Like nakedness that is an artistic value, and death, death is a performance too. Like sex. And love.
Date: 28 July, 2000
Time: 3am
Location: Terry's mind, really. 'Dreamscape.'
Character(s) Involved: Terry Boot and a dream-Montague Morsus.
Rating: PG-13
Complete
The world was only showing in limited colours that night - flat shades of black, white, red, and yellow. The velvet curtains of the night sky were drawn to reveal a handful of scattered stars and a jagged, gaping moon. The wounded satellite bleeding white light down upon a strange scene; chipped headstones of the forgotten casting long shadows on the overgrown grass, reaching out for the shoe that was only inches from their grasps. Terry Boot, sitting on the ground Indian-style, was gazing past the many black fingers - up to the sky.
But - slowly (and only after several minutes), he turned his reflective eyes to the red umbrella that bloomed over the shoulder of his companion- a popping sanguine circle in the dark. The boy smiled, only a trace, shifting his own yellow umbrella with two hands. The elbows of his stiff suit looked dangerous from the corners of his eyes.
Everything seemed to be holding its breath - there were no sounds of life or death in the air surrounding the pair. And it was because of this that Terry began to feel a small pull of worry in the back of his mind. Something’s off, it was saying. But went unheeded - the silence much too engulfing for such whispers to be heard. The smooth stone was nice to lean against - even if it did leave backwards letters imprinted on palms and the like.
A skeleton tree, that seemed to have grown from the bodies under the earth, swayed noiselessly, despite the lack of wind. Terry kept his eyes fixed on the other’s umbrella. The stars doubled suddenly.
Somewhere in the next moon, a sound of fighting was heard. Someone was stomping on someone's head, silently, not a word escaping either’s mouth. Only the crunch of bones shattered away underneath the heavy Nazi boots, and a sadistic hiss of Jewish Heil! over the dead corpse of an Aryan soldier - history in a reverse mode, from toe to head, from back to front, from white to black.
A lame lacquered chair (English Rococo) beneath the red umbrella man screeched - sound muted and unheard (and thus non-existent), as he crossed his legs elegantly. The shades on his eyes emphasized the depth of the oceanic perturbations, only stale and marble. His lips, delicious petals - dead, dead, dead.
"Am I dead?
Who is to say I am dead?
Who is to say when they die?
Morituri te salutant!"
The umbrella started melting - blood pouring down onto the downtrodden earth, carnations sprouting forth in a forced copulation with air. Like nakedness that is an artistic value, and death, death is a performance too. Like sex. And love.
Thick, shining plastic puddles of red began to collect indolently around the burgeoning stems of inflamed flowers. But… still, there was no sound. Just letters - heavy, chalky, and white - falling from the moving lips of the man, stacked high in front of the pair. A peculiar book of sorts - leaving a layer of dusty language on Terry’s shoes for the fresh petals to inhale.
Morituri te salutant. The boy’s glacial eyes lifted from the florid splash and bone, moving themselves slowly to the back of the man’s head. Terry stared for a long moment - until his own umbrella burst into a million suns. Jumping at this new creation, he only managed to watch as the glowing spheres flew out into the night sky - passing the cracked moon without so much as a backward glance.
Lead. That was all the dead gave.
Terry, setting the empty umbrella cane on the red dirt, pulled his knees to his chest and looked back up at the man expectantly. "Well?"
"In the well there was an undine."
A splash of water came over their heads, uncovered and vulnerable. Where's my umbrella, where's my umbrella? It soaked them through, and froze their insides into icy stalactites, and a mere flinch would cause their death.
"Who is to say I am dead?"
The millions of suns disappeared in the brocade folds of Nótt, lighting up their way into her perineum - and she gasped, before thrashing on her cross, crucified on the branches of Yggdrasil. Apples fell down from the ash tree. Dropping slowly, he captured them on his film - a drop after another, crystal red, burgundy wine from Southern France.
"Like mine, like yours - like sanguine suns, a collaboration of the two - the two umbrellas, traveling. Into. SPACE ODDITY. the. NO-thing."
It was only after a number of infinite seconds of fresh silence that Terry realised it’d been broken in the first place - like pieces of glass jutting out from shadows, aching to destroy and deform. The vibrations of the other’s words and sounds threatened to split the dampened earth below - and release the dead. The boy suddenly began to shiver as more block letters, accompanying sounds, plunged from the other man’s mouth.
The salty drizzle, as if from a giant Alice, darkened shades and left hard, white shorelines on Terry’s cuffs. Distractedly, he wiped the lenses of his spectacles clean as he climbed to his knees. Hands pressed and pledged together in a prayer; liquid eyes closed reverently for another quiet moment. The flowers too bowed their heads. "I say you’re dead."
The eyes opened and Terry smiled. The air was tasteless.
He wasn't there. Anymore? He wasn't there. The lame chair fell apart without the ultimate support of the body above, or without the thought of the body - the very essence, the quintessential eccentricity of the centrifugal sense.
He was inside.
"Like mine, like yours." The whispers coiled around his ears, the pale replica of blocked letters - the Central European calligraphy. The Pope's diary was written in it. He had a dozen of midget-robots, the breathing machines; they were the local punchcutters, moulding worlds and shadows beneath which lay the sleepy-heads of Godric's Hollow.
"I like your blood," the dark blue veins throbbed. "You keep clean."
The boy froze. "I - yes, antiseptics," he stuttered breathily, closing his eyes tight against the new pollution. Fuck.
A collaboration brought to you by Woodra and Tabs.
Time: 3am
Location: Terry's mind, really. 'Dreamscape.'
Character(s) Involved: Terry Boot and a dream-Montague Morsus.
Rating: PG-13
Complete
The world was only showing in limited colours that night - flat shades of black, white, red, and yellow. The velvet curtains of the night sky were drawn to reveal a handful of scattered stars and a jagged, gaping moon. The wounded satellite bleeding white light down upon a strange scene; chipped headstones of the forgotten casting long shadows on the overgrown grass, reaching out for the shoe that was only inches from their grasps. Terry Boot, sitting on the ground Indian-style, was gazing past the many black fingers - up to the sky.
But - slowly (and only after several minutes), he turned his reflective eyes to the red umbrella that bloomed over the shoulder of his companion- a popping sanguine circle in the dark. The boy smiled, only a trace, shifting his own yellow umbrella with two hands. The elbows of his stiff suit looked dangerous from the corners of his eyes.
Everything seemed to be holding its breath - there were no sounds of life or death in the air surrounding the pair. And it was because of this that Terry began to feel a small pull of worry in the back of his mind. Something’s off, it was saying. But went unheeded - the silence much too engulfing for such whispers to be heard. The smooth stone was nice to lean against - even if it did leave backwards letters imprinted on palms and the like.
A skeleton tree, that seemed to have grown from the bodies under the earth, swayed noiselessly, despite the lack of wind. Terry kept his eyes fixed on the other’s umbrella. The stars doubled suddenly.
Somewhere in the next moon, a sound of fighting was heard. Someone was stomping on someone's head, silently, not a word escaping either’s mouth. Only the crunch of bones shattered away underneath the heavy Nazi boots, and a sadistic hiss of Jewish Heil! over the dead corpse of an Aryan soldier - history in a reverse mode, from toe to head, from back to front, from white to black.
A lame lacquered chair (English Rococo) beneath the red umbrella man screeched - sound muted and unheard (and thus non-existent), as he crossed his legs elegantly. The shades on his eyes emphasized the depth of the oceanic perturbations, only stale and marble. His lips, delicious petals - dead, dead, dead.
"Am I dead?
Who is to say I am dead?
Who is to say when they die?
Morituri te salutant!"
The umbrella started melting - blood pouring down onto the downtrodden earth, carnations sprouting forth in a forced copulation with air. Like nakedness that is an artistic value, and death, death is a performance too. Like sex. And love.
Thick, shining plastic puddles of red began to collect indolently around the burgeoning stems of inflamed flowers. But… still, there was no sound. Just letters - heavy, chalky, and white - falling from the moving lips of the man, stacked high in front of the pair. A peculiar book of sorts - leaving a layer of dusty language on Terry’s shoes for the fresh petals to inhale.
Morituri te salutant. The boy’s glacial eyes lifted from the florid splash and bone, moving themselves slowly to the back of the man’s head. Terry stared for a long moment - until his own umbrella burst into a million suns. Jumping at this new creation, he only managed to watch as the glowing spheres flew out into the night sky - passing the cracked moon without so much as a backward glance.
Lead. That was all the dead gave.
Terry, setting the empty umbrella cane on the red dirt, pulled his knees to his chest and looked back up at the man expectantly. "Well?"
"In the well there was an undine."
A splash of water came over their heads, uncovered and vulnerable. Where's my umbrella, where's my umbrella? It soaked them through, and froze their insides into icy stalactites, and a mere flinch would cause their death.
"Who is to say I am dead?"
The millions of suns disappeared in the brocade folds of Nótt, lighting up their way into her perineum - and she gasped, before thrashing on her cross, crucified on the branches of Yggdrasil. Apples fell down from the ash tree. Dropping slowly, he captured them on his film - a drop after another, crystal red, burgundy wine from Southern France.
"Like mine, like yours - like sanguine suns, a collaboration of the two - the two umbrellas, traveling. Into. SPACE ODDITY. the. NO-thing."
It was only after a number of infinite seconds of fresh silence that Terry realised it’d been broken in the first place - like pieces of glass jutting out from shadows, aching to destroy and deform. The vibrations of the other’s words and sounds threatened to split the dampened earth below - and release the dead. The boy suddenly began to shiver as more block letters, accompanying sounds, plunged from the other man’s mouth.
The salty drizzle, as if from a giant Alice, darkened shades and left hard, white shorelines on Terry’s cuffs. Distractedly, he wiped the lenses of his spectacles clean as he climbed to his knees. Hands pressed and pledged together in a prayer; liquid eyes closed reverently for another quiet moment. The flowers too bowed their heads. "I say you’re dead."
The eyes opened and Terry smiled. The air was tasteless.
He wasn't there. Anymore? He wasn't there. The lame chair fell apart without the ultimate support of the body above, or without the thought of the body - the very essence, the quintessential eccentricity of the centrifugal sense.
He was inside.
"Like mine, like yours." The whispers coiled around his ears, the pale replica of blocked letters - the Central European calligraphy. The Pope's diary was written in it. He had a dozen of midget-robots, the breathing machines; they were the local punchcutters, moulding worlds and shadows beneath which lay the sleepy-heads of Godric's Hollow.
"I like your blood," the dark blue veins throbbed. "You keep clean."
The boy froze. "I - yes, antiseptics," he stuttered breathily, closing his eyes tight against the new pollution. Fuck.
A collaboration brought to you by Woodra and Tabs.