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 Posted: Thu Mar 20, 2014 8:58 pm
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Posted: Thu Mar 20, 2014 9:07 pm
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Posted: Fri Mar 21, 2014 6:42 am
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Posted: Fri Mar 21, 2014 8:35 am
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Posted: Fri Mar 21, 2014 1:48 pm
<<[Repeat] - Drabble>>
Sometimes he got caught up in things. Sometimes he would get caught up in things to the point where he couldn't stop. A cycle without logical reason to stop. As a child he would do the same task for hours and hours, until outside intervention was foist upon him to stop. Adolescence was worse, struggling with the realisation that he was unable to be like his peers via anything short of a permanent mask he sought solitude. Often the repetition, the obsessive loop in search of perfection, the satisfying unfailing refinement of a gesture was the nearest thing to satisfaction or happiness that he could attain.
It was only when his mother found the thick notebook, with one phrase written time and time again through every page, across the tiny hidden places on his walls, that he was forced to restrain even this pleasure because rather than seeing he was in complete control they worried that he was mad.
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Posted: Fri Mar 21, 2014 3:45 pm
<<[Grey] - Drabble>>
Grey was his life. A flatline with no lows or highs. Numb and flat, but flat like a flat note. Important, intrinsic. He was superior, always superior, never inferior. He was immune to the immobilising lows that the others felt, immune to brash crimes of passion or acts of anger. Able to exist solitary for ever without the desire for human contact.
Grey.
He did not regret the inability to experience the so called highs of emotion either. Love was as much a weakness as anger. It made people lower their defences and stay even when they were hurt time and time again. Happiness made people unreasonably over-estimate their own abilities and potentials.
Negative and positive were damaging.
Grey was safe. Grey was nothing.
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Posted: Sat Mar 22, 2014 11:50 am
<<[Nostalgic] - Drabble>>
He was never nostaglic. Things that were past were so often consigned to oblivion, irrelevant unless required. He could not even remember his wives names without thinking carefully about it. What mattered was appearances, details, flaws and points of exploitation. His children were not exempt from this, Susan was immortalised in his music but Mikael could be anywhere out of his reach and was simply a vague and irrelevant memory much of the time.
Memories were often echoes of failure, so he set them aside, irrelevant in the face of his perfection until he actually needed them.
He could not easily remember, but he could never forget.
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Posted: Sat Mar 22, 2014 5:28 pm
He found himself in a vast room. So vast that it stretched on for what seemed like forever, a sequence of linked halls separated only vaguely by archways. It was too perfect for humans hands, every inch gilt and arrayed with finely crafted artworks. Perfect and yet blasphemous, void of religious iconography, where there would be grand celestial works instead was wrought murals and paintings depicting him and his life, musical symbols, etchings into the stone, marble statues. This was not the forest he had left behind, it was infinitely more. There was no trace of whimsy, only elaborate perfection and grandeur beyond the stretch of even earthly delights. Even as he looked upon the cascades of rich colour they shifted in hue and detail, alive and breathing.
He knew nothing of awe and fear, and without regard for what might live here or the creature that wrought this dream, he moved onwards across the flawless floor tiles, themselves undulating, shifting mosaics and patterns. He did not know how long he walked and it did not matter.
He did not look up as he went, only downwards at the floor, because the way ahead was so very bright, impossibly bright, painfully bright and only when he found the way darkened did he stop. The vast windows looking out on the whiteness were dimmed and it took a few moments before he realised that it was by enormous shifting swarms of moths, fluttering like starlings at dusk, shifting and twisting, flooding in until they consumed the light and the brilliant gold, until they closed in like a sandstorm around him and he stood and let them twist around him, brushed by a hundred, a thousand wing beats, scattered with sandy dust from the wings of the creatures. He was not afraid and they had no interest in him.
Sometimes they would part and he would see her there. Standing. Drained of life, speaking nothing but wing beats, the roar of the swarm.
He walked onwards because there was no reason not to and the darkness parted for him.
She laughed, skipping ahead of him, forever perfect, forever youthful, the way he remembered her and was hidden by the moths, jolting and phasing around him. She was not real but what was real?
Finally the light returned and as fast as they came the swarms dispersed, leaving glittering wing dust on the air which sparkled a hundred, a thousand colours in the unleashed sunlight. The next hall appeared flat from afar but as he walked, as he trod ever onwards the golden tiles fractured and split and he found himself seeking for foothold on steep slippery mounds of coins. Dollars. Pounds. Euros. All of them lay underfoot, an array of multicoloured notes and newly minted coins. They called out to him to pick them up, to carry them away, to leave and be free. He had always enjoyed currency. Money unlocked doors and permitted freedoms, with enough money you could be anyone, fool anyone, own anyone. It unlocked the world around you and worked real magic in a world that did not believe.
But in his life now, it was useless, a fact he had come to realise over time. There was no reason to value currency that there was never time to spend. It would not stop him.
Finally even the currency surrendered to level floor again and here it was too bright even to see. Like Antarctica everything screamed in his senses to white and yet he did not stop, he walked, he moved on and on. Even when a familiar voice barked nearby.
“GOOD BOY GOOD BOY BUTCH. Why did ye jackin leave me. Why did you leave me? Why. So dark. So dark master. Miss ye. Ah miss ye. Ah don’t like being lonely. I don’t like lonely. Ah don’t. So lonely. Please pat mah heid. Jist one. Just one. Ah gave up everything for ye.”
He did not stop.
And in time even the pleading faded away, leaving nothing but a mirror surrounded by the light.
And from the mirror stepped the true him. The self he believed himself to be, divine and perfect, wrought of sheer alabaster with blazing eyes like shards of permafrost. And about his head coiled halos of flame, pure distilled intellect and glory. Where he stepped the floor turned to gold and his hands were like vast lethal talons. He had no face other than those brilliant shard eyes, smooth, featureless and perfect, arrayed with wings and purest white silks.
“You think yourself perfect but look at you.” he said, and his voice was pure. “Trapped in a shell of dying flesh. Ravaged by age. Obsessed with the irrelevant. I am perfection. I understand emotion, I can choose it if I so desire, but I do not. I am not deficient. I am entire. I am perfect. You are broken. You do not understand, you are a haemorrhage void and one day, you will die.”
He stared. He stared and he did not know for how long.
A void.
Nothingness. Chaos. Emptiness that he could feel sucking his life away as sure as the frost and snow had.
There were claws in his hands. Good boy. Good boy. Something even this supposedly perfect him did not have.
“I have emotions.” he stated without emotion or inflection. “They are upon my hands.” And he held Butch up, all bristling steel and lethality. “I do not understand them, that much is true.”
And he leapt forward, tearing through the light into raw, void darkness which spread and consumed.
“But I weild them.”
And the palace, room, everything collapsed, ripped, torn and rent asunder by the void that consumed it, until nothing, nothing remained but him.
He tried to hold onto the claws, to Butch but they too faded away and he was left holding nothing but a cake.
He ate it, and it did not fill him.
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Posted: Sun Mar 23, 2014 9:51 am
<<[Hope] - Drabble>>
Find the ball, win double your money!
Hope as he knew it was only a weapon.
I hope you'll marry me.
A tool that people fell for time and time again, the slim hope that no matter how dark and dismal things got that they would get better.
All we can do is hope she'll get better.
It made people get up time and time again only to fall every time.
I miss mittens, I hope you can find her in the spirit world.
It made them trust people they should never trust.
-called Wonder Park, I hope you will attend.
People like him.
It was a weapon he could use, but he knew better than to hope that things would ever get better. He did not hope, he knew and he went on because it was the sensible alternative and nothing more.
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Posted: Sun Mar 23, 2014 10:02 am
<< [Kindness] - Drabble>>
He didn't understand. It was the premise upon which so much of his life was based.
She had washed his laundry and patiently explained how it was done.
She tolerated him near her.
She thanked him despite everything.
It was illogical, there was no reason at all why she should stay, even the pull of whatever mystery he presented did not warrant the way he was treated. The mean comments and rough treatment washed over him, irrelevant, a constant whenever he lowered his personas even a fraction. He understood the hostility, all inferior beings feared and loathed their superiors.
It was the moments of kindness that he did not comprehend.
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Posted: Mon Mar 24, 2014 7:04 am
<< [Rewarding] - Drabble>>
Nothing was ever rewarding. Except the sparks, the fleeting glimmers that were not emotion but which felt like they could be if he managed to catch them, to sink his claws in deep enough and stop them from escaping. But he never had. Like a rainbow they always moved further and further away the nearer you got to them and faded faster than a flicker of lightning. But still he pursued them because it was the only reason he had.
And somewhere there was the thought that perhaps one day if he caught them, there would be a reward.
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Posted: Sat Mar 29, 2014 12:27 pm
<<[ Someone you love is dying in front of you, and it is your fault. ]>>
It was all he wanted.
Slow ragged breaths, blood seeping warm and rich and beautiful into the ground.
He wanted to see the last light go out, to drink in the emotion which sputtered and fought defiant to the last, to extinguish beauty and vibrancy too strong for this world. It was like shielding his eyes from a sun which blinded him and cast shadows over his own flaws.
Love or hate it didn't matter. She would look at him and she would see him, see him as every potential future she would never have. They said only gods had power over life and death but he knew that was a lie, anyone who reached out and seized greatness had that power. And he had. He had and it was perfect.
She would lose.
He would steal the most important thing from her with this last, perfect action. He would steal her victory.
Every nerve reflex, every sound, every breath dragged in this moment through youthful lips would be his symphony. She was his music, she was his muse, she was the keystone to that spark, to the emotions that eluded him. She was so so important and so was this.
It was his fault, his machination, his ultimate end.
And there was no malice, no hate. It was despite the personal nature of the pursuit thing a most impersonal death. He was invested yet he did not feel at all - a broken and fractured nature, void of even the rudimentary justification of the hungry or cornered animal. He killed because he wanted to understand. Because he wanted - He simply wanted.
Life was waning fast he was satisfied, leaning down to plant a kiss on unresisting, cooling lips.
This death was his gift to her, a demonstration of his perfection.
"Don't worry, you will never die. I will immortalise you for ever."
Because he loved her.
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