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"SSC3 - My Wondeful Creation ..."

I stare out to sea, smiling. Inspiration draws to me over the water - his reputation proceeds, and usually exceeds, but still I smile. I know what he can do.
The fresh, liberating rush of a new goal.

Behind me, the pier holds up my creation - rotting wooden struts struggle to sustain what the water threatens to remove. Immeasurable tonnes of rock and earth - twisted into wonderful, half-finished sculptures - press the salt-eaten pier down further into the sea.

Every second, more is added to the heap - the products of my dreams.
Half-formed ideas - a trait, a flaw, an hinted presence.
Fully-formed ideals - most of which even I cannot comprehend.

The pile swells even now, as inspiration rushes towards - the seas part before him, leaving a whitewashed trail streaming out beautifully behind. The disorganised creation behind me fades slightly as that single white line grows.

He leaps from the water - a twisting, undefinable perfection, somehow silhouetted beyond the absence of a sun. A youthful, eager and gracious figure - he who lines up my created halves towards a beckoning horizon.
Landing easily on the pier (the dying, salt-bleached boards do not complain) he leans back against my solitude and lights up a skinny cheroot.
He pushes back the brim of his hat with a thumb, and peers up into the sky.

As always, the light rains down, ripping through the flat grey sky I first created. And at once, the pile of unstrung thoughts is illuminated. I smile again - the fragments of my soul glitter magnificently under the harsh light.

“Oh dear,” he says, surveying the scene. The words bite deep - after all, this unstable tumour sinking steadily into the sea was created, is attached and was born from me. It is my creation - my originality, mine. And stunning for that connection.

“Is it ...” he starts - taking a slow, deep drag; blowing blood-red smoke from his nose - “Is it still here? Under all ... this?”

I shrug - it’s the truth. Incomplete thoughts shrouded and blocked the well a long time ago. It may have simply disappeared, or slipped into something else - evolved, dissolved into the churning, restless product of my dreams. A fantastic new creation.

He sighs at my failure to keep the source clear. Carried on the exhalation, a slight rasping in his throat - a infinite weariness of everything surrounding him. He does not smile as usual - impatience lines his face, wrinkled further from youth.

He turns to me, eyes so hebetudinously conveying all - the imagined, the real, the non-existent, the incomprehensible - so beautifully, so harshly, that my jumbled thoughts seem painfully simple.
And they convey more, now.
Anger and resentment - towards what I had created, and towards me. A burning, brilliant rage shooting through my subconscious.
I fail to understand. Why does he hate so - I never called him here.

“Yes you did.” His face contorts, strains, seethes in rage and progressive decay. “Always.”

Blinking once, slowly - his eyes red-ringed, the whites deeply scared, pupils dull white specks - a bead of blood forms in both corners of each eye. The fattened, black-tinged droplets trace the weary contours of his face in red. They slowly draw together on his chin - a sacrifice from the whole, given painfully out, against his will.
The redness stains the pier - splattered across my originality.

He snorts - as though I am the one who stained his soul. Resentment towards my breathtaking masterpiece, no doubt - so perfect it has outgrown the pier designed to contain me. I have far exceeded expectations.
He is so old - crippled with pain and hatred. Bent-double over the agony of the calling and a loathing of the horn-blower I never knew existed.

“You knew.” The old man drools. “You knew well enough.” The cheroot, hanging limply to his cracked lips falls to the floor - leaking the blood-red smoke through the chewed wooden boards.

He still stares at me, swaying where he stands - exhausted, frustrated by my incompetence.
The heap swells further as my mind drifts away, sliding between broken fragments of brilliant dreams.

“Stop!” He rasps, and real tears - pain-rent, desperate tears - stream down his face. He falls to the floor, to his knees, and stares around, disbelieving.
”Look!” He hisses. “Look what you’ve done to me - to my gift. Your arrogance, stupidity - unseen reliance. They regard you highly, I know.” A mocking edge shivered along his voice - again, he stared at me.

The old scars in the whites of his eyes rip open. Rich, spiteful blood swells in his sockets, stains again his ageing face the tears washed clean. It clots under his eyelids, forming lacy tendrils of rancid pain - hanging grotesquely down from his face like a mucus.
He laughs - spitting blood - the anger burning through.

“High regards for the rapist. The demonic incompetent.” He swings his head to my creation, the ugly pile of half-thoughts, and again laughs - a snort of pity. “You rely on me. Your victim is your saviour - without me, oh blesséd inspiration, you would have nothing. You would be nothing.”

But ... but...
No. The pile - pushing always down on the pier, slowly killing the already-dying structure - is useless. Just some random connections - pieces of a puzzle that will never fit. Without inspiration, I would drown under the worthless weight of my selfish dreams.
It’s ugly. A horrible heap of diseased, clinging illness blocking what was once good.

He grins - a gap-toothed, red-stained grin.
”You have stripped away my youth - decimated my originality. Under your needy, flaunted ‘talent’ I die.”

He collapsed fully to the floor, eyes still staring at me, blood crusting on his still-living eyes.
“I made you Without me, you are insane - unexpressed, unnoticed. Your ugly visions became beautiful with me-” his pupils glow a brilliant white, through the age-old blood “-but you disregarded my gift. Pompous, wasteful brat.”

He writhes on the floor to stare back to the pile. I cringe just to look at it - truth revealed to me, through the lies. He made me, yet I stole his vitality.
Now tears stain my cheeks - how worthless, how petty I was. Desperate to be great, unaware of my incompetence.

He sighs. Relived - impatient, and hopeful.
The whiteness from his eyes grew, and encompassed the whole sickening mound. It burned away under his wondrous gaze - incinerated by real inspiration. The whiteness grew further, and further again - beyond the sky, beyond the sea, into and not begrudging me.

My rotting ignorance has gone, the pier with it.

The well is revealed again - for me to dip into, and learn from. Not to torment and steal, to block and infect as before. A steel structure replaces the pier - thick, bolted girders as red as his bleeding eyes. It’s much smaller, too - a metal ring around the well, just enough to sit on and look into the red waters, inhale the smoke.

He looks at me again - eyes wholly black, consumed by my waste. His face is contorted, struggling to fight against my creation inside.
He drags himself, on broken arms, to the edge of the steel rig and drops soundlessly into the sea - silhouetted somehow, beyond the absence of a sun.

FinalFantasyFanatic wrote:
> I thought of something really obvious. Ah well.
> But it's all weird, so Kyz won't like it. Ah well.

+ Ineedsleep pretty much summed it up properly..

+ A connection wasn't expected, because this was about me.

Whilst this story has been greeted with raptuous marvel from other posters I didnt feel really 'get' it. I read it through twice but it seems a little distant to stir any real meaning; at least in my case. Of course it was very well written with your own extremely unique and disjointed fashion that I always enjoy.

Hm. Well written, but didn't do anything for me.

Not that it isn't good, I just didn't 'connect' with it.

Despite your own discontent it still paints a vivid picture in the minds eye. I read that as a struggle between self and a disaffected and much abused muse.

Wonderful :)

Out of all your stories that I've read, it's my favourite so far.

Nice. Very nice. Very very nice.

I wouldn't go that far, but: thanks.

Beautiful, poetic and so very imaginative. Paints such a wonderful, but vivid, picture in your mind.

Brilliant, my friend.

I'm guessing that pile was your ego, in which case I think I got it. :-)

Pretty good infact and described perfectly how I'm feeling at the moment.
I really need to clear my head. :-)

Cheers Athool - I have to agree with you, but I got bored of re-working it.