The first one, Oronc is an 80 year old blind vampire who plays the cello in a small circus, and has somehow been sucked into greater scheme of things.
✥ σ я σ и Ҫ ✥XXXXXXXXXX
❝....And all I loved, I loved alone...❞
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Shadows, whispers, applauds, and the glowing expanse of light on the little podium...
He was blind. He'd never see the faces of the strangers who would laugh at his antics, and gasp at his hysterics. He would close his eyes just for that moment, out of habit, seeking a calm drop of flowing concentration that converged like an undercurrent from the audience to him, binding him to them for one, short, transient moment.
He was the clown. A circus clown.
An undying clown in the circus of the living. A vampire.
The hand of the clock would never stop clicking, and he would never stop moving, bound to the escaping time like a clockwork doll. His smiles would be mild, flashing just the moment he threw a ball into the air up over his head, and would snatch it out of the air in accurate precision. Timing. Practice. Habit. Life.
He'd stop for a moment on the stage, bowing, waiting for another precise moment to catch the united buzz of applaud, his eyes closing in earnest gratitude.
They'd never know that he would never see their faces.
He would let his thoughts drift back, seeking, searching the depths of his memory, the well of locked, forgotten thoughts. Dreams that never ceased to exist even in the brink of non-existence. They would flow through his senses, like an overlapping rush of warmth, pouring cold rain, whispers of the dainty frost, and for a finite quantum of a moment, he knew that he could feel every single emotion in the crowd. And he knew light.
He could not see light, or hear it, but he could feel it as acutely like he felt the sporadic burst of random whispers among the audience. Whispers he knew would never ring for another but him. And the whispers would tell him about the men and women in whose mind he was supposed to put forth the illusion of thrill and joy.
Often the whispers were dark. Foreboding. Sinking.
His fingers would then find the well-loved reeds of his cello, and move in a practiced dance, and those sensations would erupt into sound. For all the world to know...
He would then rise from his chair, and bow to himself, and take off his clown's mask. The rustle of silk would tell him that the curtains had fallen for the night. And he would retire into the darkness, one that nurtured him like the faint scent of a mother's lap.
But today was different. The clouds roared above in perplexed disdain, and he chose to rise through the curtains that hid him, fed him, surfacing to the human world for a night unbridled.
The forests were silent. Like the calm before a storm. It made him shiver.
The wild call of silence slashed through the comforting rustle of leaves overhead, and he heard it again. That which they call the sound of silence.
He closed his eyes to the world ahead, and to the stormy wind that cut through his pale skin. He feared it in his heart. The moment when the meek surroundings surpassed the individuals and rose into a deafening protest.
The shriek was cringing, a sweet voice that has been banished into the wrath of eternities. He felt the whispers again, the friendly whispers that told him. The vibrations that rung through every living being including himself, of pure, defensive anger. Despair overpowering helplessness.
A nymph. He could only imagine in tales and legends of beauty that nourished humanity, in a world he had last seen ages before. He closed his eyes, letting his dreams take over, his hand moving upon the nymph's in calm composure.
" This rage can't punish what needs to be punished. It can only destroy. Demolish what you've built so far..."
Do you really want that, gracious nature?
I could help you...Stop this senseless insanity...
His blind visions poured over reality, creating blinding dreams of sweat and rust. A world of mad destruction that could only be viewed by her opponent. He could feel it now. An unearthly being. He hoped his web of illusions bound, contented and paused her.
He smiled softly as he sensed the presence of another like him, a child, a young, misled vampire, as he tightened his hold on him, and on the nymph whose face he would never see...turning back.
He'd have to hurry till his dreams survive.
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The second one is a transsexual graffiti artist in a modern setting.
KayXX✗XXAdamsonXX • • • • ✥ • ✥ • ✥ • ✥ • •
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‘The Scream’ lay on the wall of the living-room of her art-collector father, perfectly posed and poised, among the lush, mild, concrete greenery at its background. Green wasn’t the colour of choice of its palette, and as the casual eye grazed over the wall in cool, unsuspecting comfort, the hysterics of the screaming man bound within the glass frame would strike as a horrid, spell-binding shock. It’s the trick, she had realized much later, of fooling the eye.
In its crude form, art would necessarily become exactly that. Trompe l’oeil. Or so Paris decided to call it. A thousand years later, it would transcend as clockwork in the minds of ambitious graffitists. Be it the urban rats of Banksy, or the smooth scribble of vibrant, three-dimensional slogans of the common gang-member.
She thought about ‘The Scream’. The very realization of art in the nascent, unblemished mind. The man in the glass-frame seemed steadily calm, the non-chalance of his pose a contrast to his wide, popping eyes, and his comical pout. The scream rung through the air and out of his lungs in layers of yellow ochre and moody orange and splashed through the sky in its dismal vibrance, the heavy contorted lines on his face flooding into the horizon in the speed of sound.
The girl would turn in her sleep on the on the rugged, mud-spattered, broken bench in an abandoned park, a piece of discarded newspaper acting as an ineffective umbrella in the light, dripping rain. She used to sleep in an old rusty car, deserted in the junkyard until the authorities sniffed it out. The smooth walls of the city housed many, but not the urban run-offs, armored by false pride disguised as lack of regret. It had been about two months since she found herself here, clueless and purposeless. And yet, old life came revisiting in half-baked naps. Dreams of a sort.
If noise had a face, this was it. If fear had a face, this was it. If sound could ever be drawn by the fingers of a mortal man, this was it.
‘The Scream’ again. It would haunt her dreams like the police would chase her foot-steps during the day and half the night. The wild goose chase that began every midnight, and continued till the next day. For many like Kay, that was passing life. The grainy walls of the city offered no cause of comfort but their exposed expanse, open and inviting to paint their wildest dreams, and their sour frustrations upon. Yes, to them, art, or rather, street-graffiti, was merely a tool for survival, a source of income, a means to rise above the smoke and dust of downtown. They lived on the streets, junkyards and narrow old alleys. Many of them wouldn’t even recall when and why their priorities started changing, and the rumble of the stomach became more demanding than the mild p***k of the ideals. Many of them wouldn’t mind spending a day in jail. At least there are a couple of meals a day and a roof over the head.
After a while, the dreams of the eyes would merge with the dreams of the fingers, and vanish entirely, only to reappear in intermittent dreams, and in the imposed trance of illegal drug joints.
For now, the girl on the bench turned absent-mindedly, happily, even in the rain. The spare change in her pocket jingled, and she smiled, thinking of a full meal the next day. It was a little salute to her courage. The pattern was challenging, so were the colors, and she had agreed just as the gang-leader had raised the offer. The work needed her to be awake long after midnight, almost until dawn, and the gang-leader had been satisfied at first glance. This would be her first meal in two days. Happiness was natural, if not slightly over-rated. And she’d go to the Cyber Café across the road. For the AC, and the illusion of escape. Tomorrow, she’d get an egg for breakfast. Probably.
Tomorrow.
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