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Slowly winds the handle he. Discord matched, sweet harmony.
Sending sheaves of song slicing through the bare-board walls. The black box his mellow instrument - some esoteric tool to cleanse away, to spy foul deed.
He knows nothing.
Under new management we are falling away - still slow, but stumbling and falling back into individual lock-down. Contained by rusty fixings pierced to the heavy, green-fade doors.
It is the one-nighters, room rent on copper change, two hour stay.
Between the walls he creeps - the box on his back, hand tracing the dust, looking for secrets. The orchestra strikes up - silent sound through their last-hand room. Strings of golden light tense up and play - shivering onto the threaded floor.
But, among the needles, they do not notice. The white notes slice through whitewash walls to white-worn scars. Among the seeping sweat - ten-note, practised, one-way duet.
And where his eyes once stared from the crawl-space, between the filed-out holes, a slide of metal is shifted in place.
And throughout the night, he screws cool panels to the walls, as they screw heat through the springs
And again we are tucked back further into our yellowed cells, held fast by our hard-won rent.
Smoke from room three - tinged brown, rainbows dancing there - creeps through the spaces which remain. Heavy, hugs the floor - curls tight back against the door. Fragile in the neon glow, a secret shared, shattered soon if the slides sink any further to the wood, pushing us out of his domain.
Vacant. The light proclaims his hate: for this inherited hell, where we stretch and swell, ever mingling between the walls. He wants a plaza, shining stars and a chord of flagpoles - clean shoes, fresh news. Grey-pressed suits and credit cards, not these creased vagrants.
But come they do, and come they must - fugitive motel, tender in the dust. With their bottles and powders, with their blades, their bibles, their black hearts and heavy fists.
He tries - oh, he tries indeed - to push them away, stop the rusted coins falling to the counter top. He tries to scrub the acid stains away, bleach the damp sheets, hopelessly peel the nicotine from the tiles, wash the wood white, sterilise the burnt air.
And he slams the hard steel back against the boards, punching the rivets through the silence, through the anger.
But he knows nothing.
Everyone forgets something - everyone leaves something behind. An atmosphere, a memory hung above the door, streaks of red across the floor. These last-hand chambers heave with tiny fragments, glowing orange filaments of light - each one a secret, a pleasure, a vice. The foundations for such a brittle place - as we seep through the walls, the bonds grow stronger, and the walls knit tighter.
These veins trace through scars and pinpricks, not marble.
The only uniforms here are bought by the hour.
These pillars are toxic, supporting the ceiling from loose-roll papers.
Footsteps echo only from the past.
So he storms between the walls, steeling our gaze with the polished plates, winding the black box with a manic hand so fast that even the newcomers cease their chanting, press a glass against boards. Tonight he presses the blade to our spines, stabbing us back to the brink, and the plaster starts to fall.
Through the vulgar song he works, the walls shining from the inside. So absorbed, he doesn’t see the rituals cease, the sinners press up against the wall with tender ears - his dream, true now, shattered as he rings their innocent heads with twelve-inch nails. Metal slides in, the old beams crack, and the slates slide from the roof - each blow straightening the walls against their will.
We shrink back, fall forward.
He works on, aching crescendo through the dark, until everyone is celled short - tight within the walls they rented.
Dawn streaks across the sand, breaking onto clean-cut, lead-lined establishment new. Rays pierce through the fallen slate, onto the metal he strikes into the wall, and he sees himself - a perfect reflection - with unholy clarity.
Hammer raised, sweat-stung eyes - bloodshot, sleepless, ringed with lies.
The cuts and bruises on face and throat, of lazy needles, scalpel stroke.
Pale skin, high-hunched back - a slash of tan where he peers through the crack.
He lets the steel drop down, swing on the single nail, and shuffles forward, flaying his head against the ripped wall. From the inside, I saw it all.
He catches my eye, shivers and nods, sniffs the white from his nostrils and clasps again the handle, turning gently the other way - winding it all back.
Slowly, slowly - winding it all back.
Sending sheaves of song slicing through the bare-board walls. The black box his mellow instrument - some esoteric tool to cleanse away, to spy foul deed.
He knows nothing.
Under new management we are falling away - still slow, but stumbling and falling back into individual lock-down. Contained by rusty fixings pierced to the heavy, green-fade doors.
It is the one-nighters, room rent on copper change, two hour stay.
Between the walls he creeps - the box on his back, hand tracing the dust, looking for secrets. The orchestra strikes up - silent sound through their last-hand room. Strings of golden light tense up and play - shivering onto the threaded floor.
But, among the needles, they do not notice. The white notes slice through whitewash walls to white-worn scars. Among the seeping sweat - ten-note, practised, one-way duet.
And where his eyes once stared from the crawl-space, between the filed-out holes, a slide of metal is shifted in place.
And throughout the night, he screws cool panels to the walls, as they screw heat through the springs
And again we are tucked back further into our yellowed cells, held fast by our hard-won rent.
Smoke from room three - tinged brown, rainbows dancing there - creeps through the spaces which remain. Heavy, hugs the floor - curls tight back against the door. Fragile in the neon glow, a secret shared, shattered soon if the slides sink any further to the wood, pushing us out of his domain.
Vacant. The light proclaims his hate: for this inherited hell, where we stretch and swell, ever mingling between the walls. He wants a plaza, shining stars and a chord of flagpoles - clean shoes, fresh news. Grey-pressed suits and credit cards, not these creased vagrants.
But come they do, and come they must - fugitive motel, tender in the dust. With their bottles and powders, with their blades, their bibles, their black hearts and heavy fists.
He tries - oh, he tries indeed - to push them away, stop the rusted coins falling to the counter top. He tries to scrub the acid stains away, bleach the damp sheets, hopelessly peel the nicotine from the tiles, wash the wood white, sterilise the burnt air.
And he slams the hard steel back against the boards, punching the rivets through the silence, through the anger.
But he knows nothing.
Everyone forgets something - everyone leaves something behind. An atmosphere, a memory hung above the door, streaks of red across the floor. These last-hand chambers heave with tiny fragments, glowing orange filaments of light - each one a secret, a pleasure, a vice. The foundations for such a brittle place - as we seep through the walls, the bonds grow stronger, and the walls knit tighter.
These veins trace through scars and pinpricks, not marble.
The only uniforms here are bought by the hour.
These pillars are toxic, supporting the ceiling from loose-roll papers.
Footsteps echo only from the past.
So he storms between the walls, steeling our gaze with the polished plates, winding the black box with a manic hand so fast that even the newcomers cease their chanting, press a glass against boards. Tonight he presses the blade to our spines, stabbing us back to the brink, and the plaster starts to fall.
Through the vulgar song he works, the walls shining from the inside. So absorbed, he doesn’t see the rituals cease, the sinners press up against the wall with tender ears - his dream, true now, shattered as he rings their innocent heads with twelve-inch nails. Metal slides in, the old beams crack, and the slates slide from the roof - each blow straightening the walls against their will.
We shrink back, fall forward.
He works on, aching crescendo through the dark, until everyone is celled short - tight within the walls they rented.
Dawn streaks across the sand, breaking onto clean-cut, lead-lined establishment new. Rays pierce through the fallen slate, onto the metal he strikes into the wall, and he sees himself - a perfect reflection - with unholy clarity.
Hammer raised, sweat-stung eyes - bloodshot, sleepless, ringed with lies.
The cuts and bruises on face and throat, of lazy needles, scalpel stroke.
Pale skin, high-hunched back - a slash of tan where he peers through the crack.
He lets the steel drop down, swing on the single nail, and shuffles forward, flaying his head against the ripped wall. From the inside, I saw it all.
He catches my eye, shivers and nods, sniffs the white from his nostrils and clasps again the handle, turning gently the other way - winding it all back.
Slowly, slowly - winding it all back.
Page:
This is the best piece of writing I've ever read on these forums.
Honestly; it was everything I love, only richer, and the rhymes, each and every one of them, felt perfect. So many sentences stood out that it'd be incredibly hard for myself to pick just one, but words "soaked" and "tinged" were made excellent use of.
So absorbing I got about 4 MSN Messanger replies whilst reading this, and didn't notice a single one.
Honestly; it was everything I love, only richer, and the rhymes, each and every one of them, felt perfect. So many sentences stood out that it'd be incredibly hard for myself to pick just one, but words "soaked" and "tinged" were made excellent use of.
So absorbing I got about 4 MSN Messanger replies whilst reading this, and didn't notice a single one.
Fozz wrote:
> wow, excellent, hoever I couldnt bring myself to read it fully. I
> still think it should win (or a close second)
Wow, me too :)
Kidding about the not reading it bit obviously, of course I read it as I read all of them.
> wow, excellent, hoever I couldnt bring myself to read it fully. I
> still think it should win (or a close second)
Wow, me too :)
Kidding about the not reading it bit obviously, of course I read it as I read all of them.
Ashman wrote:
> This is the best piece of writing I've ever read on these forums.
>
> Honestly; it was everything I love, only richer, and the rhymes, each
> and every one of them, felt perfect. So many sentences stood out that
> it'd be incredibly hard for myself to pick just one, but words
> "soaked" and "tinged" were made excellent use
> of.
>
> So absorbing I got about 4 MSN Messanger replies whilst reading this,
> and didn't notice a single one.
Wow, I really don't know what to say - except that you must be lying.
I'm happy enough with a 'good' you know.
Anywho, now I'm beyond satifaction, I suppose I better pick the winnar.
> This is the best piece of writing I've ever read on these forums.
>
> Honestly; it was everything I love, only richer, and the rhymes, each
> and every one of them, felt perfect. So many sentences stood out that
> it'd be incredibly hard for myself to pick just one, but words
> "soaked" and "tinged" were made excellent use
> of.
>
> So absorbing I got about 4 MSN Messanger replies whilst reading this,
> and didn't notice a single one.
Wow, I really don't know what to say - except that you must be lying.
I'm happy enough with a 'good' you know.
Anywho, now I'm beyond satifaction, I suppose I better pick the winnar.
If I don't win I better get special mention.
Yeah, you did.
pop
[I]What was that?
pop
[I]What was that?
Ooooooh, nice.
:-)
:-)
Well, you were kinda obligated to say that.
Only because Steve Holt told me to.
the swine!
How do you just swiftly fly through a jolly ryhming story thing like that?
So care free and not bothered. Like the wind. Yep
I can't do shiz like it. This is better than anything I could do, honestly.
but why must the SSC word stuff always be some stupid manipulative word that can easily be glossed with "dead bodys" and "dark corridors". I'm sick of it. Not this though before you start.
Why not next time set the words as "upside down flower beds with invisible green air?"
I bet you know what that green door looks like. It exists I'm guessing. Or not.
Somebody discover me I'm talented.
So care free and not bothered. Like the wind. Yep
I can't do shiz like it. This is better than anything I could do, honestly.
but why must the SSC word stuff always be some stupid manipulative word that can easily be glossed with "dead bodys" and "dark corridors". I'm sick of it. Not this though before you start.
Why not next time set the words as "upside down flower beds with invisible green air?"
I bet you know what that green door looks like. It exists I'm guessing. Or not.
Somebody discover me I'm talented.
Page: