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A Devil Of A Job.
#1
I can see the tiny pinprick of light above me and that alone, brings back the long-forgotten feeling of hope.
My dirt-streaked cheeks are wet with tears and the lucent cranny high in the blackness dances in the prism
of my lachryma, the fallout of hope I presume.

They had said it couldn't be done. They had commented that the symbolism was too gauche, too maladroit.
I can see in my mind's eye the big one at the back shaking his large-chained head at me with eyes that hinted
at failed experiences and sagacious doubts.
'It will not be allowed' -was one of the many warnings, 'They will shun you' was another.
They said I would be hunted because of how I look and be slain in the name of a fairytale.
They said many-many things.

I can feel coldness and that is a good sign, the concept of temperature was another thing that had been
forgotten. The idea that this reality would touch me on a physical level was in a way, comforting, it means that
I am in the 'real'

But the light is so far away, so far above me and I'm very tired. This body needs to rest and I need to collate, to
evaluate and to consider.

You see it's been so long since I've been top-side... to the surface, to be among you. These subterranean
bowels have been my home for an eternity and the twilight has been my friend for all that time.
Yet, the truth is that I am not underground or staring upwards from the gloom at an escape from the bottom of an
abyss, this is a mere metaphor, a play on an ancient belief, a trope.
I am living a lie -so to speak.

Oh I wish I could rest some more, but I must climb.

This substance that oozes between my fingers and concedes to my fingernails, it makes me reveal a rare emotion.
I smile.
It was written that man was created from such stuff, moulded and fashioned into a being that resembled Him.
The black stinking slime that holds bones, graves and rot -is the flesh of humanity, the thew of the simulacrum.
Oh, He must be proud.

The remains of matted material brush my shoulders as I ascend and the decaying substance is harsh on my skin,
another strange feeling. The scaling of these narrow walls stresses my muscles and pangs this delicate vellum.
Blood seeps from it's rends and I know by the sight of the scarlet liquid that I am becoming real, becoming
unfeigned.
The raillery of rising isn't lost on me and I stretch my mouth again in mirth, the circle of light is larger.

Did I tell you that I was never actually told that I was wrong...? Did I tell you that?
I know that your books portray me as a monster of flame and horn, a fiend to be feared and cursed.
Hooded figures with ornate baubles warn of my trickery and counsel you on how to protect yourself with hand
gestures and muttered benediction.

Stories of beguilement and yarns of promised-material wealth, relate to the reader that I deal with nothing more
than trinkets for the custody of man's soul. I am allegedly a trader... a dark trafficker in a bazaar and I wait on the
edge of your doubts.
Hooey for the ignorant!

Yet, your time has a way of changing the preposterous legends you feverishly wrote and now, it's deemed I am
'sexy' I am 'spicy'! The young find my existence provocative and the humourous renderings of my form appeal
to the minor who alligns me with his pubescent urges.
How droll, I'd wager!

Not far now.

My eyes ache with the brilliance as I approach the entrance of the shaft, but I will not be deterred.
I am so very tired.

I will assume at this point that you will expect me to walk among you with pacts and accords...? to whisper words
of promise and strong warranty? I'll guess that I will be expected to sport fine attire and have females draped from
each arm?
The shallowness of your view of me is saddening and yet, I forgive you. The hooded-ones caused this.
But on my emergence, I will show you the truth.
.......................


"Heh fella..." the old toothless man with the shovel shouted "...Yer' trespassin' on preevate property" It was nearly
noon and Jake was just about to knock off for his dinner.
Then pulling the wire-spectacles from his dungaree pocket and jamming them on his face, he took stock in
the sight before him. It was the third time this week.

There was no rousing music and no long-winded monologue, Jake merely hit the intruder with the shovel and
knocked him back down the pit. "Gertcha" was the only colloquy.
He had been here since time had began and Jake had accepted the appointment without any wavering.
It was a task that was important and the meals were free.

"It's a helluva thing when a fella can't have his bait in peace..." Jake chuntered as he gazed down into the
blackness of the pit. "...Yep, a helluva thing"
[Image: attachment.php?aid=953]
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#2
(08-12-2017, 05:44 PM)BIAD Wrote: I can see the tiny pinprick of light above me and that alone, brings back the long-forgotten feeling of hope.
My dirt-streaked cheeks are wet with tears and the lucent cranny high in the blackness dances in the prism
of my lachryma, the fallout of hope I presume.

They had said it couldn't be done. They had commented that the symbolism was too gauche, too maladroit.
I can see in my mind's eye the big one at the back shaking his large-chained head at me with eyes that hinted
at failed experiences and sagacious doubts.
'It will not be allowed' -was one of the many warnings, 'They will shun you' was another.
They said I would be hunted because of how I look and be slain in the name of a fairytale.
They said many-many things.

I can feel coldness and that is a good sign, the concept of temperature was another thing that had been
forgotten. The idea that this reality would touch me on a physical level was in a way, comforting, it means that
I am in the 'real'

But the light is so far away, so far above me and I'm very tired. This body needs to rest and I need to collate, to
evaluate and to consider.

You see it's been so long since I've been top-side... to the surface, to be among you. These subterranean
bowels have been my home for an eternity and the twilight has been my friend for all that time.
Yet, the truth is that I am not underground or staring upwards from the gloom at an escape from the bottom of an
abyss, this is a mere metaphor, a play on an ancient belief, a trope.
I am living a lie -so to speak.

Oh I wish I could rest some more, but I must climb.

This substance that oozes between my fingers and concedes to my fingernails, it makes me reveal a rare emotion.
I smile.
It was written that man was created from such stuff, moulded and fashioned into a being that resembled Him.
The black stinking slime that holds bones, graves and rot -is the flesh of humanity, the thew of the simulacrum.
Oh, He must be proud.

The remains of matted material brush my shoulders as I ascend and the decaying substance is harsh on my skin,
another strange feeling. The scaling of these narrow walls stresses my muscles and pangs this delicate vellum.
Blood seeps from it's rends and I know by the sight of the scarlet liquid that I am becoming real, becoming
unfeigned.
The raillery of rising isn't lost on me and I stretch my mouth again in mirth, the circle of light is larger.

Did I tell you that I was never actually told that I was wrong...? Did I tell you that?
I know that your books portray me as a monster of flame and horn, a fiend to be feared and cursed.
Hooded figures with ornate baubles warn of my trickery and counsel you on how to protect yourself with hand
gestures and muttered benediction.

Stories of beguilement and yarns of promised-material wealth, relate to the reader that I deal with nothing more
than trinkets for the custody of man's soul. I am allegedly a trader... a dark trafficker in a bazaar and I wait on the
edge of your doubts.
Hooey for the ignorant!

Yet, your time has a way of changing the preposterous legends you feverishly wrote and now, it's deemed I am
'sexy' I am 'spicy'! The young find my existence provocative and the humourous renderings of my form appeal
to the minor who alligns me with his pubescent urges.
How droll, I'd wager!

Not far now.

My eyes ache with the brilliance as I approach the entrance of the shaft, but I will not be deterred.
I am so very tired.

I will assume at this point that you will expect me to walk among you with pacts and accords...? to whisper words
of promise and strong warranty? I'll guess that I will be expected to sport fine attire and have females draped from
each arm?
The shallowness of your view of me is saddening and yet, I forgive you. The hooded-ones caused this.
But on my emergence, I will show you the truth.
.......................


"Heh fella..." the old toothless man with the shovel shouted "...Yer' trespassin' on preevate property" It was nearly
noon and Jake was just about to knock off for his dinner.
Then pulling the wire-spectacles from his dungaree pocket and jamming them on his face, he took stock in
the sight before him. It was the third time this week.

There was no rousing music and no long-winded monologue, Jake merely hit the intruder with the shovel and
knocked him back down the pit. "Gertcha" was the only colloquy.
He had been here since time had began and Jake had accepted the appointment without any wavering.
It was a task that was important and the meals were free.

"It's a helluva thing when a fella can't have his bait in peace..." Jake chuntered as he gazed down into the
blackness of the pit. "...Yep, a helluva thing"

minusculeclap   It's a Helluva Thing,,,, minusculeclap
Once A Rogue, Always A Rogue!
[Image: attachment.php?aid=936]
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#3
How many stories do you have in that brain?   tinylaughing  
One helluva imagination!                                                         minusculeclap




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#4
(08-12-2017, 09:35 PM)Mystic Wanderer Wrote: How many stories do you have in that brain?   tinylaughing  
One helluva imagination!                                                         minusculeclap

It usually starts just about the time I fall towards sleep.
The soft footfalls begin usually around midnight and sometimes, I can hear their giggling and whispering as the
tales gather at the side of the bed awaiting my decision of who get's to take a ride to Rogue-Nation-Land.

"I am a shocker..."states an unhealthy lean one with eyes that smoulder in an eldritch fog, "No-no, I'm your
huckleberry" suggests another that sways to an unknown rhythm and with a sleepy gaze, I watch it's skin
blister and bubble.

They jostle and joggle, scramble and shoulder, yarn-after-yarn in competition for the journey.

A security light goes on in the garden and the bedroom's shadows become gossamer, light tastes sour to
stories that lurk. "It's BIAD..." gasps one, "...he's out-and-about again" and the small gaggle of half-evolved
ideas shuffle back towards the darkness.
Maybe not tonight.

The trespassing cat that seeks a scurrying murine or a slumbering bird, cannot comprehend the congregation
that dwells in the house and the fear it's created from the illumination it caused.
A nocturnal butterfly-effect.

"Maybe tomorrow night?" one the older anecdote's suggests and just like starlings that swarm in the twilight
at the end of a warm summer's day, they move as-one towards the edge of my imagination and the forbearing
Sandman welcomes me aboard his dory of dreams.
[Image: attachment.php?aid=953]
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#5
Well... I DID ask, didn't I?                                   minusculeclap




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