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wolven7The running wasn't helping. Hours upon hours or jarring her ankles against the pavement, and it did nothing. Stopping was an equally reprehensible option because then she'd have to think, and that was the last thing she wanted.
Perhaps a Zen approach was best. Allow herself to take in everything, as it passed, and let it go, when it was gone. Look at the pictures on the walls, on the empty streets, and pass them, leaving them behind. Anything to keep her moving.
A small child, with a ball, smiling out from an empty shop window, his once white teeth yellowed with age and neglect.
Writing on the wall (the cliche not escaping her); catching the words "cat," "lung," "glisten."
A flickering television, its screen filled with stark contrast: White walls, bright, yet somehow dingy. Shiny black. Crackling electrical, monitor green, An impression of blood and bleached-blonde hair.
She shivers, bringing herself back to the now. Realising how dark its gotten. She checks where she is, and keeps running.
Looks down her street to her left: a flash of blue and red strobes. Deep bass music, and semi-hushed voices, so loud. A sheet. The gleam of chrome, a single falling tear. Keep moving.
A crow in an empty lot, tearing chunks of flesh, from the bloated corpse of some unidentifiable animal, screeching at her as she passes. Move.
Music from above. Lines follow her, as she moves faster, somehow, down the sidewalk: "Here come the monsters, they know what to do..." Her legs flare and scream. She keeps moving.
Into an alleyway. A dead end. Full of steam and the stench of rot and the lightningblue flashes and sparks of electricity, from above. Faces swim out of upper story windows, leering, reprimanding, forbidding. Her mother asks her, again, "why? What did I do wrong?" The priest, the doctor, Melissa; they all start in with their chorus of questioning looks, questing sobs, and pleading hands/ Ignoring them is impossible, and she knows she shouldn't have stopped moving.
She falls to her knees, her head against the brickwork, in front of her, and waits for them to (Please please please) become quiet again.
He found her in the alley, blood streaked hair and face. He stood, watching her, for a while, before moving forward, to pick her up.
She twitched and jittered, in her unconsciousness, living and reviewing short stories and isolated pictures, in her Headspace. Experiencing her vignettes. Again, he was amazed at her lightness, and her ability to go unnoticed. A girl, covered in blood, running pell-mell, through the city isn't something you miss.
He knew she wouldn't remember this one, until it happened again-- just like all the others-- and he knew she would never remember him, unless he made her. And he didn't want to do that. He was buried, in her, somewhere far deeper than her homicide, and she deserved the life she wanted to live. So he would do as he had always done.
He carried her out, into the street, and out of the city. He would help her survive.
He would keep her moving.
"Vignette" (c)Damien Williams. All Rights Reserved. Lyrics from "Tarred and Feathered" (c)Toren Atkinson. All Rights Reserved. http://www.holycow.com/thickets/musiclyrics.html
Perhaps a Zen approach was best. Allow herself to take in everything, as it passed, and let it go, when it was gone. Look at the pictures on the walls, on the empty streets, and pass them, leaving them behind. Anything to keep her moving.
A small child, with a ball, smiling out from an empty shop window, his once white teeth yellowed with age and neglect.
Writing on the wall (the cliche not escaping her); catching the words "cat," "lung," "glisten."
A flickering television, its screen filled with stark contrast: White walls, bright, yet somehow dingy. Shiny black. Crackling electrical, monitor green, An impression of blood and bleached-blonde hair.
She shivers, bringing herself back to the now. Realising how dark its gotten. She checks where she is, and keeps running.
Looks down her street to her left: a flash of blue and red strobes. Deep bass music, and semi-hushed voices, so loud. A sheet. The gleam of chrome, a single falling tear. Keep moving.
A crow in an empty lot, tearing chunks of flesh, from the bloated corpse of some unidentifiable animal, screeching at her as she passes. Move.
Music from above. Lines follow her, as she moves faster, somehow, down the sidewalk: "Here come the monsters, they know what to do..." Her legs flare and scream. She keeps moving.
Into an alleyway. A dead end. Full of steam and the stench of rot and the lightningblue flashes and sparks of electricity, from above. Faces swim out of upper story windows, leering, reprimanding, forbidding. Her mother asks her, again, "why? What did I do wrong?" The priest, the doctor, Melissa; they all start in with their chorus of questioning looks, questing sobs, and pleading hands/ Ignoring them is impossible, and she knows she shouldn't have stopped moving.
She falls to her knees, her head against the brickwork, in front of her, and waits for them to (Please please please) become quiet again.
____________________
He found her in the alley, blood streaked hair and face. He stood, watching her, for a while, before moving forward, to pick her up.
She twitched and jittered, in her unconsciousness, living and reviewing short stories and isolated pictures, in her Headspace. Experiencing her vignettes. Again, he was amazed at her lightness, and her ability to go unnoticed. A girl, covered in blood, running pell-mell, through the city isn't something you miss.
He knew she wouldn't remember this one, until it happened again-- just like all the others-- and he knew she would never remember him, unless he made her. And he didn't want to do that. He was buried, in her, somewhere far deeper than her homicide, and she deserved the life she wanted to live. So he would do as he had always done.
He carried her out, into the street, and out of the city. He would help her survive.
He would keep her moving.
"Vignette" (c)Damien Williams. All Rights Reserved. Lyrics from "Tarred and Feathered" (c)Toren Atkinson. All Rights Reserved. http://www.holycow.com/thickets/musiclyrics.html
no subject
Date: 2002-11-05 06:07 am (UTC)--JMDC
Re:
Date: 2002-11-05 08:21 am (UTC)My characters rarely make Repeat apperances, these days...
Besides, it's another snippet. Another tantalizing taste. A Vignette. Hopefully, they;ll morph, flow and change, and find their own way into your subconscious.
Like stories are meant to.
Damn..
Date: 2002-11-05 09:35 am (UTC)-Mech
Re: Damn..