Of darkness In The Valleys
Date: 30 May 2001
Time: Evening
Location: Arcadia gallery
Characters Involved: Montague Morsus and Ciaran Malone
Rating:
(He sucked on his cigarette, slowly, watching the fire reflect in the window. It was a cold night on the British Isles- a cyclone was on its way. Inside his mind raged pure nothingness- but tell us, how could other things exist when there was fire consuming the whole stage and beyond? Fire-watching like a meditation, like a subterranean 'fuck you' in the face of Meaning. His bruised, swollen lips stretched in a smile. There were still blots of blood spattering the front of his white office shirt, its sleeves rolled up his elbows. It was a quiet night after an evening full of work and surprises. He liked days like these.
To begin with, it had been far too long since the last time he had assisted someone ferry across the river Styx. And unlike the sullen boatman there- he did not ask for rewards. After all, he was a very magnanimous man. But tonight was to mark a new beginning in his life; a beginning that brought to an end, almost abruptly and unexpectedly. The sun would go the other way and stars would extinguish in all the wrong directions.
He took another drag, sensual, filling his mouth with the taste of tobacco, bittersweet and nauseating. Digging around his very being, all quasaresque and black holes- we would see that he started smoking in his fourth grade. Obviously, in an attempt to shrug off the existence of pain as nonchalantly as possible. He really was a sweet child back then. But he couldn't bring himself to care. Excitement was already too deep within his veins, itching against his skin. If he didn't act, it would be too troublesome to collect all the unaesthetic pieces of his imploded body.
With one last drag, he uncrossed his legs and moved out of the darkened study. The moon was already thirty five degrees into the West.)
Montague Morsus stood leaning against the gates to Arcadia, clad in all black, almost invisible, waiting. Only the tip of his cigarette shimmered in the dark, working like a tireless lift- up and down, up and down. Repeat a few times, rinse, then go back into the initial position. Wait, was there a crack in the air?
Time: Evening
Location: Arcadia gallery
Characters Involved: Montague Morsus and Ciaran Malone
Rating:
(He sucked on his cigarette, slowly, watching the fire reflect in the window. It was a cold night on the British Isles- a cyclone was on its way. Inside his mind raged pure nothingness- but tell us, how could other things exist when there was fire consuming the whole stage and beyond? Fire-watching like a meditation, like a subterranean 'fuck you' in the face of Meaning. His bruised, swollen lips stretched in a smile. There were still blots of blood spattering the front of his white office shirt, its sleeves rolled up his elbows. It was a quiet night after an evening full of work and surprises. He liked days like these.
To begin with, it had been far too long since the last time he had assisted someone ferry across the river Styx. And unlike the sullen boatman there- he did not ask for rewards. After all, he was a very magnanimous man. But tonight was to mark a new beginning in his life; a beginning that brought to an end, almost abruptly and unexpectedly. The sun would go the other way and stars would extinguish in all the wrong directions.
He took another drag, sensual, filling his mouth with the taste of tobacco, bittersweet and nauseating. Digging around his very being, all quasaresque and black holes- we would see that he started smoking in his fourth grade. Obviously, in an attempt to shrug off the existence of pain as nonchalantly as possible. He really was a sweet child back then. But he couldn't bring himself to care. Excitement was already too deep within his veins, itching against his skin. If he didn't act, it would be too troublesome to collect all the unaesthetic pieces of his imploded body.
With one last drag, he uncrossed his legs and moved out of the darkened study. The moon was already thirty five degrees into the West.)
Montague Morsus stood leaning against the gates to Arcadia, clad in all black, almost invisible, waiting. Only the tip of his cigarette shimmered in the dark, working like a tireless lift- up and down, up and down. Repeat a few times, rinse, then go back into the initial position. Wait, was there a crack in the air?