Talon1579's Writings

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Talon1579's Writings

Unread postby talon1579 » Wed May 28, 2008 4:30 pm

Two stories:

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The Sinister Street

It was more than a street. It was a way. A route, a path to salvation, to home. A trail through looming crags and towering mesas. A pass through lofty, snowcapped mountains. By day these towers, obsidian obelisks of greed and corruption were hives of activity, hundreds of thousands of faceless drones entering and exiting. Grunting, smoking animals grumble past at the feet of these spires, destination known, journey boundless.

But now the creatures rest. The beasts do not grumble in their sleep, the crawlers crawl no longer at this hour.

The street is silent – but is it? The hum from deep below, in the wet caverns of disgust as the waste and effluent of the city’s millions flows beneath, like a torrent of boiling mud cascading down the sides of an enraged volcano.

When heavy-lidded eyes fall shut, the immense power can be felt below, a mighty river providing for the animals who take their fill from its ever-flowing bounty. The river is now dry, reduced to a faltering trickle: few denizens of the wild now sup from it.

The lampposts, tall trees spearing into the sky, surmounted by twin lights, the eyes of some nocturnal thing, an own, a bushbaby, staring down at the harsh, gum-splattered concrete floor.

Pools, nay, lakes of light floating on a grey wasteland. Not the soft, caressing light of the sun, but white, man-formed light, unnatural illumination in an unnatural world.

Between the lights lies the road, the path of the beasts, usually lit by their searching eyes, but on this night, dark as a woodland grove on a moonless night, as a blind man wanders through, guided only by the tips of his fingers and the soft crackle of the fallen leaves under his unshod feet.

A bundle of cloth, lying against a cliff of bricks and mortar, crumbling like weathered rock, stirs suddenly. A face appears, ragged, gaunt, unshaven, face like a shaving brush, the irony is strangely amusing in this bleak night. He raises an arm, wraith-like fingers beckoning, but slowly, as if his life-force ran low, like a cheap battery after a short while.

“They come,” he croaks. “They come”. A van, searchlights probing like fingers trying to find an elusive glass of water hiding on the corner of the nightstand on a dry summer’s night. The van: white, yet not-white, the dirt of a dozen journeys clinging stubbornly to its flanks. A figure emerges from the rear, truncheon raised like a symbol of masculinity. The figure knows that he is the victor, knows before he strikes the helpless victim like a common dog.

The cur recoils in agony, before the figure is even on him. As if he, too, knows his fate is sealed, locked in an iron chest and bolted to the very floor. Raising his rail-thin wrists in a fruitless gesture of surrender serves only to have them broken, smashed into fragments by the cruel staff of destruction. Weeping, he is dragged aboard his cage, to be taken to another part of this dreadful city and released like a child-captured insect. No poor shall scar the reputation of this wealthy district; no prosperous citizen shall be forced to stare upon the deprived. The meagre one will join his kind – divided from those he depends on.

A crossroad appears. Two roads are not my roads. One way is my way. But which way? A field of yellow lies beneath me, a painted grid, like a cage, keeping out the sewer-rats. Or is it keeping me in, securing me in this dark, fearsome world.

A noise, behind, the heavy thud of feet approaching. I cannot look round, frozen to a pillar of salt, or a stalagmite in a cavern, hoping the explorers will pass it by with nothing more than bored glance. Louder, it approaches like a stealthy snake surreptitiously stalking a sly stoat. I can hear its breathing now, short, as if excited by the prospect of the hunt. To run would be to invite chase – to stay to invite death. I crumple into the foetal position, reflexes reigning supreme as the thuds increase. Something hits me – it is on me! I draw my knees tighter to my head, cramming myself into an imaginary eggshell. The thing stops moving, lying across me. I wait.

Eons pass. I know the thing is waiting for me to move. It is toying with me, a cat batting a mouse across a kitchen floor. It cannot win the battle of wait.

It wins. I must move. Pain spikes into me like a veritable lance, my muscles will snap like a birch twig if this continues. With excruciating slowness, the prey slides from beneath the hunter. A man. A bottle, labled “Jack Daniels”. The hunter’s name. Jack Daniels is dead, viscous blood seeping from his skull, carrion left on the savannah for the hungry hyenas.

Wailing screeches, the scavengers approach. The only sanctuary is the darkness of the road, the valley of shadows. Their eyes! Crimson, azure, blinking in rapidity as the wailing continues. With a final screech it stops, the eyes white now, blinding me into submission. Its young ones emerge, each with a single, shining eye and a long black claw. As I hold the Jack Daniels’ bottle in my hand, the infants stare at his corpse, prone on the asphalt. I fall to my knees in submission.

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The View from my Bedroom Window

This is not the view I want. My shutters remain in the position they are best known for. My blind makes me that, blind, to my view.

I see nothing but my garden as the shutters creak open, little used. The perfection suffocates me. The hedge, cut to a shape, so regular it might have been made of breezeblocks. That is what it is to me: a wall, an insurmountable barrier more like the side of a city skyscraper than a thing of nature. Trimmed religiously by our gardener every Sunday, his step-ladder is his pulpit, his shears are his sermon, restricting his flock, restricting from enjoyment and depravity. I read a book once. Apparently creatures live under hedges. Not ours. Any creatures are cretins to my gardener, victims to be gassed by his stinking pesticides. The hedgehog holocaust.

But not all is controlled by my parents and the gardener, the monarchs and the enforcer. There is one place that eludes by virtue of its everlasting distance – one can go through it but never truly reach it. I am sure, if the rulers of the domain in front of me a higher ladder and a larger brush they would paint it a single shade of blue. Perhaps a smiling sun to illuminate the “best kept hedge in the neighbourhood”. Even they cannot reach the sky, so it is mine.

My chameleon. Blue is but one of his colours; he is often fond of grizzled grey. IN the evening, when his glowing eye dips behind the hedge, my horizon, (although others may enjoy his glorious gaze for a few minutes longer, he unveils his repertoire, reds, yellows, oranges. It is no wonder he is the last great chameleon above Earth – any others will have been outperformed by his majesty. After, he goes dark in order to rest – but some nights one eye is left open, accompanied by silver glow worms, forced into invisibility until the lizard allows them show their pallid light.
At the end of my garden is a tower. A totem pole, covered by nature’s tribesmen. They have decorated it, with the sane colour as our hedge: green. Thousands of green needles form a giant arrow in honour of the sky. I would make it a multitude of colours: rose, scarlet, a tree incarnadine. There is no red in my view, my garden.

The view I want is this:

I want to live in a turret: a view, not drab walls, surrounding me. In one direction, the only thing that honours the sky by aping its colour. It is the opposite of the sky: you can reach it, but you cannot go through it.

Unlike the sky, this one makes noise. Crashing, bashing, smashing when it is angry, like a wayward toddler. When given his favourite toy, cool, smooth, calm, waves lapping at the shore like the child’s fingers as he pulls himself off the floor for the first time, scrabbling for purchase, but always falling.

Standing against the ocean’s wrath, a wall. Stone, yet cracked and worn by its attackers, a castle, battered and beaten, standing firm against the nomadic hordes, the odd sentry walks along the crest of the wall, peering down at the approaching mass, curious, and walks off. It has stood the test of time even if damaged: it will resist thus ubiquitous enemy.

This is but a dream for me. I have but one view, the one allotted to me by the evil king and queen of my realm, a dictatorship where things are kept in order, there is no choice, no freedom: This is my view.


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A sonnet. This is a translation from part of the Aneied, rendered into sonnet form:

But in the midst of valleys Ascanius
Rejoiced. His fiery steed runs all over the field.
He wants a boar or lion carnivorous.
If only a god’s power he could wield

Meanwhile the sky begins to be uncouth,
Turmoiled and murmuring a storm follows.
In all directions flee the Trojan youth,
The Tyrians, they make for the hollows.

Across the fields, the rivers flow down peaks.
Aeneas and Dido descend into
The same cave. And primeval Earth, she speaks.
Fire and lightning flash; he staged his coup

That day was the beginning of her death
The Trojan who caused it took away her breath.
Last edited by talon1579 on Mon Jun 02, 2008 12:48 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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talon1579
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Re: Talon1579's Writings

Unread postby talon1579 » Mon Jun 02, 2008 3:43 pm

A poem I just wrote, of what would happen if Lu Bu defeated the three brothers in a fight:
(Dong Zhuo rhymes with "so" in this poem, I don't know the correct pronunciation)


Lu Bu's Victory

The alliance had reached the gates of Hu Lao,
Dong Zhuo’s hopes were beginning to fall
The warrior so strong headed for Yuan Shao,
Lu Bu, his might would conquer all.

But wait! Three men have stopped him in his tracks
Brave Yide, Xuande and the tallest, Yunchang
Swords strike, spear thrusts, green dragon attacks,
Yet the halberd of Lu Bu just scythed and sang.

Three brothers fell in this terrible fight:
Liu Bei, Guan Yu, and Zhang Fei of Yan,
The eighteen lords fled, and then took flight,
Xuande would never restore the Han.

Now but two men lay amidst him and the throne,
The prince of Chen Liu, Liu Xie, and Dong Zhuo.
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