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An unattended hatch opens; did it even exist?
It reveals a sparkling sky harbour standing tall, anchored in attention, and set upon an endless blue. Choruses of v’s are strewn across, resting on the wind, moving, diving. The sun carves through any gaps left by these almost pencil-drawn sculptures, illuminating unexplored shapes; every single angle and length a lone one. Spools of tape record new measurements.
All stands in an immature, swaying still.
A hand extends into the familiar; all is well. After a momentary pause, it gently sweeps down, support-less and free as the circling scenario below it, clouds are caressed. Sudden rush swarms the visitor; it halts. Then, carefully, the hand reaches out and separates the landscape from its owner, tearing the summits of the tower, ripping through the skies. The hand descends still. The swelling seas breach, but not like a fabled dead one. A line is shred between them, as if it was paper, and they part. Memories part. Landscapes crack.
Wounds are left colourless, encrusted with nothing but stolen reflections. The hand still moves as cautiously as it did upon entering. Time slows and stutters, unsure of purpose. As it prepares to exit, once again as high as the clouds, the hand clutches its fingers together. Any recognition of existence faints into a shadow. Alone again, the wounds of this backdrop suddenly burst into a blinding array of colour. The scissor-snipped edges are ablaze and the healing process begins.
The hand retreats into a pure, endless tubular room. Everything is bleached in white except the countless array of untitled books that fill the walls. One lays open, floored, unfinished, with a pot of ink and a quill to its side. More jottings are added to a wealthy collection. The hand rests itself atop a fresh sheet, and a black-and-white photograph flickers from palm to page. Sheeted in recollection is a tower collapsing.
A tower collapsing;
Future fractured.
The Tinker-Man spies himself some work. The hand fingers a hatch, and reaches for anything. Our spotless sky is now wood-burned a distorted brown, shadowed red. Native flyers do not align the sky, they dart and cackle and wonder why the world is on a spin-cycle. The sun is setting, not wanting to be apart of the devastation. Flaking rust binds with the air above a fallen, awkward and horizontal wreck. Nooks and crannies are submerged in a murky pool of oblivion.
A set of fluttering fingers dart towards the fast-sinking tower. The seas jaws are cold, unnerving; steel. People sit above and below the line of doom, there aren’t many of them but each and every one matters. It pulls and pulls against tides of evil but to little avail. Wondering whether there will be chance for anyone, the hand attempts to salvage something; anything.
10 years of life looks all achievable for one boy, stranded and choking. Blue lips, blue eyes, blue life. His attempted clambering on the colossal waves and suckling deep are without reward. The hand releases the once sky harbour; imperishable, and it descends in a floating plummet away, gone, and departed. Out of lives forever.
The abandoned child is sinking until the scoop of a hand that has just thrown everything. Previous shadows are breathed away, and colour sets in to the carrying collector of a boy’s life. Shores secure some life, some pride. The hand…living shadowed again…retreats. Slowly, the shores, the sea, the land, it parts. Cracks form, threads wriggle loose, horizons rise. The burst of colour bleaches in once again. Though this time the skies are still dark and unyielding, the sea is still a dormant predator, and everything is shrouded in an unnerving doubt.
The hand fingers himself an entrance back to his tubular home, omnipotence unfound.
A nomad drifts on ahead, unseen but wishing it could do so much more.
It reveals a sparkling sky harbour standing tall, anchored in attention, and set upon an endless blue. Choruses of v’s are strewn across, resting on the wind, moving, diving. The sun carves through any gaps left by these almost pencil-drawn sculptures, illuminating unexplored shapes; every single angle and length a lone one. Spools of tape record new measurements.
All stands in an immature, swaying still.
A hand extends into the familiar; all is well. After a momentary pause, it gently sweeps down, support-less and free as the circling scenario below it, clouds are caressed. Sudden rush swarms the visitor; it halts. Then, carefully, the hand reaches out and separates the landscape from its owner, tearing the summits of the tower, ripping through the skies. The hand descends still. The swelling seas breach, but not like a fabled dead one. A line is shred between them, as if it was paper, and they part. Memories part. Landscapes crack.
Wounds are left colourless, encrusted with nothing but stolen reflections. The hand still moves as cautiously as it did upon entering. Time slows and stutters, unsure of purpose. As it prepares to exit, once again as high as the clouds, the hand clutches its fingers together. Any recognition of existence faints into a shadow. Alone again, the wounds of this backdrop suddenly burst into a blinding array of colour. The scissor-snipped edges are ablaze and the healing process begins.
The hand retreats into a pure, endless tubular room. Everything is bleached in white except the countless array of untitled books that fill the walls. One lays open, floored, unfinished, with a pot of ink and a quill to its side. More jottings are added to a wealthy collection. The hand rests itself atop a fresh sheet, and a black-and-white photograph flickers from palm to page. Sheeted in recollection is a tower collapsing.
A tower collapsing;
Future fractured.
The Tinker-Man spies himself some work. The hand fingers a hatch, and reaches for anything. Our spotless sky is now wood-burned a distorted brown, shadowed red. Native flyers do not align the sky, they dart and cackle and wonder why the world is on a spin-cycle. The sun is setting, not wanting to be apart of the devastation. Flaking rust binds with the air above a fallen, awkward and horizontal wreck. Nooks and crannies are submerged in a murky pool of oblivion.
A set of fluttering fingers dart towards the fast-sinking tower. The seas jaws are cold, unnerving; steel. People sit above and below the line of doom, there aren’t many of them but each and every one matters. It pulls and pulls against tides of evil but to little avail. Wondering whether there will be chance for anyone, the hand attempts to salvage something; anything.
10 years of life looks all achievable for one boy, stranded and choking. Blue lips, blue eyes, blue life. His attempted clambering on the colossal waves and suckling deep are without reward. The hand releases the once sky harbour; imperishable, and it descends in a floating plummet away, gone, and departed. Out of lives forever.
The abandoned child is sinking until the scoop of a hand that has just thrown everything. Previous shadows are breathed away, and colour sets in to the carrying collector of a boy’s life. Shores secure some life, some pride. The hand…living shadowed again…retreats. Slowly, the shores, the sea, the land, it parts. Cracks form, threads wriggle loose, horizons rise. The burst of colour bleaches in once again. Though this time the skies are still dark and unyielding, the sea is still a dormant predator, and everything is shrouded in an unnerving doubt.
The hand fingers himself an entrance back to his tubular home, omnipotence unfound.
A nomad drifts on ahead, unseen but wishing it could do so much more.
Nice imagery, but I had no clue what was going on, other than something to do with God perhaps, a create/destruction of a world.
Perhaps it's about Doshin.
Perhaps it's about Doshin.
Never be sorry.
I felt this.
As you know, it isn't normally how I write at all, I was just getting bored and didn't want to go for something more familiar to me. So I went abstract-ish-ly mad and way over the top.
Sowwy.
As you know, it isn't normally how I write at all, I was just getting bored and didn't want to go for something more familiar to me. So I went abstract-ish-ly mad and way over the top.
Sowwy.
Decent story and stuff, but I agree with the others. All really good stories in a similar style to this one but with just a little more solidity. In essence, you have to have some real to have surreal (as my art teacher said).
Wonderful free-flow images ... but like Kyz said, a little detached.
I do love this stuff, but some lines back to solid ground are needed.
I do love this stuff, but some lines back to solid ground are needed.
Really, seriously, what the hell just happened?
The wording was very nice, but it made no sense. I got invisible hatches and paper but it really didn't make much sense.
Sometimes people get too caught up in their description that they forget a storyline is needed too.
Sorry bud but I really didnt get anything from this.
The wording was very nice, but it made no sense. I got invisible hatches and paper but it really didn't make much sense.
Sometimes people get too caught up in their description that they forget a storyline is needed too.
Sorry bud but I really didnt get anything from this.
An unattended hatch opens; did it even exist?
It reveals a sparkling sky harbour standing tall, anchored in attention, and set upon an endless blue. Choruses of v’s are strewn across, resting on the wind, moving, diving. The sun carves through any gaps left by these almost pencil-drawn sculptures, illuminating unexplored shapes; every single angle and length a lone one. Spools of tape record new measurements.
All stands in an immature, swaying still.
A hand extends into the familiar; all is well. After a momentary pause, it gently sweeps down, support-less and free as the circling scenario below it, clouds are caressed. Sudden rush swarms the visitor; it halts. Then, carefully, the hand reaches out and separates the landscape from its owner, tearing the summits of the tower, ripping through the skies. The hand descends still. The swelling seas breach, but not like a fabled dead one. A line is shred between them, as if it was paper, and they part. Memories part. Landscapes crack.
Wounds are left colourless, encrusted with nothing but stolen reflections. The hand still moves as cautiously as it did upon entering. Time slows and stutters, unsure of purpose. As it prepares to exit, once again as high as the clouds, the hand clutches its fingers together. Any recognition of existence faints into a shadow. Alone again, the wounds of this backdrop suddenly burst into a blinding array of colour. The scissor-snipped edges are ablaze and the healing process begins.
The hand retreats into a pure, endless tubular room. Everything is bleached in white except the countless array of untitled books that fill the walls. One lays open, floored, unfinished, with a pot of ink and a quill to its side. More jottings are added to a wealthy collection. The hand rests itself atop a fresh sheet, and a black-and-white photograph flickers from palm to page. Sheeted in recollection is a tower collapsing.
A tower collapsing;
Future fractured.
The Tinker-Man spies himself some work. The hand fingers a hatch, and reaches for anything. Our spotless sky is now wood-burned a distorted brown, shadowed red. Native flyers do not align the sky, they dart and cackle and wonder why the world is on a spin-cycle. The sun is setting, not wanting to be apart of the devastation. Flaking rust binds with the air above a fallen, awkward and horizontal wreck. Nooks and crannies are submerged in a murky pool of oblivion.
A set of fluttering fingers dart towards the fast-sinking tower. The seas jaws are cold, unnerving; steel. People sit above and below the line of doom, there aren’t many of them but each and every one matters. It pulls and pulls against tides of evil but to little avail. Wondering whether there will be chance for anyone, the hand attempts to salvage something; anything.
10 years of life looks all achievable for one boy, stranded and choking. Blue lips, blue eyes, blue life. His attempted clambering on the colossal waves and suckling deep are without reward. The hand releases the once sky harbour; imperishable, and it descends in a floating plummet away, gone, and departed. Out of lives forever.
The abandoned child is sinking until the scoop of a hand that has just thrown everything. Previous shadows are breathed away, and colour sets in to the carrying collector of a boy’s life. Shores secure some life, some pride. The hand…living shadowed again…retreats. Slowly, the shores, the sea, the land, it parts. Cracks form, threads wriggle loose, horizons rise. The burst of colour bleaches in once again. Though this time the skies are still dark and unyielding, the sea is still a dormant predator, and everything is shrouded in an unnerving doubt.
The hand fingers himself an entrance back to his tubular home, omnipotence unfound.
A nomad drifts on ahead, unseen but wishing it could do so much more.
It reveals a sparkling sky harbour standing tall, anchored in attention, and set upon an endless blue. Choruses of v’s are strewn across, resting on the wind, moving, diving. The sun carves through any gaps left by these almost pencil-drawn sculptures, illuminating unexplored shapes; every single angle and length a lone one. Spools of tape record new measurements.
All stands in an immature, swaying still.
A hand extends into the familiar; all is well. After a momentary pause, it gently sweeps down, support-less and free as the circling scenario below it, clouds are caressed. Sudden rush swarms the visitor; it halts. Then, carefully, the hand reaches out and separates the landscape from its owner, tearing the summits of the tower, ripping through the skies. The hand descends still. The swelling seas breach, but not like a fabled dead one. A line is shred between them, as if it was paper, and they part. Memories part. Landscapes crack.
Wounds are left colourless, encrusted with nothing but stolen reflections. The hand still moves as cautiously as it did upon entering. Time slows and stutters, unsure of purpose. As it prepares to exit, once again as high as the clouds, the hand clutches its fingers together. Any recognition of existence faints into a shadow. Alone again, the wounds of this backdrop suddenly burst into a blinding array of colour. The scissor-snipped edges are ablaze and the healing process begins.
The hand retreats into a pure, endless tubular room. Everything is bleached in white except the countless array of untitled books that fill the walls. One lays open, floored, unfinished, with a pot of ink and a quill to its side. More jottings are added to a wealthy collection. The hand rests itself atop a fresh sheet, and a black-and-white photograph flickers from palm to page. Sheeted in recollection is a tower collapsing.
A tower collapsing;
Future fractured.
The Tinker-Man spies himself some work. The hand fingers a hatch, and reaches for anything. Our spotless sky is now wood-burned a distorted brown, shadowed red. Native flyers do not align the sky, they dart and cackle and wonder why the world is on a spin-cycle. The sun is setting, not wanting to be apart of the devastation. Flaking rust binds with the air above a fallen, awkward and horizontal wreck. Nooks and crannies are submerged in a murky pool of oblivion.
A set of fluttering fingers dart towards the fast-sinking tower. The seas jaws are cold, unnerving; steel. People sit above and below the line of doom, there aren’t many of them but each and every one matters. It pulls and pulls against tides of evil but to little avail. Wondering whether there will be chance for anyone, the hand attempts to salvage something; anything.
10 years of life looks all achievable for one boy, stranded and choking. Blue lips, blue eyes, blue life. His attempted clambering on the colossal waves and suckling deep are without reward. The hand releases the once sky harbour; imperishable, and it descends in a floating plummet away, gone, and departed. Out of lives forever.
The abandoned child is sinking until the scoop of a hand that has just thrown everything. Previous shadows are breathed away, and colour sets in to the carrying collector of a boy’s life. Shores secure some life, some pride. The hand…living shadowed again…retreats. Slowly, the shores, the sea, the land, it parts. Cracks form, threads wriggle loose, horizons rise. The burst of colour bleaches in once again. Though this time the skies are still dark and unyielding, the sea is still a dormant predator, and everything is shrouded in an unnerving doubt.
The hand fingers himself an entrance back to his tubular home, omnipotence unfound.
A nomad drifts on ahead, unseen but wishing it could do so much more.