Tin Roof Reminiscence
You love the sound of rain falling on a tin roof. The rain is brought by clouds. The clouds, more often than not, bring the murk with them and overshadow the world. And in the shadow you can see. You can smell. You can feel.
Showing posts with label second person pov. Show all posts
Showing posts with label second person pov. Show all posts
Monday, May 4, 2015
Monday, October 13, 2014
Fiction: Where the Minotaur (A Babylonian Medley Story)
Out of the books must you be judged, and out of the books have they been judging you. Have they judged you?
They have.
Out of books that are a pale, forged book of life. You remember the hearing of your crimes, even if the memory of them is sometimes faded in this place. You remember, and you remember knowing you were not a monster.
They have.
Out of books that are a pale, forged book of life. You remember the hearing of your crimes, even if the memory of them is sometimes faded in this place. You remember, and you remember knowing you were not a monster.
Friday, April 11, 2014
Story Notes: Land of Ten Thousand Faces
Notes to: Land of Ten Thousand Faces
And now we get to see things from the government's point of view. I think that this is as good a time as any to mention that I plan for Babylonian Medley to go on for a little longer. An astronomer, Damocles or one of his soldiers, the sorcerers, the nobles, and maybe the Peregrines and/or the Fourth Estate.
Land is a story about identities, and shedding them, and losing them. It's about prices paid.
Tizifone is Tisiphone, the Greek Fury.
And now we get to see things from the government's point of view. I think that this is as good a time as any to mention that I plan for Babylonian Medley to go on for a little longer. An astronomer, Damocles or one of his soldiers, the sorcerers, the nobles, and maybe the Peregrines and/or the Fourth Estate.
Land is a story about identities, and shedding them, and losing them. It's about prices paid.
Tizifone is Tisiphone, the Greek Fury.
Monday, March 17, 2014
Fiction: Secret Life [chapter twelve]
This story at Fictionpress
Secret Life
Chapter twelve: Untouchable
He stays on the ground.
Breathes. In. Out.
He tries to move. Groans.
Pain strikes across pain. It is written on his face.
He rests.
Time passes on. Minutes? Hours? It's all the same to you.
He sits. Rests his back against the wall. He doesn't dare open his eyes.
He listens.
She's gone.
Like the angel of death. But his blood is not a lamb's. And she did not pass over him. Only draw away.
But he is bloodied, and she is gone.
He looks around. Tired. Broken- oh, but of course!
There is a paper at his feet. He raises it to his eyes to better see it in the dim light. She wrote it. The full extent of his injuries. How to work with them.
She's gone.
You know that he won't let himself fully believe it. But there's hope. You can see it. To you, who knew him so instantly, there is nothing that can be hidden from you.
Hours slither by as he prepares.
He is careful. He avoids strain. He takes every pill required. He eats.
You are the instrument through which he opens the cans. So mundane. But you are grateful nevertheless. You do not want him to die. You are grateful to be his salvation. This is the purpose for which she left you.
He naps irregularly. He screams in his sleep.
Days pass.
For the first time since she left, he looks outside.
He prepares himself. His legs are good enough for travel. His damaged arm, he will have to leave alone for now.
He stares at you. You know that he's wondering whether to take you.
You are her left hand. The suffering of her touch in steel.
But he receives you. And together, you go.
You know that he doesn't understand. But he is patient. You are patient. He will understand.
You travel slowly. You travel discreetly. No-one could hope to recognize him. Is he grateful for the marks on his face?
He threw up once, when he saw the everything that had been done to him since he first met her.
You avoid travelers. You avoid soldiers. You only approach the burned towns.
You wonder where she is. Where she is going. Where she has gone.
You know that he is asking himself the same.
You could suggest. If only you could communicate.
Instead you must watch as he puzzles it out. Fights it. Evades it. Ignores it.
Because he doesn't want to think it. Doesn't want to believe it.
But you know what he is thinking. What you are both thinking. Even if you don't know.
You are thinking... that you may find out very soon.
Too soon for his liking.
He commissions a boat. He finds a man willing to go to Cuba.
And you wonder- as he must be wondering- if she has gone there ahead of you.
"Now listen, senor: I want you to drop me in the ocean half a mile from the coast."
"The Cubans, they will not like you trying to swim past them."
"I'm not smuggling."
"Then why do you come to me in the dark?"
Secret Life
Chapter twelve: Untouchable
He stays on the ground.
Breathes. In. Out.
He tries to move. Groans.
Pain strikes across pain. It is written on his face.
He rests.
Time passes on. Minutes? Hours? It's all the same to you.
He sits. Rests his back against the wall. He doesn't dare open his eyes.
He listens.
She's gone.
Like the angel of death. But his blood is not a lamb's. And she did not pass over him. Only draw away.
But he is bloodied, and she is gone.
He looks around. Tired. Broken- oh, but of course!
There is a paper at his feet. He raises it to his eyes to better see it in the dim light. She wrote it. The full extent of his injuries. How to work with them.
She's gone.
You know that he won't let himself fully believe it. But there's hope. You can see it. To you, who knew him so instantly, there is nothing that can be hidden from you.
Hours slither by as he prepares.
He is careful. He avoids strain. He takes every pill required. He eats.
You are the instrument through which he opens the cans. So mundane. But you are grateful nevertheless. You do not want him to die. You are grateful to be his salvation. This is the purpose for which she left you.
He naps irregularly. He screams in his sleep.
Days pass.
For the first time since she left, he looks outside.
He prepares himself. His legs are good enough for travel. His damaged arm, he will have to leave alone for now.
He stares at you. You know that he's wondering whether to take you.
You are her left hand. The suffering of her touch in steel.
But he receives you. And together, you go.
You know that he doesn't understand. But he is patient. You are patient. He will understand.
You travel slowly. You travel discreetly. No-one could hope to recognize him. Is he grateful for the marks on his face?
He threw up once, when he saw the everything that had been done to him since he first met her.
You avoid travelers. You avoid soldiers. You only approach the burned towns.
You wonder where she is. Where she is going. Where she has gone.
You know that he is asking himself the same.
You could suggest. If only you could communicate.
Instead you must watch as he puzzles it out. Fights it. Evades it. Ignores it.
Because he doesn't want to think it. Doesn't want to believe it.
But you know what he is thinking. What you are both thinking. Even if you don't know.
You are thinking... that you may find out very soon.
Too soon for his liking.
He commissions a boat. He finds a man willing to go to Cuba.
And you wonder- as he must be wondering- if she has gone there ahead of you.
"Now listen, senor: I want you to drop me in the ocean half a mile from the coast."
"The Cubans, they will not like you trying to swim past them."
"I'm not smuggling."
"Then why do you come to me in the dark?"
Monday, January 20, 2014
Fiction: Land of Ten Thousand Faces
This story at Fictionpress.
See also: Absolutely Positive; Things Unsaid; Sixteen Hours
Also included this week:
A Story Across Years: Chapter nine. "Tradition, of course. I wonder when it started."
Land of Ten Thousand Faces
You are a Man Aside. A man aside from the mobs. A man aside from the concerns of the petty. A man aside from disorder, aside from destruction.
They call you the secret police. You know better, enough to understand how they can be right when they are so wrong.
You police the secrets. The dark corners, where fiends and malevolent stalk. There are demons in the world, you know, but there are men who would put them to shame. You are a man aside from such men.
See also: Absolutely Positive; Things Unsaid; Sixteen Hours
Also included this week:
A Story Across Years: Chapter nine. "Tradition, of course. I wonder when it started."
Land of Ten Thousand Faces
You are a Man Aside. A man aside from the mobs. A man aside from the concerns of the petty. A man aside from disorder, aside from destruction.
They call you the secret police. You know better, enough to understand how they can be right when they are so wrong.
You police the secrets. The dark corners, where fiends and malevolent stalk. There are demons in the world, you know, but there are men who would put them to shame. You are a man aside from such men.
Monday, December 16, 2013
Fiction: Absolutely Positive
This story at Fictionpress.
See also: Things Unsaid; Sixteen Hours
A Story Across Years: Chapter five. "Tradition, of course. I wonder when it started."
Secret Life: Chapters seven and eight. Sci-fi horror. "He is afraid. Afraid that he knows why he is here."
You made the lentil soup yourself. No-one can make it the way that you do. A dash of this and that. Humble ingredients that are spun together to make a meal fit for a noble. At least, you think so. Many nobles have disagreed with you on the matter.
Perhaps that is why they needed to die.
It isn't that you killed them for lacking in good culinary taste or simply disagreeing with you. But they couldn't appreciate the simple things. They couldn't see the refinement of humility or the grandeur therein. This had many different consequences. One of them was that they were unable to appreciate the best things in life. Another was that you have been been killing them whenever you could get away with it.
See also: Things Unsaid; Sixteen Hours
A Story Across Years: Chapter five. "Tradition, of course. I wonder when it started."
Secret Life: Chapters seven and eight. Sci-fi horror. "He is afraid. Afraid that he knows why he is here."
Sadcore warning.Babylonian Medley: Absolutely Positive
You made the lentil soup yourself. No-one can make it the way that you do. A dash of this and that. Humble ingredients that are spun together to make a meal fit for a noble. At least, you think so. Many nobles have disagreed with you on the matter.
Perhaps that is why they needed to die.
It isn't that you killed them for lacking in good culinary taste or simply disagreeing with you. But they couldn't appreciate the simple things. They couldn't see the refinement of humility or the grandeur therein. This had many different consequences. One of them was that they were unable to appreciate the best things in life. Another was that you have been been killing them whenever you could get away with it.
Monday, November 11, 2013
Fiction: Things Unsaid
See also:
Sixteen Hours
The worst part about being alive, you think, is that you're dying the whole time.
You have seen other men vomit at the smell now assaulting you as you make your way through the clogged, winding streets of Babylon. Plague and famine are evident on the face of every body that you step past, whether dead or nearly so. Only the dogs and rats are well-fed these days, it seems. The stench alone is enough to make other men sick, but not you.
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