Would You Lie With Me (Interlude - 11/16)
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Chapter Eight
The world didn’t end, not the way a story ends, or a life. There was a climax, and the falling action, but it didn’t end like that, with a lesson and a moral and a poignant phrasing of words that would crease the brow and pique the curiosity of anyone lucky enough to make it that far. This story wasn’t ready to end. It wasn’t ready for the characters to ride off into the sunset with their happily ever after. It wanted something grittier, something truer and it begged for it the only way it knew how. The push-pull and ebbing tides that orchestrated the dance of each player was gentle in its suggestive caresses, and even those that knew they were being positioned like so many chess pieces, had no idea how the game would end.
Each character, each dancer, each pawn was positioned so carefully, and so seemingly haphazardly, that when the final curtain fell and that final sentence should have rang out, a new story was ready to begin. This story, though, carried a theme of hope, decorated with archetypes and Jungian metaphors. Everything old was breaking apart, crumbling into the rubble that formed the dust under the travelers’ feet. Something new was rising, forming, outlined against the distant horizon. A new story, a new plot. Not a sequel but something separate, made from the crushed dreams and renewed hope of those who were there to read the epilogue, who were there to bridge the gap into the new prologue.
Chapter Nine
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Chapter Eight
The world didn’t end, not the way a story ends, or a life. There was a climax, and the falling action, but it didn’t end like that, with a lesson and a moral and a poignant phrasing of words that would crease the brow and pique the curiosity of anyone lucky enough to make it that far. This story wasn’t ready to end. It wasn’t ready for the characters to ride off into the sunset with their happily ever after. It wanted something grittier, something truer and it begged for it the only way it knew how. The push-pull and ebbing tides that orchestrated the dance of each player was gentle in its suggestive caresses, and even those that knew they were being positioned like so many chess pieces, had no idea how the game would end.
Each character, each dancer, each pawn was positioned so carefully, and so seemingly haphazardly, that when the final curtain fell and that final sentence should have rang out, a new story was ready to begin. This story, though, carried a theme of hope, decorated with archetypes and Jungian metaphors. Everything old was breaking apart, crumbling into the rubble that formed the dust under the travelers’ feet. Something new was rising, forming, outlined against the distant horizon. A new story, a new plot. Not a sequel but something separate, made from the crushed dreams and renewed hope of those who were there to read the epilogue, who were there to bridge the gap into the new prologue.
Chapter Nine
back to masterpost