- Joined
- Jun 13, 2006
- Messages
- 6,381
At the moment the way life is going, I am finding it harder and harder to find the time to write, let alone edit, redraft and all the other things I hat... I mean love to do. Two young kids and running your own business will do that to you.
So when I have a moment I've been sorting through things and just rereading stuff I wrote years ago.
And so we come to Prelude.
It was written in 1993 (ish), but in a totally different form. I'm not going to say much more about it now, only that I've converted it into a text piece. There are some things that are a trite unusual with it, but it is the start of a bigger work.
Anyway, I'll say more later.
Prelude
The room is silent with the sense of encroaching tragedy.
He sits there in the quiet, head slightly bowed, hands together as though in prayer.
There is an emptiness even though there is furniture. It is the feel of a room bereft of living, as though all but one inhabitant has gone, leaving only echoes and memories.
Perhaps the things before him on the table are physical memories, things to clutch from his past, but in this moment he is not looking at them, his eyes are closed.
His long dark hair is pulled back into ponytail, his square jawed face covered by a beard.
He seems oblivious to his surroundings lost in deep thought or just lost.
The room is a bizarre thing; it has the atmosphere of a place waiting to be filled or half empty as all the life within leaves. That which remains apart from generic furniture is a mismatched collection of things: a plant, a picture, a leather couch.
Hovering in the air is a sphere, a white device the size of a man’s head. The time flashes on the front of it telling the room that it is close to midnight. It glows brightly, illuminating the room with cold, artificial light.The man does not seem to care.
Behind him a series of circular windows look out over the city in which he lives. It is dark and raining, but the night is lit with shots of neon. There is always movement as cars race along roadways and through the air. There is always something climbing higher and higher, or falling in a controlled descent.
No noise penetrates the room and it is uncertain whether the man would react if it did. He just sits leaning on the table as though he is some form of flesh sculpted statue with only the shallowest of breathing showing otherwise.
In his left ear a canine tooth ear ring dangles, it does not even tremble, he is so still.
Before him, on the table there are five items, all as different as possible.
There is a single ring. It is made of gold and looks well worn, a wedding ring perhaps. It is not a traditional band though, rather a ring with a square face, in opposing corners there are two clear gems, the higher of the two is surrounded in a sunburst.
A picture stands there, a simple plastic frame. Within there is an image of the man, but in a different time. He looks happy and relaxed, wearing a casual clothing. He might be a few years from the man who sits there so quietly. Indeed, the breathing man seems to be carrying a lot more weight upon his shoulders, his features heavier, more lines and a few fine scars.
A handgun, a weapon made of some form of ceramic and black metal. It looks well crafted, enhanced by dark rubber and plastics. Despite the fact it could be seen as some form of art it looks no less deadly.
And there is its ancestor. A simple military revolver. A Webley Mk VI, the type of pistol used in the second world war. It looked as though it had seen use, the barrel scratched and tarnished, while the grip is worn smooth.
And then there are a simple pair of shades. It would be easy to see them as a pair of wayfarers or Rey Bans, but they are more than that, specifically made for one individual.
A glass cabinet stand against a wall, it is the only thing that seems out of place, as though someone forgot to empty it. Within there is something that might be body armour, a uniform of some kind. It hangs on hooks, a black rubber-like body suit that would cover everything apart from the head and the tips of the fingers, and then a chest piece, shoulder guards, grieves and patches. All are made from a similar looking ceramic to that of the gun on the table, white with just the hint of blue.
On the front of the chest there is a triangular logo, in which there is a skull, but it is not a normal skull, the canine teeth are slightly elongated. On the left shoulder there is a single five pointed star, black outlined and little more.
The man picks up the ring and looks at it sadly. It might seem that his face is impassive, but there is a hint of something there, a sadness that runs so deep that it dare not be felt. For a moment some light from the outside world just captures the edge of the ring and it glints like a star in the night, then the man lowers his hand and drops it onto the table, where it bounces before settling.
“Lights.” A single word creeps from his lips. It is little more than whisper of sound, no inflection or depth to give it emotion. It carries in the silence though; the glowing heart of the sphere dims and fades, throwing the room into darkness, the only illumination coming from the city outside.
Steadily he reaches forward and picks up the revolver, feeling its cold heaviness in his hand.
He looks at it for a moment, then uses his thumb to pull back the hammer, nods to himself as though accepting what has to be done.
He raises it, placing the barrel to his own temple, then pulls the trigger.
There is a flash like subdued lightning that illuminates the room for an instant; an echo of distant thunder. For a moment it is like a freeze frame. The naked body slumping forward, the table rising into the air. All the items that rested on it thrown up. The ring twisting, the gun dropping like a stone, the glasses at a crooked angle, one arm open the other closed. The revolver is half in and half out of a limp hand. His hair trails out behind him a genuine tail. And the blood, it falls in crimson droplets, some big, some small.
Fall they do, one after another, spattering against the smooth floor like rain. The body hits with a heavy thump, its own momentum making it move from side to side before coming to a rest, sprawled amid small pieces of his life.
The picture lies there, frame buckled, the unchanging face of the man dead on the floor staring through the fractured glass, covered in a slowly growing stream of blood.
The room falls to silence and darkness and although no word is spoken, one hangs in the air all the same:
Why?
So when I have a moment I've been sorting through things and just rereading stuff I wrote years ago.
And so we come to Prelude.
It was written in 1993 (ish), but in a totally different form. I'm not going to say much more about it now, only that I've converted it into a text piece. There are some things that are a trite unusual with it, but it is the start of a bigger work.
Anyway, I'll say more later.
Prelude
The room is silent with the sense of encroaching tragedy.
He sits there in the quiet, head slightly bowed, hands together as though in prayer.
There is an emptiness even though there is furniture. It is the feel of a room bereft of living, as though all but one inhabitant has gone, leaving only echoes and memories.
Perhaps the things before him on the table are physical memories, things to clutch from his past, but in this moment he is not looking at them, his eyes are closed.
His long dark hair is pulled back into ponytail, his square jawed face covered by a beard.
He seems oblivious to his surroundings lost in deep thought or just lost.
The room is a bizarre thing; it has the atmosphere of a place waiting to be filled or half empty as all the life within leaves. That which remains apart from generic furniture is a mismatched collection of things: a plant, a picture, a leather couch.
Hovering in the air is a sphere, a white device the size of a man’s head. The time flashes on the front of it telling the room that it is close to midnight. It glows brightly, illuminating the room with cold, artificial light.The man does not seem to care.
Behind him a series of circular windows look out over the city in which he lives. It is dark and raining, but the night is lit with shots of neon. There is always movement as cars race along roadways and through the air. There is always something climbing higher and higher, or falling in a controlled descent.
No noise penetrates the room and it is uncertain whether the man would react if it did. He just sits leaning on the table as though he is some form of flesh sculpted statue with only the shallowest of breathing showing otherwise.
In his left ear a canine tooth ear ring dangles, it does not even tremble, he is so still.
Before him, on the table there are five items, all as different as possible.
There is a single ring. It is made of gold and looks well worn, a wedding ring perhaps. It is not a traditional band though, rather a ring with a square face, in opposing corners there are two clear gems, the higher of the two is surrounded in a sunburst.
A picture stands there, a simple plastic frame. Within there is an image of the man, but in a different time. He looks happy and relaxed, wearing a casual clothing. He might be a few years from the man who sits there so quietly. Indeed, the breathing man seems to be carrying a lot more weight upon his shoulders, his features heavier, more lines and a few fine scars.
A handgun, a weapon made of some form of ceramic and black metal. It looks well crafted, enhanced by dark rubber and plastics. Despite the fact it could be seen as some form of art it looks no less deadly.
And there is its ancestor. A simple military revolver. A Webley Mk VI, the type of pistol used in the second world war. It looked as though it had seen use, the barrel scratched and tarnished, while the grip is worn smooth.
And then there are a simple pair of shades. It would be easy to see them as a pair of wayfarers or Rey Bans, but they are more than that, specifically made for one individual.
A glass cabinet stand against a wall, it is the only thing that seems out of place, as though someone forgot to empty it. Within there is something that might be body armour, a uniform of some kind. It hangs on hooks, a black rubber-like body suit that would cover everything apart from the head and the tips of the fingers, and then a chest piece, shoulder guards, grieves and patches. All are made from a similar looking ceramic to that of the gun on the table, white with just the hint of blue.
On the front of the chest there is a triangular logo, in which there is a skull, but it is not a normal skull, the canine teeth are slightly elongated. On the left shoulder there is a single five pointed star, black outlined and little more.
The man picks up the ring and looks at it sadly. It might seem that his face is impassive, but there is a hint of something there, a sadness that runs so deep that it dare not be felt. For a moment some light from the outside world just captures the edge of the ring and it glints like a star in the night, then the man lowers his hand and drops it onto the table, where it bounces before settling.
“Lights.” A single word creeps from his lips. It is little more than whisper of sound, no inflection or depth to give it emotion. It carries in the silence though; the glowing heart of the sphere dims and fades, throwing the room into darkness, the only illumination coming from the city outside.
Steadily he reaches forward and picks up the revolver, feeling its cold heaviness in his hand.
He looks at it for a moment, then uses his thumb to pull back the hammer, nods to himself as though accepting what has to be done.
He raises it, placing the barrel to his own temple, then pulls the trigger.
There is a flash like subdued lightning that illuminates the room for an instant; an echo of distant thunder. For a moment it is like a freeze frame. The naked body slumping forward, the table rising into the air. All the items that rested on it thrown up. The ring twisting, the gun dropping like a stone, the glasses at a crooked angle, one arm open the other closed. The revolver is half in and half out of a limp hand. His hair trails out behind him a genuine tail. And the blood, it falls in crimson droplets, some big, some small.
Fall they do, one after another, spattering against the smooth floor like rain. The body hits with a heavy thump, its own momentum making it move from side to side before coming to a rest, sprawled amid small pieces of his life.
The picture lies there, frame buckled, the unchanging face of the man dead on the floor staring through the fractured glass, covered in a slowly growing stream of blood.
The room falls to silence and darkness and although no word is spoken, one hangs in the air all the same:
Why?
