Charles Gull
Auk Word
- Joined
- May 27, 2017
- Messages
- 88
******************
Saga: Orb
Book: First and Final Dragon
Section: Homecoming
Snippet: 1
Words: ~955
Spelling: British
What do you think?
Good, bad, ugly
Fine detail, Big Picture
Shoot all your powder
Content Advisory
No vulgarity. No sex. No violence. May possible induce a sense of mild confusion.
Do not operate motor vehicles or heavy machinery whilst reading.
******************
Standing on the threshold between the street and the open hallway the conflict of my feelings grasps me. I know this well. Ever since setting out, I’ve been anticipating this moment and the way it never fails to make me stop. It’s like my soul needs the pause to catch its breath. It’s as if, entering this building means far more than the simple act of crossing this worn smooth threshold.
But what?
I’m never quite sure.
Ever since leaving home for the first time the vision of this moment has anchored itself in my mind. The informality of the distressed plaster walls in the entrance hall with its cracked and chipped stone flagged floor. The intrigue of the shadowy stairway skulking in the back beckoning to share the secret of its narrow twisting flights as they rise for three floors to the top of the building. The intimacy of the terminal landing shared by just two doors, one green one blue.
The vision is so effortless and compelling. Cross the floor with conviction, rise up the stairs with determination, strike the green door with pride and then rejoice in all that follows.
This vision has given hope and strength when all has seemed lost. Through pain and despair it has cradled my mind. Like a companion hound licking it’s master’s wounds in devotion, it gave selflessly whenever needed. Strength in times of exhaustion. Determination in the face of despair. It gave and gave and gave again not once demanding repayment.
Until now.
Now, on the cusp of fulfilment, the enabler suddenly turns coat and lowers a barrier in my head. It blocks my path and demands its long earned toll. A toll that, lacking the coinage, I’m unable to pay. Instead I’m halted, overpowered by the familiarity of this place. The vision is too perfect.
How can I ever reconcile my Arcadia with the grubby reality that stands before me?
Desperate to break from this self imposed limbo I dredge my mind for an answer. Long suppressed memories flood in. My mind reels before landing at the other door on the top landing, the blue one. Behind it the pristine home of an ancient family friend ‘Old Mr. Kopnic’ sits serenely. I wonder if he’s still alive. Through the eyes of my infant self, still sheltering in the shadows of my mother’s skirts, he had seemed both frail and foreboding. Weathered, like he had already entered his second century and yet powerful, like a cliff resolute in the tempest of life. It was difficult to imagine how he could possibly age or die. His memory brings a fleeting smile to my face but no release from my torment.
And so, still I stand there frozen, all mental preparation useless, captured by that one question, the one I so dread, the one I can never avoid and still less answer. Am I returning a failure, looking to cower in the consoling blanket of my childhood memories, or a victor, intent on finally exorcising their hold over me?
The question, once asked, takes me hostage. It demands an answer before my next footstep can fall. I wait, staring blankly into the half light before me, hoping that the answer will make itself clear.
It doesn’t.
Now, more than ever before, my mind is in turmoil, disturbed by the haunting image of the girl on the train.
------------------------------
I sit in the cramped compartment crushed by a mass of people and luggage. Despite the rush hour, I've beaten the odds and snatched a window seat. This minor victory hasn't come cheaply, however. Far worse than the airless heat are the people I am forced to share the compartment with. My direct neighbour is an overbuilt lady with an excess of shopping bags taking up the third seat in our row. In the far corner slouches a labourer who keeps snorting to clear his nose. Then there is the office worker hiding behind his rustling newspaper and finally the young female sitting directly opposite me, chewing gum with her open mouth whilst her thumbs hammer away at her clicking and bleeping phone. Not a single one of them remarkable in any way. Despite the heat, their dullness sends a chill through me. Humans! teeming pointless mundane repellently boring creatures. I no longer belong amongst them.
I'm an alien, a race apart.
With this thought comes a stinging sense of loneliness. A great divide now separates us. Now, more than ever before, there is no way any of us will ever be able to cross it. Their proximity and ignorance only make the depth of the chasm clearer. There is only one solution, retreat. If I withdraw far enough then my mind’s eye might be fooled. They might still appear to be brethren, simply living at a distance. I shut out my extensive neighbour’s attempts at jovial companionship and, turning to the grimy window, stare stolidly out at the passing blur of the city's rump.
The local train makes three halts between the central station and the stop closest to my mother’s flat. I know each of them well from my youth.
The faded signs above the long dormant cafe.
The scuffed and worn handrail leading down to an underpass.
The litter baskets stuffed to overspill.
Old friends, intimate memories.
And then there are the bustling commuters. With the pane of dust smeared glass between us they are remote enough for me to watch in comfort. Like a cat drawn to an aquarium, I'm captivated by the ebb and flow of their little lives. All is well and I begin to relax as the hypnotic effect of their movement gently soothes my troubled mind.
Saga: Orb
Book: First and Final Dragon
Section: Homecoming
Snippet: 1
Words: ~955
Spelling: British
What do you think?
Good, bad, ugly
Fine detail, Big Picture
Shoot all your powder
Content Advisory
No vulgarity. No sex. No violence. May possible induce a sense of mild confusion.
Do not operate motor vehicles or heavy machinery whilst reading.
******************
Standing on the threshold between the street and the open hallway the conflict of my feelings grasps me. I know this well. Ever since setting out, I’ve been anticipating this moment and the way it never fails to make me stop. It’s like my soul needs the pause to catch its breath. It’s as if, entering this building means far more than the simple act of crossing this worn smooth threshold.
But what?
I’m never quite sure.
Ever since leaving home for the first time the vision of this moment has anchored itself in my mind. The informality of the distressed plaster walls in the entrance hall with its cracked and chipped stone flagged floor. The intrigue of the shadowy stairway skulking in the back beckoning to share the secret of its narrow twisting flights as they rise for three floors to the top of the building. The intimacy of the terminal landing shared by just two doors, one green one blue.
The vision is so effortless and compelling. Cross the floor with conviction, rise up the stairs with determination, strike the green door with pride and then rejoice in all that follows.
This vision has given hope and strength when all has seemed lost. Through pain and despair it has cradled my mind. Like a companion hound licking it’s master’s wounds in devotion, it gave selflessly whenever needed. Strength in times of exhaustion. Determination in the face of despair. It gave and gave and gave again not once demanding repayment.
Until now.
Now, on the cusp of fulfilment, the enabler suddenly turns coat and lowers a barrier in my head. It blocks my path and demands its long earned toll. A toll that, lacking the coinage, I’m unable to pay. Instead I’m halted, overpowered by the familiarity of this place. The vision is too perfect.
How can I ever reconcile my Arcadia with the grubby reality that stands before me?
Desperate to break from this self imposed limbo I dredge my mind for an answer. Long suppressed memories flood in. My mind reels before landing at the other door on the top landing, the blue one. Behind it the pristine home of an ancient family friend ‘Old Mr. Kopnic’ sits serenely. I wonder if he’s still alive. Through the eyes of my infant self, still sheltering in the shadows of my mother’s skirts, he had seemed both frail and foreboding. Weathered, like he had already entered his second century and yet powerful, like a cliff resolute in the tempest of life. It was difficult to imagine how he could possibly age or die. His memory brings a fleeting smile to my face but no release from my torment.
And so, still I stand there frozen, all mental preparation useless, captured by that one question, the one I so dread, the one I can never avoid and still less answer. Am I returning a failure, looking to cower in the consoling blanket of my childhood memories, or a victor, intent on finally exorcising their hold over me?
The question, once asked, takes me hostage. It demands an answer before my next footstep can fall. I wait, staring blankly into the half light before me, hoping that the answer will make itself clear.
It doesn’t.
Now, more than ever before, my mind is in turmoil, disturbed by the haunting image of the girl on the train.
------------------------------
I sit in the cramped compartment crushed by a mass of people and luggage. Despite the rush hour, I've beaten the odds and snatched a window seat. This minor victory hasn't come cheaply, however. Far worse than the airless heat are the people I am forced to share the compartment with. My direct neighbour is an overbuilt lady with an excess of shopping bags taking up the third seat in our row. In the far corner slouches a labourer who keeps snorting to clear his nose. Then there is the office worker hiding behind his rustling newspaper and finally the young female sitting directly opposite me, chewing gum with her open mouth whilst her thumbs hammer away at her clicking and bleeping phone. Not a single one of them remarkable in any way. Despite the heat, their dullness sends a chill through me. Humans! teeming pointless mundane repellently boring creatures. I no longer belong amongst them.
I'm an alien, a race apart.
With this thought comes a stinging sense of loneliness. A great divide now separates us. Now, more than ever before, there is no way any of us will ever be able to cross it. Their proximity and ignorance only make the depth of the chasm clearer. There is only one solution, retreat. If I withdraw far enough then my mind’s eye might be fooled. They might still appear to be brethren, simply living at a distance. I shut out my extensive neighbour’s attempts at jovial companionship and, turning to the grimy window, stare stolidly out at the passing blur of the city's rump.
The local train makes three halts between the central station and the stop closest to my mother’s flat. I know each of them well from my youth.
The faded signs above the long dormant cafe.
The scuffed and worn handrail leading down to an underpass.
The litter baskets stuffed to overspill.
Old friends, intimate memories.
And then there are the bustling commuters. With the pane of dust smeared glass between us they are remote enough for me to watch in comfort. Like a cat drawn to an aquarium, I'm captivated by the ebb and flow of their little lives. All is well and I begin to relax as the hypnotic effect of their movement gently soothes my troubled mind.
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