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[ red_a02 ] Shuzhen – The first episode was a lot of fun, cos it had an interesting cocktail of sexual tension and smooth fight choreography. This episode is like the awkward aftermath...
27 Aquarius 13 18:13
[ vermilion_2 ] YAPX – I understand that most of your stories are dialogue-based and heavy on retorts and counter-retorts. This one felt unnecessarily circular. It starts with a cool premise: a killer/villain/vigilante uses Lent to swear off something that should be second nature to him (I suppose), and then talks about a story. The link between the two (giving up killing & the story) isn’t a 100% fit. Maybe instead of “let me tell you a story”, it could be “hey, you see I even passed a guy up for death today!” or equivalent. Something to drag Lorelei into the banter and the premise. // That’s my only complaint. I’m not a big fan of dialogue-based stories, but I can make a exception for this.
14 Aquarius 13 08:03
[ 130204 ] YAPX – Good pace, good characters, great dialogue. The thing I like best is a combination of the three: how you build up their pseudo-relationship through all that back-and-forth exchange. Somehow, you craft a unique, strange relationship: from any one point in the story, both of them are manipulative, victimised and hypocrites - though not all at once. // On word choices, I felt you could change the word “janitor” (“cleaner” or “uncle” would’ve given a different, but more acute local flavour to it). Mostly because, it’s connotes an added level of difference through: class. Whether or not you intended it, by portraying the “janitor” and “student” you bring out the fact that he’s stuck there socially in all sense of the word. It made the part where he says he reads books during weekends completely out-of-context and weird. // Also, there’s too much “sliding” in and out of the room. Not sure if that’s intentional repetition, or just a lack of other words. // I thought that the girl’s own background is pretty compelling. Even after everything, I can’t tell if she’s speaking the truth. Because I’m all for unreliable narrators and characters, I can still find her well-thought out. But other readers might lose patience or wonder at her sudden change of heart at the final moment.
04 Aquarius 13 08:48
…more…
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short story – Green I: The Dream of Her Devotions ♠ 12 Can♋er 10, Moon’s Day ♣ |  |
100710
“In an evening of July,” she says.
The prisoner sits on a bench in a corridor in a courthouse.
A guard sits to the left of the prisoner, his hair grey, his skin wrinkled. “There once was a man,” he says, “who did a very bad thing–”
“Fuck you,” says the prisoner.
“Fuck you, dipshit,” says the guard sitting to the prisoner’s right, “God only knows how long more we have to wait before it’s time for your sorry ass. You rather sit here quietly?”
“Yes, yes, I do,” replies the prisoner.
“Well, fuck you, then, ’cause I don’t, so shut the fuck up,” the younger guard says, “Go ahead, Joe. ‘There once was a man, who did a very bad thing…’”
“Yes, he did,” the old guard continues, “a long time ago…”
A long time ago, there was a man, who did a very bad thing.
There was a father who loved his son.
He loved his son with a love that was true and pure, burning and blazing and shining and fierce.
But it was no normal love between a father and his son, for it was a dark and a twisted love.
Love, you see, is a red thread.
If you tie a thread to a pole, it’ll dangle, invisible, worthless, known only to the pole.
But if you tie a thread to two poles, it’ll hang between them, and that is the only place that love can grow.
Love requires both lover and beloved. And that son was not a suitable vessel for the fiery love that that man held.
“You have the most beautiful eyes,” the man would say, “dark as the night sky. Keep your eyes open, boy, keep your beautiful eyes open for me.”
Thus the man loved his son, and, in doing so, broke him.
One day, the boy was at school, and he saw with his dark eyes his friend, riding towards him on a bicycle.
He had never seen that particular bicycle before, but he knew what it was, and his dark eyes could not leave them as his friend stopped before him.
“Do you like it?” the friend asked, to which the boy with the dark eyes could only nod.
“It’s for my birthday,” the friend said, “It has this and it has that,” but the boy was not listening, for he already knew exactly what it had, and exactly what it did, and exactly what it could do.
More than anything, he knew that it looked more amazing before him now than it had looked in the advertisements, and how that could be he did not know.
That night, the boy with the dark eyes asked the father who loved him, please, please, give me a bike.
It’s too expensive, his father said.
And he begged, and he pleaded, and no, no, no.
But all he could think of was that bike, as he forced his eyes open, looking into the mirror, biting into the pillow.
And day after day, he saw the bike that his friend had, he saw all the things that his friend had. He imagined all the things that his friend did not have; no mirror to look into, no pillow to bite.
The boy with the dark eyes asked the father who loved him, please, please, give me a bike.
The teachers, the boy lied, were asking about the bruises, and if I had a bike, I could tell them that I fell.
Okay, said the father who loved him, okay, for your birthday.
So the boy with the dark eyes counted down the days, and he told what few friends he had that he, too, would be getting an awesome bike, the most awesome bike ever. And he and his friends made plans, to ride to this place and that place, and he would ride his awesome bike and things would be better, things had to be better.
Things had to be better.
Because, you see, the bike was more than just a bike; it was the key to another life.
And the boy with the dark eyes came home from school on the day of his birthday and he waited, and he waited, and he waited, and then the door opened and his heart sang.
The father who loved him stepped through the door, smiling, and said, look, look what I got you for your birthday, and held up a bag.
The boy with the dark eyes was confused. Where is the bike, he screams, his voice breaking, where is it?
What bike? the father who loved him asked, are you still going on about that? No, no, this is better, see, see? And the man opened the bag and presented it to the boy.
The boy ran to the kitchen, and picked up a knife. He brought the knife up to his eye and his voice quavered as he said, “I hate these eyes that you love so much.”
“I hate these eyes that you love so much.”
The old guard stops talking. His hand, which had been held in front of him, holding an imaginary knife to his own eye, falls slowly to rest upon his lap.
The three of them sit in silence.
The prisoner speaks, “What happened next, man?”
“Who knows?” the old guard replies, “Who knows? I’m going to get some coffee.”
And the old guard stands up, and walks away.
“What the fuck? Come on, man, tell me what happened.”
The pair of them sit in silence, until the young guard bursts out laughing.
“He’s just fucking with you,” the young guard says, “Joe tells this story to whoever would listen. It always ends right there. He’d leave, and they’d be sitting there with their dick in their hands. Just like you are doing right now.”
The prisoner walks out of the courtroom and stands, without the door. Shoulders bump into him. He knows what awaits him on the courthouse steps; the cameras and the mikes, the voices, and he didn’t want that. It was over now. He walks to a guard.
It was the old guard, who had told him that curious story. “Hey,” he says.
The old guard nods at him.
“Is there another way out? I mean, the TV and newspapers.”
The old guard’s head tilts, oh so slightly, his green eyes the single striking feature in a face weathered by age. Finally, he nods, “Wait five minutes, I’m almost on break, I’ll take you through the staff exit.”
“Thanks for the coffee,” the old guard says.
“Thanks for helping me,” the prisoner replies.
They sit in a booth in a small restaurant, nursing coffee. It is late in the afternoon, and the restaurant is empty, save for the waitress who served them, and, she, too, is gone.
The prisoner looks out the window, at the pale blue of the cloudless sky, and asks, “What happened next, to the man who did a very bad thing?”
The old guard looks at the prisoner, looking out the window, “I’ll tell you, if you’ll tell me something.”
“Sure.”
“Did you do it?”
The prisoner looks out the window, quiet and still, without a cloud in the sky. “No,” he says, “I didn’t.”
“Okay,” the old guard says, “I just wanted to hear you say that.”
“Well?”
“Long has paled that sunny sky,” the old guard says, “Echoes fade and memories die.”
The prisoner looked into the old guard’s eyes, his own perplexed, “No, I mean the story about the boy–”
In the empty restaurant, a young girl giggles, the sound so clear as to have come from very near.
The prisoner turns to the sound; there is nothing there but the window, looking out onto a darkening sky.
The old guard looks at the prisoner. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, bringing his hands together and resting his chin upon them.
A pair of lips form in the space between the prisoner and the window. “Autumn frosts have slain July,” the lips say, with the voice of a young girl.
Slowly, the lips smiled.
The prisoner recoils, stumbling over himself as he turns to leave the booth. The lips float around him, grinning widely.
The prisoner watches as the grinning lips grow, becoming bigger, then bigger yet. A giant hand reaches down and picks him up.
He is lifted up, up in the air, and placed down upon a vast expense of wood. There is a great sound, as the sky being torn asunder, and a giant hand carrying a tower moves across the dark sky, towards him.
He runs, but the hand follows, and a stream of white flows out of the sky, onto him, over him, white sand that plummets him, causing him to stumble, until he falls, and the sand covers him. And he struggles, and he struggles, and he is buried.
The old guard places the empty sugar pot back onto the table.
The prisoner shudders, wakes. He looks about him in a panic; the corridor in the courthouse. A nightmare is over; a nightmare is still unfolding.
“How do you plead?”
“Not guilty.”
They sit in a booth in a small restaurant, nursing coffee. It is late in the afternoon, and the restaurant is empty.
The prisoner looks out the window, asks, “What happened next, to the man who did a very bad thing?”
The old guard looks at the prisoner, looking out the window, “I’ll tell you, if you’ll tell me something.”
“Sure.”
“Did you do it?”
The prisoner looks out the window, quiet and still. “No,” he says, “I didn’t.”
“Okay,” the old guard says, “I just wanted to hear you say that.”
The prisoner shudders, wakes. He looks about him in a panic; the emptiness of his cell. A nightmare is over; a nightmare is still unfolding.
They sit in a booth in a small restaurant, late in the afternoon.
The prisoner looks out the window, asks, “What happened next, to the man who did a very bad thing?”
The old guard looks at the prisoner, looking out the window, “I’ll tell you, if you’ll tell me something.”
“Alright.”
“Did you do it?”
The prisoner looks out the window, “No,” he says.
“Okay,” the old guard says, “I just wanted to hear you say that.”
“Did you do it?”
“No,” he says.
“Okay. I just wanted to hear you say that.”
“No,” he says.
The prisoner walks out of the courtroom and stands, without the door. Shoulders bump into him. He knows what awaits him on the courthouse steps; the cameras and the mikes, the voices, and he didn’t want that. It was over now. He walks to a guard.
It was the old guard, who had told him that curious story.
He turns around and walks towards the newspapers, the cameras and the mikes.
The prisoner sits in a cab. He looks out the window, and, across the street, sees a little girl, with long dark hair. Is she alone? he wonders. Why do I care?
The prisoner lies upon his bed, looking up at the ceiling, relief filling him. The phone rings.
“Did you do it?” the voice asks.
“No,” the prisoner shouts, slamming down the phone.
The prisoner lies upon his bed, annoyed, restless. Uncertain.
“Long has paled that sunny sky,” a voice says; coming, perhaps, from without the window. “Echoes fade and memories die.”
He hears a giggle, and there, floating above him, inches from his face, a pair of lips fade into view. The lips part, and the voice of a young girl escapes, “Autumn frosts have slain July.”
He moves, turns. The bed is shrinking beneath him, and he struggles as everything around him becomes smaller, and smaller, and smaller still.
The furniture is shoved away from him as the room closes around him, and he struggles to find space for himself. And still the room shrinks.
The furniture is breaking around him, crackling between him and the walls, broken wood and metal piecing through his skin. He struggles, but the room holds, and he cannot break free.
The window is in front of him; the sky is dark now. There is freedom there, if only he could fit through that tiny hole.
A small, small eye is floating above the open window. He watches as it closes slowly.
He watches as the eye opens.
“Sorry,” the barely audiable voice of the little girl says, “Err… once again.”
Another eye fades in beside the first.
He sees one of them close slowly and he realises; she is winking at me. On the floor beneath the window, he sees a pool of darkness slowly spread outwards, and knows it to be his blood.
The smile fades in underneath it, then the eyes fade away and the smile follows.
The prisoner shudders, wakes. He looks about him in a panic; his cell. A nightmare is over; a nightmare is still unfolding.
He is really tired. He really needs to sleep.
How long has this been going on?
He really needs to sleep.
He is too afraid.
And he wishes that he could remember why.
The prisoner walks out of the courtroom and stands, without the door. Shoulders bump into him. He knows what awaits him on the courthouse steps; the cameras and the mikes, the voices, and he didn’t want that. It was over now. He walks to a guard.
It was the old guard, who had told him that curious story.
He walks to the old guard, stops before him, and stands there.
The old guard’s head tilts, oh so slightly, his green eyes the single striking feature in a face weathered by age.
He wants to ask for another way out, but there is something… a nagging thought, a scream without sound in the recesses of his skull.
There is… a little girl.
“I did it,” he says, “Please make it stop.”
The old guard nods, “Wait five minutes, I’m almost on break, we’ll have a cup of coffee.”
A long time ago, there was a man, who did a very bad thing.
The boy with the awesome bike watched as his friend gazed longingly at his bike. He spoke about it – though, really, there wasn’t much to say about a bike – he spoke about it in exquisite detail.
And he watched with pride and pleasure as his friend drank in the sight of his bike, ran his hand across it’s shiny new seat. The metal of the bike was polished, and it gleamed in the afternoon sun.
He watched as his friend’s father called out, saw the look of longing turn to a smile of joy, and watched as his friend ran into his father’s arms, and got into their car, and drove on home.
He got on to his bike, and cycled away.
My father is a policeman, he thought, saving the world, catching the bad guys, somewhere far away. He told himself that with a passion. My mother is a…
But he couldn’t hold onto the stories, and the tears that were blurring his vision told him that he could not make himself believe them.
The fact was, the fact is, the simple fact of the matter is that his father had left, and his mother had brought back a new father for him, and there was a new baby in the house that used to be his and… and he was simply an extra person. Someone who didn’t belong in the new story that his mother… the baby’s mother, was creating.
“Isn’t this what all the kids want?” she had said, “Now go play.”
Did she have a kind smile when she said that? He didn’t know, she wasn’t looking at him. And he took the bike and he rode away and the only thing that made it better was that his friend, his friend with the parents who loved him, his only friend in the world, didn’t have that bike.
And time passed and all he talked about was the bike, and where they would go if his friend had one too, all the wonderful adventures they would have. And they talked until his friend had to go home, to eat dinner with the family.
So he polished his bike, and he rode about, and he polished his bike some more. And he wondered what it’d be like to sit down at a dinner table with people who wanted him there.
Then one day his friend rode in on an awesome bike. And it was the new model, more awesome than his. And he stood there, watching as his friend was riding towards him, waving, smiling.
“Let’s go to the gorge!” his friend shouted out, “Let’s race!”. And he nodded.
And he rode behind his friend, who was laughing, and he didn’t feel happy at all.
He didn’t feel happy at all.
Then the father of his friend was talking to him, “It was an accident,” he said, tears flowing down a face broken by grief. “Don’t blame yourself,” the father said, making the effort to console the boy with the awesome bike, to tell him that it was an accident, to tell him that it wasn’t his fault.
The boy with the awesome bike lay on his bed and looked out at the moon without his window.
“It was my fault,” he told the father, who was no longer there to hear him.
“It wasn’t an accident,” he continued.
“I did it. I pushed him,” he confessed.
The prisoner shudders, wakes. He looks about him in a panic; the corridor in the courthouse. A nightmare is over; a nightmare is still unfolding.
“How do you plead?”
“I did it. I’m guilty. Please, just let me go. Please make her go away!”
Everyone in the room starts to talk at once, and the judge hammers his gavel again and again and again.
A nightmare is over; a nightmare is still unfolding.
The father of his friend was talking to him, making the effort to console the boy with the awesome bike, to tell him that it was an accident, to tell him that it wasn’t his fault.
The boy with the awesome bike lay on his bed and looked out at the moon without his window.
“It was my fault,” he told his friend, who was no longer there to hear him.
“It wasn’t an accident,” he continued.
“I did it. I pushed him,” he confessed.
And he got off the bed, and he knelt by the side of it, and he put his hands together, and he prayed.
“Okay,” the little girl says, “You’re sorry, I get it.”
In the moonlight, he looked up to see her sitting on his table, swinging her legs. Her face was shrouded in shadow, and her long hair pours down, straight and dark.
The old guard is at home. He never married, and lives alone in a small apartment. His hand hovers over the knob of the one room he rarely enters, and then he turns that knob, opens that door, and steps inside.
It is an empty room, except for a single thing, standing exactly in its centre. In the light of the afternoon sun streaming through the window, the bicycle stands.
The man who did a very bad thing closes the door, sits down by the wall, and gazes at it.
He lies down upon the floor, resting his head upon his arm, and then he closes his eyes.
“Long has paled that sunny sky,” he mouths, “Echoes fade and memories die.”
The room darkens.
“Autumn frosts have slain July,” says the little girl, in a voice barely above a whisper.
He opens his eyes and looks at her, the same girl who had come to him all those decades ago. “Is this enough?” he asks.
“Do you think it is?”
“I hope so,” he says, “I think I’d like to rest now. I’m so tired.”
She sits down next him, moves his head into her lap, strokes his grey hair. “You deserve your rest. You have done good, through these years.”
“But is it enough?”
“I am not the judge of that.”
“Do you think it is?”
“Yes,” she lies, “I think it was enough a long time ago.”
“Good,” he says, “good.”
She strokes his hair. His eyes are closed now.
“Good night,” he whispers.
“Sweet dreams,” she replies.
Very carefully, she lays his head back upon his arm.
“Still she haunts me, phantomwise,” he whispers, “Alice moving under skies.”
The voice of the young girl lingers, after her sad smile has faded away, “Never seen by waking eyes.”
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shop@noctalis
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Jesus said,
“Whoever blasphemes against the Father will be forgiven, and whoever blasphemes against the Child will be forgiven. But whoever blasphemes against the Holy Spirit will not be forgiven, either on earth or in heaven.”
