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Not lost, but alone - she is wandering through the darkness.
Deep, deep, deeper still - under the layers, below the dust and the holy ones - where the shadows change their shapes to mix among the streetwalkers.
In this strange, black world - where the only colour is the red strike-blooms on the tiers of shade, and the only light is kept locked away - she walks on, head down.
Never lift your eyes
They gaze from the doorways, the ones unclean. The shunned, the unaccepted, and the self-fallen hunters, with their white smiles and gleaming blades - dull now, both, seeped through with grey, the spark winked cold.
Head down, hand clasped around the tiny shard of light - a fragment of a memory, a promise, thrown across the great divide on a ragged prayer, kissed white on faltering heart strings. No-one dares look up to the ceiling - the flat, smoked ceiling to the upper floors that presses the square buildings squatter still, into single-storey squalor by the righteous whim.
She looked up once, stared up through the midnight mists, strained to see beyond what she was cast into. The hem of a golden robe, trailing above. A pure, white slipper, muddied red at the toe. Then a face - a sinful face, lying prostrate at a gleaming, hollow alter - tears of pleaded forgiveness rolling idly from mocking, fickle eyes; only she saw the lies.
The razor-white digs further into her palm, and she stares harder at the dust-layer - Never lift your eyes. That is when they notice you. - unless there is someone so willing, so mournfully loving protecting you, never lift your eyes. A promise stands where all else has fallen.
Blood - bright and fresh against the oppressive naught - trails behind, dropping from the past as those memories swim back. A hunter spies his near-forgotten escape; his red-drowned gift to the pearly gate - and the spark is back. Quick scan of the scarlet track, weapons drawn from the rusted rack, blades blunt against the lethal black.
She knows - the journey has been far too long for her not to recognise the anxious shift in the air, the slow, solemn spark push the grey back by near-nothing and the steel twist cool warnings to her pale skin.
I promise. You will never have to fight
He tracks - a stooping, silent sprint between the cracked walls and out into the wide gate-road. And so every sense bar sound, flares at his approach. She sighs a ragged, tired breath for the memories, for the lost, and his eager body streams back into a doorway, blood lust pooling under the timber. The dark, the grey blank, crushes the spark back under the heavy, washed-out air.
The gatekeep straightens by the double-door, her steady approach in the centre of the road never faltering, the shard of light in her hand picking her out amongst the shifting tides of nothing.
He places his shaking hands, one on each handle - black and white, hot and cold, rough and smooth - and waits, as he always has done, for someone to make a decision.
Take my love. Don’t look back, and rise above where I left you. You are greater than this.
She pulls her hood back from her head and holds up the shard of light - stained slightly, red at the edges, but still shining through the pain. The gatekeep looks down on her - a child so young - and nods his duty-bound acceptance.
Rise up, above, and love again
She moves to the black door, and closes her tiny fist around the shard until the blood flows free.
The gatekeep moves to one side and drags open the pitch portal, ancient hinges screeching out a warning to the deaf.
And on she walks, on a new path - taking the steps down, the black icy steps deep, deep, deeper still - where the shadows cast shadows of their own. And she smiles.
The gatekeep closes the door, shaken, and tears - real tears from pure, faithful eyes - drop to the floor. They trickle down, through the stone, through the dust, to the floor below - a little aid to the wandering white.
Perhaps, one day, we shall meet again.
Deep, deep, deeper still - under the layers, below the dust and the holy ones - where the shadows change their shapes to mix among the streetwalkers.
In this strange, black world - where the only colour is the red strike-blooms on the tiers of shade, and the only light is kept locked away - she walks on, head down.
Never lift your eyes
They gaze from the doorways, the ones unclean. The shunned, the unaccepted, and the self-fallen hunters, with their white smiles and gleaming blades - dull now, both, seeped through with grey, the spark winked cold.
Head down, hand clasped around the tiny shard of light - a fragment of a memory, a promise, thrown across the great divide on a ragged prayer, kissed white on faltering heart strings. No-one dares look up to the ceiling - the flat, smoked ceiling to the upper floors that presses the square buildings squatter still, into single-storey squalor by the righteous whim.
She looked up once, stared up through the midnight mists, strained to see beyond what she was cast into. The hem of a golden robe, trailing above. A pure, white slipper, muddied red at the toe. Then a face - a sinful face, lying prostrate at a gleaming, hollow alter - tears of pleaded forgiveness rolling idly from mocking, fickle eyes; only she saw the lies.
The razor-white digs further into her palm, and she stares harder at the dust-layer - Never lift your eyes. That is when they notice you. - unless there is someone so willing, so mournfully loving protecting you, never lift your eyes. A promise stands where all else has fallen.
Blood - bright and fresh against the oppressive naught - trails behind, dropping from the past as those memories swim back. A hunter spies his near-forgotten escape; his red-drowned gift to the pearly gate - and the spark is back. Quick scan of the scarlet track, weapons drawn from the rusted rack, blades blunt against the lethal black.
She knows - the journey has been far too long for her not to recognise the anxious shift in the air, the slow, solemn spark push the grey back by near-nothing and the steel twist cool warnings to her pale skin.
I promise. You will never have to fight
He tracks - a stooping, silent sprint between the cracked walls and out into the wide gate-road. And so every sense bar sound, flares at his approach. She sighs a ragged, tired breath for the memories, for the lost, and his eager body streams back into a doorway, blood lust pooling under the timber. The dark, the grey blank, crushes the spark back under the heavy, washed-out air.
The gatekeep straightens by the double-door, her steady approach in the centre of the road never faltering, the shard of light in her hand picking her out amongst the shifting tides of nothing.
He places his shaking hands, one on each handle - black and white, hot and cold, rough and smooth - and waits, as he always has done, for someone to make a decision.
Take my love. Don’t look back, and rise above where I left you. You are greater than this.
She pulls her hood back from her head and holds up the shard of light - stained slightly, red at the edges, but still shining through the pain. The gatekeep looks down on her - a child so young - and nods his duty-bound acceptance.
Rise up, above, and love again
She moves to the black door, and closes her tiny fist around the shard until the blood flows free.
The gatekeep moves to one side and drags open the pitch portal, ancient hinges screeching out a warning to the deaf.
And on she walks, on a new path - taking the steps down, the black icy steps deep, deep, deeper still - where the shadows cast shadows of their own. And she smiles.
The gatekeep closes the door, shaken, and tears - real tears from pure, faithful eyes - drop to the floor. They trickle down, through the stone, through the dust, to the floor below - a little aid to the wandering white.
Perhaps, one day, we shall meet again.
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Brilliant, wonderful imagery in there.
I thought about writing the male equivalent to Bridget Jones. Then I thought, pretty much every porn movie script already is.
It's fantasy - but a little more up-to-date, because I hate fantasy books that get swamped in the fact they must be set in medieval times. If you know what I mean.
And, in the 3rd one, there's a massive futureistic city.
So ... yeah.
All kinds of stuff.
And the other book I'm starting to write is a confusing dreamesque mindfuck. Which is always fun.
And, in the 3rd one, there's a massive futureistic city.
So ... yeah.
All kinds of stuff.
And the other book I'm starting to write is a confusing dreamesque mindfuck. Which is always fun.
I'm interested about your novel.
Is it another fantasy sort of thing, or is more real?
Is it another fantasy sort of thing, or is more real?
yey me
*swells*
*swells*
Well, I read it, but I don't really know what to say.
To me this seemed like more of a poem then a story. There was some wonderful imagery in there and the descriptions really caused me to picture it.
So yeah, well done...you made me think! I know many teachers that have tried and failed to do that!
To me this seemed like more of a poem then a story. There was some wonderful imagery in there and the descriptions really caused me to picture it.
So yeah, well done...you made me think! I know many teachers that have tried and failed to do that!
Like the zalpha to my alpha.
I am humble to thee.
I am humble to thee.
I've already mentioned previously that I tend to 'lose it' in most of your stories but cannot resist the imagery and atmosphere you tend to create :)
Ineedsleep wrote:
> I lost it when she went down instead of up but the imagery, oh divine.
I would have thought that was the simplist bit, but there we go.
You're too kind.
> I lost it when she went down instead of up but the imagery, oh divine.
I would have thought that was the simplist bit, but there we go.
You're too kind.
That was great. Couldn't understand 90% of it, but that doesn't matter. ;-D
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