By the grace of God, he has returned to his birthplace. Many stay, few fall onto the cold earth.
If this man had a mirror, he would be able to distiguish kelp hair, and a seafoam body. He was not in the water, but was the water. Able to gather and crash, to destroy and to preserve, to take and to give, to fly and to ride. He is the Atlantic and the Pacific, Rhine and Galilee. Though he spanned most of the globe, he did not cover it.
He needed earth, his love. And this is what she is.
It Begins
Start at the bottom and follow the Story from there
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Monday, September 21, 2009
Too Cold
:) I will take up the spot.
It's like the light hit the fan, because this new awareness could be compared to that. In fact, the only light hung warmly above, though the red wave faded closer to the ground, closer to him. It just barely touched the doors, and there it holds cold at the bottom.
The word Weston is vaguely imprinted on the hardwood floor.
The man adresses the script: "Weston. My name is Weston."
Now, reader, I would like to enlighten you on the dire, airless dis that this newly borne Weston has engaged. This first fresh breath is his declaration- to whom?
Weston's stare rises upward until it meets the steady gazes of his oppossites on the walls. Wes has all the necessery facalties and functions of a life, and now the moon has showed it's bleak face. Weston's only neighbors are faces; cold and smooth. Ceramic. Symbols on ominous entryways. He would move his lips in desperate expression, but who is there? God, is an overhanging light awash in warmth that does not reach him. There to spectate.
And now there is silence past his words. This will be the highest point in his life: the last time he speaks and expects to be spoken to.
Watch him, as he widens his perception. Look at his eyes- they stop. Why move? The air around him slows and stiffens. His shoulders tense, then his back, then his neck, now his jaw.
He counts.
A whisper??
was that a whisper--
A scream grows in his head too loud for sound to express. In a flame of movement he runs and throws himself through the hole in the breathing door.
Adrift in ocean, one is freed from landlocked constraint.
It's like the light hit the fan, because this new awareness could be compared to that. In fact, the only light hung warmly above, though the red wave faded closer to the ground, closer to him. It just barely touched the doors, and there it holds cold at the bottom.
The word Weston is vaguely imprinted on the hardwood floor.
The man adresses the script: "Weston. My name is Weston."
Now, reader, I would like to enlighten you on the dire, airless dis that this newly borne Weston has engaged. This first fresh breath is his declaration- to whom?
Weston's stare rises upward until it meets the steady gazes of his oppossites on the walls. Wes has all the necessery facalties and functions of a life, and now the moon has showed it's bleak face. Weston's only neighbors are faces; cold and smooth. Ceramic. Symbols on ominous entryways. He would move his lips in desperate expression, but who is there? God, is an overhanging light awash in warmth that does not reach him. There to spectate.
And now there is silence past his words. This will be the highest point in his life: the last time he speaks and expects to be spoken to.
Watch him, as he widens his perception. Look at his eyes- they stop. Why move? The air around him slows and stiffens. His shoulders tense, then his back, then his neck, now his jaw.
He counts.
A whisper??
was that a whisper--
A scream grows in his head too loud for sound to express. In a flame of movement he runs and throws himself through the hole in the breathing door.
Adrift in ocean, one is freed from landlocked constraint.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
His piercing blue eyes shoot open, pupils refining themselves so as to cut through the haze that lays heavy on his senses. He can feel his body fine tuneing itself to bring his senses back to equilibrium. As he observes his vision sharpen and his hearing heighten a vague sentiment floats to the surface of his mind: "somethings wrong". He looks at the thought dumbly, with just enough understanding to know that something is not how it should be. His muscles tense up and his heart beat rises to match the demands of this foreboding future. Anxiety rises in him, within his chest, swimming through the viens in his arms and crawling up the muscles of his neck. The initial pangs of fear sink its teeth into his stomach, steadily getting stronger. His eyes dart around blindly, trying to escape the looming giant of panic that encroaches ever closer. The sentiment continues to grip his mind without reason and slowly pulls him deeper into darkness. But then he feels something, something other than fear. It grows slowly but not throughout his body. He feels the sensation of seeing more clearly, but his vision is not altered. The sensation of seeing does not spread within him, but through his surroundings, his world growing.
He blinks several times. For the first time he feels the hard wood floor pressing on his face and sees the nocturnal blue wall in front of him. He pushes himself in an upright sitting position while cradling his head in his other hand. The room is dimly lit and given a faint red tint from the oriental style lamp hanging from the ceiling that is boxed in thin, red filter paper. The room is very small and hexogonal in shape. Each of the six walls had a nocturnal blue door that blended seamlessly with the surrounding wall. On each door there hung a powerfully expressive venetian style ceramic mask. On the door directly in front of him hung a face contorted in profound sorrow. A wide grin stretched across the face of the mask to the left. Under the mask the words "it lies" were carved deep into the door. There was something sinister about that smile, and although there were no eyes he could sense it glareing hungrily at him.To the right of the sorrowfull mask hung an expressionless bleach white face. The mouth lay imprisoned behind smooth white ceramic and the eyes were nothing more than sunken in depressions. Directly behind him hung a mask consumed by fear, its eyes forever staring into an abyssal and unforgiving darkness. To the right of that stood a maskless door with massive chains hanging from it and a heavy rusted padlock uniting them all at the center. The door to the left of the fearfull mask stood a door with a splintered mask sized hole where the mask would have been. Cool air flows gently from the seemingly endless darkness within that hole.
Another thought floats to the surface: "What do they mean?". Its at this point that the knowledge of his ignorance smashes onto him. He knows nothing. He doesn't know who he was, where he is, what came before this and what he should expect to come after. He notices, though, that his earlier feelings of confusion and fear are replaced by a sense of clarity. and i dont feel like writing anymore :(
He blinks several times. For the first time he feels the hard wood floor pressing on his face and sees the nocturnal blue wall in front of him. He pushes himself in an upright sitting position while cradling his head in his other hand. The room is dimly lit and given a faint red tint from the oriental style lamp hanging from the ceiling that is boxed in thin, red filter paper. The room is very small and hexogonal in shape. Each of the six walls had a nocturnal blue door that blended seamlessly with the surrounding wall. On each door there hung a powerfully expressive venetian style ceramic mask. On the door directly in front of him hung a face contorted in profound sorrow. A wide grin stretched across the face of the mask to the left. Under the mask the words "it lies" were carved deep into the door. There was something sinister about that smile, and although there were no eyes he could sense it glareing hungrily at him.To the right of the sorrowfull mask hung an expressionless bleach white face. The mouth lay imprisoned behind smooth white ceramic and the eyes were nothing more than sunken in depressions. Directly behind him hung a mask consumed by fear, its eyes forever staring into an abyssal and unforgiving darkness. To the right of that stood a maskless door with massive chains hanging from it and a heavy rusted padlock uniting them all at the center. The door to the left of the fearfull mask stood a door with a splintered mask sized hole where the mask would have been. Cool air flows gently from the seemingly endless darkness within that hole.
Another thought floats to the surface: "What do they mean?". Its at this point that the knowledge of his ignorance smashes onto him. He knows nothing. He doesn't know who he was, where he is, what came before this and what he should expect to come after. He notices, though, that his earlier feelings of confusion and fear are replaced by a sense of clarity. and i dont feel like writing anymore :(
Monday, September 7, 2009
A Story
A crowd of 5 sit around a rickety wooden table in a room, faces shadowed from the moonlight. A candle casts light around the room, a sole candle at the table's center. Suddenly the candle flame is upstart in a tiny chaos, throwing light haphazardly in every direction. The five are ready to commune the sentence of the fate of their world. These souls are about to embark through a world self made...
The first, fire reflecting on his dark indestinguishable countenance and deep in his pure eyes, spoke: "Let there be Light!" And in an upstart like the candle but still as God the room is filled with white. The moon outside has turned into a ball of clay embedded quiet in the sky.
A silk shawl waved around the neck of the second as if wind blew in the room. If mystery could speak words, her voice and her mind would be it. Like wind contained in a whisper, she spoke: "Let there be Life!" And there was all.
The Third, a soul of strong will and noble persuasion, spoke: "Let there be Man!" The candle flame rioted, and then was still.
The fourth raised his sober expression to meet the faces of his accomplices. Anger shot through his eyes, accusing his accomplices with a heart of hard malice. Through a deep and dark mouth this scarred one spoke: "Let there be War!" And there was sorrow.
The fifth. Stood with tense anticipation. Tempering hysteric laughter, this one's mouth opened to reveal his sentence, and the candle flame spoke no more. Quieted, the smoke rose from the dead candle, and the fifth sat with just as dead a mind as the room grew darker. But there was light outside, and there was the beginning.
The first, fire reflecting on his dark indestinguishable countenance and deep in his pure eyes, spoke: "Let there be Light!" And in an upstart like the candle but still as God the room is filled with white. The moon outside has turned into a ball of clay embedded quiet in the sky.
A silk shawl waved around the neck of the second as if wind blew in the room. If mystery could speak words, her voice and her mind would be it. Like wind contained in a whisper, she spoke: "Let there be Life!" And there was all.
The Third, a soul of strong will and noble persuasion, spoke: "Let there be Man!" The candle flame rioted, and then was still.
The fourth raised his sober expression to meet the faces of his accomplices. Anger shot through his eyes, accusing his accomplices with a heart of hard malice. Through a deep and dark mouth this scarred one spoke: "Let there be War!" And there was sorrow.
The fifth. Stood with tense anticipation. Tempering hysteric laughter, this one's mouth opened to reveal his sentence, and the candle flame spoke no more. Quieted, the smoke rose from the dead candle, and the fifth sat with just as dead a mind as the room grew darker. But there was light outside, and there was the beginning.
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