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"SSC14 - Man of Solitude"

After a couple of failed attempts, this is all I could come up with.

Man of Solitude

I have cloven hooves in my shoes; a coiled tail tucked inside my trousers; sharp claws within my gloves; fangs and a forked tongue in my mouth; wings strapped carefully beneath my coat; inward-curving horns hidden under my hat – other than these, I’m just a normal chap.

I’ve been walking, nowhere in particular, just walking, strolling with my cane, prodding the oncoming sward. The moon was out, as full as a cat's belly after hunting, but now it has gone, descended behind those smoky hills.

I hear the President is visiting London, and that a big protest is planned; personally, I would like to employ a regiment of killer crows – I'm all in favour of flamboyant assassination: the most powerful man on the planet pecked to death in a mayhemic flutter of black feathers and scraggy beaks… Hitchcock would instantly transmute to prophet status.

And I found a book! – (or did I drop it there?) – its pages being softly turned by the dusk's zephyrs. It was in the corner of a field of thistles near a brimming trough. A huddle of sheep looked on as I picked it up. Smoke Rings is its title. The first words I read went thus:

A cocktail cigarette
Pink
Twixt golden-brown fingers
That perfect skin
Long fingers
Nails painted red —
The blood-flush mouth releases
I watch
A curling-spinning ring of smoke
Dispersing near the vase of tulips
Into a ribbon-like wisp
She
My dark Vanessa
That effortless mystique
Has entwined me again

Hm. I must say it tickled my fancy. When I arrive home I will settle near the embers, pour myself a lil’ bram-o’-rum, load my pipe with Old Woody and read some more. Maybe I’ll even blow some smoke rings of my own…
Till then I’ll just be walking with the stars, tapping my cane on the uneven ground, seeing my shoes and my gloves, my trousers and my overcoat, the brim of my trilby and the feel of my scarf covering my mouth…

Don't talk to me; don't even look at me; this nightcreeper is a man of solitude for a good reason.

H'm, bit of a generalisation that.

But yes, your stories are consistently interesting and well written, and my personal favourite.

I won't go into that. Because I'm tired. So er... yeah. Wahey.

I really failed to enjoy that, again.

It seems rather samey to the other things you tend to write about - you always seem to have some demi-deformed hermet's take on society wrapped within obscure wordage.

T'was refreshing at first but there's only so many re-runs I can digest.

Excellent.

Sorry, I had to get rid of that rash generalisation. It'd be foolish to disregard all of the other talent on the forums :-)

After a couple of failed attempts, this is all I could come up with.

Man of Solitude

I have cloven hooves in my shoes; a coiled tail tucked inside my trousers; sharp claws within my gloves; fangs and a forked tongue in my mouth; wings strapped carefully beneath my coat; inward-curving horns hidden under my hat – other than these, I’m just a normal chap.

I’ve been walking, nowhere in particular, just walking, strolling with my cane, prodding the oncoming sward. The moon was out, as full as a cat's belly after hunting, but now it has gone, descended behind those smoky hills.

I hear the President is visiting London, and that a big protest is planned; personally, I would like to employ a regiment of killer crows – I'm all in favour of flamboyant assassination: the most powerful man on the planet pecked to death in a mayhemic flutter of black feathers and scraggy beaks… Hitchcock would instantly transmute to prophet status.

And I found a book! – (or did I drop it there?) – its pages being softly turned by the dusk's zephyrs. It was in the corner of a field of thistles near a brimming trough. A huddle of sheep looked on as I picked it up. Smoke Rings is its title. The first words I read went thus:

A cocktail cigarette
Pink
Twixt golden-brown fingers
That perfect skin
Long fingers
Nails painted red —
The blood-flush mouth releases
I watch
A curling-spinning ring of smoke
Dispersing near the vase of tulips
Into a ribbon-like wisp
She
My dark Vanessa
That effortless mystique
Has entwined me again

Hm. I must say it tickled my fancy. When I arrive home I will settle near the embers, pour myself a lil’ bram-o’-rum, load my pipe with Old Woody and read some more. Maybe I’ll even blow some smoke rings of my own…
Till then I’ll just be walking with the stars, tapping my cane on the uneven ground, seeing my shoes and my gloves, my trousers and my overcoat, the brim of my trilby and the feel of my scarf covering my mouth…

Don't talk to me; don't even look at me; this nightcreeper is a man of solitude for a good reason.