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You can’t see much from here. The window is too high so all you get is the glass and then the ceiling beyond - often less, just the blue-grey swiped sunlight and reflected clouds of tender steel.
But I am always drawn to that tiny window, hung almost too high up in the brick steeple, dirty pane set in off-white frame set in crumbling grout and blackened coal-smoke stain. As I levelled out the paving around the pool, only the proud, awkward roof strayed above the conifers and the square little window.
They boy slinks in through the arch cut back into the trees, pale and sallow-skinned in his bathing suit. His house and mother both disappeared under the weight of bitter bombs - one narrow, happy residence removed completely from the street during the night. Either side, not even a fallen roof tile.
Swimming seems his last wish - no doubt Cara, Ms. Whitting, has sent him out so she can follow on to check on me, by way of checking on the boy. But he slides into the tinted water nonetheless, turning onto his back and drifting towards the far end, his red-rimmed eyes gazing up at the window as I.
Yes, here she comes, just as I tap the last grey-stone slab back into line, her bleeding heels staking pin-*****s through the squares of turf along the drive-way. She stands under the arch, tight round eyes spearing me in place, as her stilettos keep the fallen leaves in order - her head faces towards the shy, silent boy, but her eyes are all for me. A gift she will not relinquish.
She carries a small rectangular box in one hand. The off-white cardboard is crisp, corners sharp, and the black type ostentatious in its clear-cut uniformity. She hurriedly folds up her arms, tight across her chest, tucking the box back behind her arm. Her stare slices off, wanders out over the hills and conscripted checkerboard fields, shaking her head by fractions of inches in a slow, desperate motion.
The next time I look, Cara is gone – silent, muffled down by history when she requires. My eyes, failing to find their indented resting place, drift back round and onto the boy - lying motionless on top of the water, he still gazes up at the window, with a resolute intent mirrored only inside of me.
Sunlight rips through the grey-scale cloud, fanning sheaves of gold onto and past the glass - lighting the flat, featureless ceiling into polished squares. We both saw the strange, twisted illusion - window pane reflecting the worlds inside and out, projecting sheets of translucent colour that the light caught as dust-motes in the air. A chalk dust, blown tenderly from the final copy, spiked in rainbow shades - the tiny fragile fragments floating, red, green and pink shivered out through the reflection into the conflicted air, hanging above the grounds and gravel. Yellow, orange and blue clinging, caught between the dead white window frame, the black coal-stain brick and the nothing beyond. Purple streams from the soul - twisting out past the enclosed, level pool and paving, stretching comfort out to torn blitz-town and fallen silhouettes.
And through it all, with it all, from it all, thousands of circles danced on the ceiling. Twisted from the pastel shades and sweated tears, each with a perfect, solid dot of white in the centre - drawing it all back in again.
The clouds roll back over - the air chills, and his teeth rattle between swollen lips. We share up the vivid illusion between us, swapping the tiny parts we missed - he gives over one memory: a bolted, white heel through the banisters.
The window is only, innocently that again - just a small, dirty, secret piece of glass.
Now revealing a pale, tired face behind. Ms. Whitting sweeps a fallen twist of black back behind her ear - all as it should be. Good work.
She stands at the top of her house, holding the rectangular box to her chest and again staring out over the country. It’s hard to tell under the veiled light, flat reflections, but she is crying - or bleeding? Something glistens down her cheeks, dropping, wetting the perfect cardboard.
She places the box down, turns - nothing but mirror sheen and memories.
*
The banisters match up - sitting on the third-floor stairs, cleaning the tread-joints out (to ensure a silent climb into the attics), the two images shivered out, swept by each other, then merged. Perfect.
I see the boy again as he turned awkwardly in the pool and started back the other way - regarding me nervously, but with sharp intent. Do something. Do something. Again the shared memory forced itself into my mind - the pale heel, and another of his:- a new box of chalk pastels, sitting neatly on the small telephone table in the hall.
Don’t let it happen again. Please.
The house isn’t that old - it just assumed the position of a former, forgotten building. But it’s old enough to carry and keep sounds between the walls. The metal rasping could have been a multitude of things - the pipes relaxing after Cara’s bath; the undersupplied cook sending a cascade of pots into the sink; the missing men returned, fencing down the dining hall; the memorial pealing of a fractured bell.
But, to me, it came - could only have come - from one place: up. And I climb the silent stairs - level now with the window I often strain to see - the last, undiscussed addition into the structure.
The door opens easily and the sun threatens to break through again - as it did, back down by the pool, a day seeming far, far away - and I only see the girl. She is hunched back into one corner, the roof sloped down tight, knifing at her head. Legs, too pale, angled too strangely around, stick from a thin cotton shift into the chill attic.
A heap of metal - rods, screws and bolts, is strewn across the room, as thrown. Some of the bolts are crusted over with dry, angry blood mirrored in the round, hard-clotted, infected wounds at her knees and ankles. She spies my tools and her tight, dazed eyes wring their way further back into her head, black hair matted back against the wall.
And all around us, thousands and thousands of circles. Scratched out in chalk pastels - vivid colours, the taste of light and air, dust and flame, bleeding round into each other. Worked deep into the wooden floorboards, fanned out from her corner; trails of perfect colour snaking up the walls, as far as she can reach on broken legs. Endless sheets of rough, thick paper are consumed by circle after circle - shattered blue round to the façade of calm green. Sunlight gold to life-blood red, strung through with sharp purple bruises. And at the centre of each - a pure, untouched whorl of white - shining gently through the confused colours.
“It’s okay - don’t be ... don’t-”
I reach round to unbuckle my tool belt to set it aside, away from the metal frame, but at the movement her body convulses back into the corner, shaking.
Realising she can go no further back, she drags herself sideways, rainbow fingernails pulling on the floorboard cracks - across the stained screws and somehow up onto the heavy desk set in front of the window using only her arms. Frantic hands work at the window frame, pushing, pulling, scratching - I can only stand and watch this tiny, secret girl work through too adult emotions.
She writhes on the desk, chalk pastels new and old smearing her colourless skin the sickly, vivid shades of life. The neat, rectangular box is nowhere to be seen.
The window springs open and a lazy zephyr sweeps in, rousing the fallen chalk dust in great, storm-laced clouds. All I can see through the lucid pastel shades is a frail shape hunched up on the window sill, then nothing but a small, dirty square of blue sky shimmering through a powdered, screaming spectrum
From the window I can see it all – Cara stood under the arch, her skeletal arms folded neatly over each other. She moves out from the shadows, a needle heel of her shoes piercing through the centre of a paper-carved circle fallen with the girl, a toe resting gently on her nothing-skull. The blood bleeds up the red leather, to the white, fresh scars at her knees and the rutted rod-lines slipping from her white-hemmed dress.
She carries a small rectangular box in one hand. The corners are torn, cardboard worn into smooth grey fabric and the faces scratched and stained with red and black. She lifts it up to the air, standing on tiptoes on the hidden girl’s head. Her finger work at the lid, pushing it up for me, her lips trembling. I strain to see down, my hands resting on the brand new pastels scattered on the desk.
A muffled, liquid cry drifts from the pool – the only sound to register in my mind for hours, and it carries on through, deep down into my chest, filling up my lungs.
She steps down and turns – eyes throwing me a relief, a favour, a promise.
The boy is there, floating on his back and staring up with a fallen gaze ringed in deep black-satin failure. Acid eyes curse me, curse my still hands and my perfect, unused legs. His shared memories are snatched back as he dips quietly under the surface, resigned that things will always be like this. Another chance wasted.
But Cara is there, her ration-thinned arms reaching down into the water, straining to grab something of the grief-swollen guest. The tattered box set down beside her, she drags him up onto the level paving and a choking, unrealised breath fills our lungs together.
Framed perfectly on three sides by the tall conifers, and with the open fields beyond, Ms. Whitting stands and turns back – stroking a hand over the boy’s clammy forehead. She gives me a last exhausted look: see, see how simple it was. And her fingers tap against her folded arms, a tiny, secret, weary wave.
At this angle, the trees tops obscure her from view as she walks back towards the house – but she does not appear again under the arch. One final click of proud high-heels curls up through the window, driven down through straight, tended legs. Then there is nothing.
An hour or more I lean heavily on the desk, lungs working heavy through the seared-off moisture. The crumbling, antique pastels rub away into my palms as I stare out over the pool where the boy lies, quiet as ever, living with the sky and the memories he kept back.
He stands, unsure and sad, and gently plucks the worn, loved box from the poolside where she left it. Out through the arch, he kneels down besides the girl – split open across the gravel, struck sharply from the earth beneath. He lays a kiss on her one remaining cheek and wraps the box in her fingers, slowly falling into the future, deep into the blank void. The scattered sheets of paper stir around them: two small, empty, under-dressed children sitting in the breeze.
Her legs he tucks up underneath her, leaving the harsh streaks of chalk to be washed away by rain and crystal tears. Inside, the circles close tighter around the pure white centre. Brown curves through the primary shades – but he whispers back his thanks and steps away with the years.
The house shifts and settles back down under the recursive weight.
Each one of the circles is broken up and slowly worn back into the walls, the pool drains, the paving cracks, and the blood works down through the covered soil.
But I am always drawn to that tiny window, hung almost too high up in the brick steeple, dirty pane set in off-white frame set in crumbling grout and blackened coal-smoke stain. As I levelled out the paving around the pool, only the proud, awkward roof strayed above the conifers and the square little window.
They boy slinks in through the arch cut back into the trees, pale and sallow-skinned in his bathing suit. His house and mother both disappeared under the weight of bitter bombs - one narrow, happy residence removed completely from the street during the night. Either side, not even a fallen roof tile.
Swimming seems his last wish - no doubt Cara, Ms. Whitting, has sent him out so she can follow on to check on me, by way of checking on the boy. But he slides into the tinted water nonetheless, turning onto his back and drifting towards the far end, his red-rimmed eyes gazing up at the window as I.
Yes, here she comes, just as I tap the last grey-stone slab back into line, her bleeding heels staking pin-*****s through the squares of turf along the drive-way. She stands under the arch, tight round eyes spearing me in place, as her stilettos keep the fallen leaves in order - her head faces towards the shy, silent boy, but her eyes are all for me. A gift she will not relinquish.
She carries a small rectangular box in one hand. The off-white cardboard is crisp, corners sharp, and the black type ostentatious in its clear-cut uniformity. She hurriedly folds up her arms, tight across her chest, tucking the box back behind her arm. Her stare slices off, wanders out over the hills and conscripted checkerboard fields, shaking her head by fractions of inches in a slow, desperate motion.
The next time I look, Cara is gone – silent, muffled down by history when she requires. My eyes, failing to find their indented resting place, drift back round and onto the boy - lying motionless on top of the water, he still gazes up at the window, with a resolute intent mirrored only inside of me.
Sunlight rips through the grey-scale cloud, fanning sheaves of gold onto and past the glass - lighting the flat, featureless ceiling into polished squares. We both saw the strange, twisted illusion - window pane reflecting the worlds inside and out, projecting sheets of translucent colour that the light caught as dust-motes in the air. A chalk dust, blown tenderly from the final copy, spiked in rainbow shades - the tiny fragile fragments floating, red, green and pink shivered out through the reflection into the conflicted air, hanging above the grounds and gravel. Yellow, orange and blue clinging, caught between the dead white window frame, the black coal-stain brick and the nothing beyond. Purple streams from the soul - twisting out past the enclosed, level pool and paving, stretching comfort out to torn blitz-town and fallen silhouettes.
And through it all, with it all, from it all, thousands of circles danced on the ceiling. Twisted from the pastel shades and sweated tears, each with a perfect, solid dot of white in the centre - drawing it all back in again.
The clouds roll back over - the air chills, and his teeth rattle between swollen lips. We share up the vivid illusion between us, swapping the tiny parts we missed - he gives over one memory: a bolted, white heel through the banisters.
The window is only, innocently that again - just a small, dirty, secret piece of glass.
Now revealing a pale, tired face behind. Ms. Whitting sweeps a fallen twist of black back behind her ear - all as it should be. Good work.
She stands at the top of her house, holding the rectangular box to her chest and again staring out over the country. It’s hard to tell under the veiled light, flat reflections, but she is crying - or bleeding? Something glistens down her cheeks, dropping, wetting the perfect cardboard.
She places the box down, turns - nothing but mirror sheen and memories.
*
The banisters match up - sitting on the third-floor stairs, cleaning the tread-joints out (to ensure a silent climb into the attics), the two images shivered out, swept by each other, then merged. Perfect.
I see the boy again as he turned awkwardly in the pool and started back the other way - regarding me nervously, but with sharp intent. Do something. Do something. Again the shared memory forced itself into my mind - the pale heel, and another of his:- a new box of chalk pastels, sitting neatly on the small telephone table in the hall.
Don’t let it happen again. Please.
The house isn’t that old - it just assumed the position of a former, forgotten building. But it’s old enough to carry and keep sounds between the walls. The metal rasping could have been a multitude of things - the pipes relaxing after Cara’s bath; the undersupplied cook sending a cascade of pots into the sink; the missing men returned, fencing down the dining hall; the memorial pealing of a fractured bell.
But, to me, it came - could only have come - from one place: up. And I climb the silent stairs - level now with the window I often strain to see - the last, undiscussed addition into the structure.
The door opens easily and the sun threatens to break through again - as it did, back down by the pool, a day seeming far, far away - and I only see the girl. She is hunched back into one corner, the roof sloped down tight, knifing at her head. Legs, too pale, angled too strangely around, stick from a thin cotton shift into the chill attic.
A heap of metal - rods, screws and bolts, is strewn across the room, as thrown. Some of the bolts are crusted over with dry, angry blood mirrored in the round, hard-clotted, infected wounds at her knees and ankles. She spies my tools and her tight, dazed eyes wring their way further back into her head, black hair matted back against the wall.
And all around us, thousands and thousands of circles. Scratched out in chalk pastels - vivid colours, the taste of light and air, dust and flame, bleeding round into each other. Worked deep into the wooden floorboards, fanned out from her corner; trails of perfect colour snaking up the walls, as far as she can reach on broken legs. Endless sheets of rough, thick paper are consumed by circle after circle - shattered blue round to the façade of calm green. Sunlight gold to life-blood red, strung through with sharp purple bruises. And at the centre of each - a pure, untouched whorl of white - shining gently through the confused colours.
“It’s okay - don’t be ... don’t-”
I reach round to unbuckle my tool belt to set it aside, away from the metal frame, but at the movement her body convulses back into the corner, shaking.
Realising she can go no further back, she drags herself sideways, rainbow fingernails pulling on the floorboard cracks - across the stained screws and somehow up onto the heavy desk set in front of the window using only her arms. Frantic hands work at the window frame, pushing, pulling, scratching - I can only stand and watch this tiny, secret girl work through too adult emotions.
She writhes on the desk, chalk pastels new and old smearing her colourless skin the sickly, vivid shades of life. The neat, rectangular box is nowhere to be seen.
The window springs open and a lazy zephyr sweeps in, rousing the fallen chalk dust in great, storm-laced clouds. All I can see through the lucid pastel shades is a frail shape hunched up on the window sill, then nothing but a small, dirty square of blue sky shimmering through a powdered, screaming spectrum
From the window I can see it all – Cara stood under the arch, her skeletal arms folded neatly over each other. She moves out from the shadows, a needle heel of her shoes piercing through the centre of a paper-carved circle fallen with the girl, a toe resting gently on her nothing-skull. The blood bleeds up the red leather, to the white, fresh scars at her knees and the rutted rod-lines slipping from her white-hemmed dress.
She carries a small rectangular box in one hand. The corners are torn, cardboard worn into smooth grey fabric and the faces scratched and stained with red and black. She lifts it up to the air, standing on tiptoes on the hidden girl’s head. Her finger work at the lid, pushing it up for me, her lips trembling. I strain to see down, my hands resting on the brand new pastels scattered on the desk.
A muffled, liquid cry drifts from the pool – the only sound to register in my mind for hours, and it carries on through, deep down into my chest, filling up my lungs.
She steps down and turns – eyes throwing me a relief, a favour, a promise.
The boy is there, floating on his back and staring up with a fallen gaze ringed in deep black-satin failure. Acid eyes curse me, curse my still hands and my perfect, unused legs. His shared memories are snatched back as he dips quietly under the surface, resigned that things will always be like this. Another chance wasted.
But Cara is there, her ration-thinned arms reaching down into the water, straining to grab something of the grief-swollen guest. The tattered box set down beside her, she drags him up onto the level paving and a choking, unrealised breath fills our lungs together.
Framed perfectly on three sides by the tall conifers, and with the open fields beyond, Ms. Whitting stands and turns back – stroking a hand over the boy’s clammy forehead. She gives me a last exhausted look: see, see how simple it was. And her fingers tap against her folded arms, a tiny, secret, weary wave.
At this angle, the trees tops obscure her from view as she walks back towards the house – but she does not appear again under the arch. One final click of proud high-heels curls up through the window, driven down through straight, tended legs. Then there is nothing.
An hour or more I lean heavily on the desk, lungs working heavy through the seared-off moisture. The crumbling, antique pastels rub away into my palms as I stare out over the pool where the boy lies, quiet as ever, living with the sky and the memories he kept back.
He stands, unsure and sad, and gently plucks the worn, loved box from the poolside where she left it. Out through the arch, he kneels down besides the girl – split open across the gravel, struck sharply from the earth beneath. He lays a kiss on her one remaining cheek and wraps the box in her fingers, slowly falling into the future, deep into the blank void. The scattered sheets of paper stir around them: two small, empty, under-dressed children sitting in the breeze.
Her legs he tucks up underneath her, leaving the harsh streaks of chalk to be washed away by rain and crystal tears. Inside, the circles close tighter around the pure white centre. Brown curves through the primary shades – but he whispers back his thanks and steps away with the years.
The house shifts and settles back down under the recursive weight.
Each one of the circles is broken up and slowly worn back into the walls, the pool drains, the paving cracks, and the blood works down through the covered soil.
Page:
Ashman wrote:
> Well at least we got the whole looking back thing. I also thought that
> the box was something to do with memories, but maybe it would have
> been nice if it changed appearance over time.
It did!
I guess you'll just have to read it all over again. Shame oh shame.
Anywho - thanks a lot guys, really, really appriciate all your wonderful comments. On the subject on the story, here's what I think (although, bear in mind, you don't have to agree with any of it):
Hmm ... well, right ... yeah, the woman and the girl are the same person, as am I (well, the bloke) and the boy. I think I might have made the first connection a little too explicit, and the second not enough so, but whatever.
So yeah, past + present. The ending changed about 10 times, no joke, depending on how my mind was running at the time. The boy and girl were living around the fourties - hence none of the anime-style for you Ash, and all the war-type references.
When I was writing it, the box didn't actually carry any meaning with it - I didn't really think about what it could be, just put it in for a bit of interest. The idea that it contained all the memories is very nice: so ... er ... that's what I was thinking from the start, yus. Shush.
Now for the tricky bit: so, I was thinking that both the children died originally - the girl out the window, the boy drowning in the pool (although, no need to point it out, I realise the girl wouldn't have died if the guy didn't go up there in the first place)
So maybe just the boy died originally, I don't know. But somehow they both also lived on (the guy and woman might be ghosts, or something similar.) so there was another chance for them both to live on properly.
That's why the boy sent across the memories and "Don't let it happen again" - asking the guy to resue the girl this time. But he fails, obviously - the boy realises nothing has changed this time around so lets himself slip under the water. But the woman, this time around, reaches in to rescue him - then she dissapears, as the girl is dead.
Maybe.
That's how I thought it out anyway - but even now I'm not sure. Lot of circles anyway, and "and settles back down under the recursive weight"
Now I've just confused myself again. So yeah.
This'll also explain why everything's usually so hung in mystery, because I don't have a bloody clue what's going on either.
> Well at least we got the whole looking back thing. I also thought that
> the box was something to do with memories, but maybe it would have
> been nice if it changed appearance over time.
It did!
I guess you'll just have to read it all over again. Shame oh shame.
Anywho - thanks a lot guys, really, really appriciate all your wonderful comments. On the subject on the story, here's what I think (although, bear in mind, you don't have to agree with any of it):
Hmm ... well, right ... yeah, the woman and the girl are the same person, as am I (well, the bloke) and the boy. I think I might have made the first connection a little too explicit, and the second not enough so, but whatever.
So yeah, past + present. The ending changed about 10 times, no joke, depending on how my mind was running at the time. The boy and girl were living around the fourties - hence none of the anime-style for you Ash, and all the war-type references.
When I was writing it, the box didn't actually carry any meaning with it - I didn't really think about what it could be, just put it in for a bit of interest. The idea that it contained all the memories is very nice: so ... er ... that's what I was thinking from the start, yus. Shush.
Now for the tricky bit: so, I was thinking that both the children died originally - the girl out the window, the boy drowning in the pool (although, no need to point it out, I realise the girl wouldn't have died if the guy didn't go up there in the first place)
So maybe just the boy died originally, I don't know. But somehow they both also lived on (the guy and woman might be ghosts, or something similar.) so there was another chance for them both to live on properly.
That's why the boy sent across the memories and "Don't let it happen again" - asking the guy to resue the girl this time. But he fails, obviously - the boy realises nothing has changed this time around so lets himself slip under the water. But the woman, this time around, reaches in to rescue him - then she dissapears, as the girl is dead.
Maybe.
That's how I thought it out anyway - but even now I'm not sure. Lot of circles anyway, and "and settles back down under the recursive weight"
Now I've just confused myself again. So yeah.
This'll also explain why everything's usually so hung in mystery, because I don't have a bloody clue what's going on either.
I loved that so much. Not as aggressive as some of your stories, and it worked beautifully.
There is a question about clarity in writing: FFF's stuff is [more often than not] dense and unclear - I personally prefer that, but it can go too far.
For instance, the book I'm writing at the moment began with a clear premise but then slowly descended into a warped, surrealist labyrinth. I quite like it, but it'll never find a publisher. And so every day I think to myself: what's the point in carrying on?
For instance, the book I'm writing at the moment began with a clear premise but then slowly descended into a warped, surrealist labyrinth. I quite like it, but it'll never find a publisher. And so every day I think to myself: what's the point in carrying on?
Well at least we got the whole looking back thing. I also thought that the box was something to do with memories, but maybe it would have been nice if it changed appearance over time. Like somewhere in between somebody had switched boxes. I dunno. That would have made it clear.
FinalFantasyFanatic wrote:
> I'd be interested to know (after some more people have read it, which
> they will, of course. Possibly) what you thought happened - for many
> reasons.
In a nutshell: I saw the box Ms.Whitting arrived with as a box of memories [or a box containing the history of the house], and her arrival triggered in you, the narrator, recollections of the attic scene and the death of Cara. Perhaps the boy in the pool was you in the past.
That's probably utterly wrong! :)
Do you know what's what, FFF?
> I'd be interested to know (after some more people have read it, which
> they will, of course. Possibly) what you thought happened - for many
> reasons.
In a nutshell: I saw the box Ms.Whitting arrived with as a box of memories [or a box containing the history of the house], and her arrival triggered in you, the narrator, recollections of the attic scene and the death of Cara. Perhaps the boy in the pool was you in the past.
That's probably utterly wrong! :)
Do you know what's what, FFF?
Didn't read the title the first time. Yeah, the reflections in the window and pool and stuff.
The circles are the circles of time maybe, memories, snapshots, events whatever all streamed round in a circle with colour indicating event. I didn't get your anime-ish-ness this time. It was sort of Victorian with paint-splashes of future over the top of it. Hmmm, yeah, splodged an unforgettable masterpiece in my mind.
I'm lost for words really. I don't know what to say other than it was fantastic but left so much up to the mind, and you probably didn't want to get across the story you intended. There may be something I'm missing in the girl; in fact I'm sure there is. I'd probably put my finger on it if I read again but I'll give it a day before I do so.
Now I look like a fool.
Oh well.
The circles are the circles of time maybe, memories, snapshots, events whatever all streamed round in a circle with colour indicating event. I didn't get your anime-ish-ness this time. It was sort of Victorian with paint-splashes of future over the top of it. Hmmm, yeah, splodged an unforgettable masterpiece in my mind.
I'm lost for words really. I don't know what to say other than it was fantastic but left so much up to the mind, and you probably didn't want to get across the story you intended. There may be something I'm missing in the girl; in fact I'm sure there is. I'd probably put my finger on it if I read again but I'll give it a day before I do so.
Now I look like a fool.
Oh well.
Right, I've read it once. I loved the incredible descriptions of the pool, the distance, the house, the box, the coloured circles. Amazing, really, I don't know how you kept it going.
It was poetic and wonderful and FFF through and through.
I think, after first reading, the piece had something to do with past and future and present coming together. And I thought this before you used the "future" reference late on. One minute you were describing the old, victorian-esque textures of the house, the brown, worn chest and etc. the next the vivid springing colours of the circles. It was a wonderful contrast and instantly dragged up past/present/future thoughts. Especially the fact that they seemed to be sucked into a different timezone or something - I'm not sure of this though.
I didn't realise the significance of the pool, but it remained at the front of my mind throughout. The ending where it got sucked in was dramatic as it sort of...I dunno...FFF-ed it. If you will.
I am now going to backtrack as I'm bloody confused.
It's late.
And stuff.
Yeah.
It's mainly the first part that didn't lodge into my head. I didn't get instantly sucked in, it was more of a lethargic but genius drag.
It was poetic and wonderful and FFF through and through.
I think, after first reading, the piece had something to do with past and future and present coming together. And I thought this before you used the "future" reference late on. One minute you were describing the old, victorian-esque textures of the house, the brown, worn chest and etc. the next the vivid springing colours of the circles. It was a wonderful contrast and instantly dragged up past/present/future thoughts. Especially the fact that they seemed to be sucked into a different timezone or something - I'm not sure of this though.
I didn't realise the significance of the pool, but it remained at the front of my mind throughout. The ending where it got sucked in was dramatic as it sort of...I dunno...FFF-ed it. If you will.
I am now going to backtrack as I'm bloody confused.
It's late.
And stuff.
Yeah.
It's mainly the first part that didn't lodge into my head. I didn't get instantly sucked in, it was more of a lethargic but genius drag.
FinalFantasyFanatic wrote:
> Ashman wrote:
> It shall be done tomorrow.
>
> *taps watch*
Hmm ... must be broken.
> Ashman wrote:
> It shall be done tomorrow.
>
> *taps watch*
Hmm ... must be broken.
Ashman wrote:
> It shall be done tomorrow.
*taps watch*
> It shall be done tomorrow.
*taps watch*
Wooo ... go me.
Thankyou ever so much, my good man.
A slight departure for me, so I wasn't quite sure how it all held together.
I'd be interested to know (after some more people have read it, which they will, of course. Possibly) what you thought happened - for many reasons.
1. Kinda lost track of what went in.
2. Can't quite make my own mind up.
3. It probably seems a bit obvious to me, seeing as I know more than I wrote.
yey
Thankyou ever so much, my good man.
A slight departure for me, so I wasn't quite sure how it all held together.
I'd be interested to know (after some more people have read it, which they will, of course. Possibly) what you thought happened - for many reasons.
1. Kinda lost track of what went in.
2. Can't quite make my own mind up.
3. It probably seems a bit obvious to me, seeing as I know more than I wrote.
yey
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