes, Glove.
Aye, top class stuff, twists out of nowhere to the wonderful revelation.
Aye, top class stuff, twists out of nowhere to the wonderful revelation.
As crazy as always.
It read as if those were just notes or ideas for a story. Or outakes from a story you had previously written.
Strange. Interesting.
It read as if those were just notes or ideas for a story. Or outakes from a story you had previously written.
Strange. Interesting.
I enjoyed this one. Very stylish and well written, and pleasingly incomprehensible (if you see what I mean). Surprisingly, the only bit I didn't like was the line which ST mentioned, which I thought was a bit forced - like those girls who dye their hair pink and do spells to prove that they're KOOKY!
Superb, some fantastic lines in there such as, 'cherubs pretending to be clouds picking marshmallows from ivory cups'. Great stuff.
1. Red duffelcoat, red bonnet, red gumboots running – into the white of snow, the black of boughs, the deep-green of pines: running, a little boy lost, running scared – that long rainbow scarf rippling behind him like a ribbon in the wind.
2. It’s as if he was lowered into this landscape by a hook; a hook piercing the scruff of his hooded collar; a hook attached to the end of a rope dangling from an unseen airborne craft.
3. His ankles buckled as his treads thudded onto the powdered earth, and as he stumbled upon his knees, the hook detached and the rope swung silently away into the heavenly blue. Look up, see the sky! – there are cherubs pretending to be clouds picking marshmallows from ivory cups.
4. Let me transport you into the pursuing eye, my eye, a benevolent eye – its vision blurred, transforming the world through which we move into a watercolour sketch hurriedly brushed. The colours are dripping and merging, yet the overall picture remains strong.
5. My, this boy can run! It’s difficult to keep apace: a tiny red blot almost dancing across the pristine white . . . Should I give this runner a name? (Nadir? Nihil? Nixie?) – No, it wouldn’t be fair.
6. Weaving through the boughs now, which in close-up shimmer softly with a maroon glaze. The boy is descending a hillside as if clopping down giant steps. The rainbow scarf has peeled away; we swipe to grasp it . . . we fail. It matters not; tracking the unnatural boy is what counts.
7. And we are gliding along and down the hill’s curve with arms wide and legs together: a spectral crucifix, or, if you prefer, a scarecrow brought to life by a magical art; and yet, all this happened moments ago, just before we saw the spires: the aquamarine pinnacles puncturing the suddenly-there smog: it has unleashed a stormfall of snow – a slanting left-to-right blizzard.
8. But make no mistake, the boy is not running from us – no, it’s the thing above which has caused his fear to boil; and if we look up, the thing has replaced the sun as the most brilliant object in the sky. I should tell you that it (the thing) plans to descend – in fact, it is doing so right now . . . Get ready, fellow watcher, I hope you aren’t squeamish.
9. A great circular shadow captures the running boy like an inverted spotlight. Its initial pale-grey hue is deepening – deepening with every millisecond of descent . . . grey, to dark-grey, to charcoal, to sable, to black, to midnight – here it comes . . . here it comes – NOW!
10. A dull thud, embellished by a delicate squish. Quite exquisite; like a tomato stomped by an ogre’s boot.
11. We can stop now. The chase is over. He did not make to the citadel’s pointed gates. Such a shame. (I laugh.) Blood in the fake snow – yes. Incarnadine puddings – oh yes indeed, nicely depicted gore. Congratulations me.
12. Now watch as my hands frame the scene with a simple black frame . . .
—Dark pine trees left-and-right – the rainbow scarf curled like a dead snake around the base of a bough.
—A convex of snowy foreground flecked with tippytaps of gorgeous wan-yellow.
—Above, a wintry sky enlivened by a silvery sun; the skyline glorified by the dream-green spires of the ghostly castle.
—At the heart of the canvas, the cerise remains of the never-returning boy: he is splattered, yet his form can still be distinguished. Perfect!
—And a bounce-and-roll to his left the – what is it? . . . ah yes – the glossy, dimpled sphere; the transient traveller of arced flight; the white obeyer of gravity thwacked by the club of a unseen colossus –
13. FORE! – Too late now, but that’s the name I’ll give this painting. Here, let me sign it for you. Hang it in the clubhouse between my portrait of the hippopotamus caddy and my pastel sketch of a golf buggy on the moon.
2. It’s as if he was lowered into this landscape by a hook; a hook piercing the scruff of his hooded collar; a hook attached to the end of a rope dangling from an unseen airborne craft.
3. His ankles buckled as his treads thudded onto the powdered earth, and as he stumbled upon his knees, the hook detached and the rope swung silently away into the heavenly blue. Look up, see the sky! – there are cherubs pretending to be clouds picking marshmallows from ivory cups.
4. Let me transport you into the pursuing eye, my eye, a benevolent eye – its vision blurred, transforming the world through which we move into a watercolour sketch hurriedly brushed. The colours are dripping and merging, yet the overall picture remains strong.
5. My, this boy can run! It’s difficult to keep apace: a tiny red blot almost dancing across the pristine white . . . Should I give this runner a name? (Nadir? Nihil? Nixie?) – No, it wouldn’t be fair.
6. Weaving through the boughs now, which in close-up shimmer softly with a maroon glaze. The boy is descending a hillside as if clopping down giant steps. The rainbow scarf has peeled away; we swipe to grasp it . . . we fail. It matters not; tracking the unnatural boy is what counts.
7. And we are gliding along and down the hill’s curve with arms wide and legs together: a spectral crucifix, or, if you prefer, a scarecrow brought to life by a magical art; and yet, all this happened moments ago, just before we saw the spires: the aquamarine pinnacles puncturing the suddenly-there smog: it has unleashed a stormfall of snow – a slanting left-to-right blizzard.
8. But make no mistake, the boy is not running from us – no, it’s the thing above which has caused his fear to boil; and if we look up, the thing has replaced the sun as the most brilliant object in the sky. I should tell you that it (the thing) plans to descend – in fact, it is doing so right now . . . Get ready, fellow watcher, I hope you aren’t squeamish.
9. A great circular shadow captures the running boy like an inverted spotlight. Its initial pale-grey hue is deepening – deepening with every millisecond of descent . . . grey, to dark-grey, to charcoal, to sable, to black, to midnight – here it comes . . . here it comes – NOW!
10. A dull thud, embellished by a delicate squish. Quite exquisite; like a tomato stomped by an ogre’s boot.
11. We can stop now. The chase is over. He did not make to the citadel’s pointed gates. Such a shame. (I laugh.) Blood in the fake snow – yes. Incarnadine puddings – oh yes indeed, nicely depicted gore. Congratulations me.
12. Now watch as my hands frame the scene with a simple black frame . . .
—Dark pine trees left-and-right – the rainbow scarf curled like a dead snake around the base of a bough.
—A convex of snowy foreground flecked with tippytaps of gorgeous wan-yellow.
—Above, a wintry sky enlivened by a silvery sun; the skyline glorified by the dream-green spires of the ghostly castle.
—At the heart of the canvas, the cerise remains of the never-returning boy: he is splattered, yet his form can still be distinguished. Perfect!
—And a bounce-and-roll to his left the – what is it? . . . ah yes – the glossy, dimpled sphere; the transient traveller of arced flight; the white obeyer of gravity thwacked by the club of a unseen colossus –
13. FORE! – Too late now, but that’s the name I’ll give this painting. Here, let me sign it for you. Hang it in the clubhouse between my portrait of the hippopotamus caddy and my pastel sketch of a golf buggy on the moon.