(no subject)
I guess I should update more than once a month. Oh well.
Oh, and for those that asked, the "health problems" amount to muscle problems in my back. Not fun, but it could be much worse. And now - other stuff.
From the full moon this past week.
An ageless face, made clear by starlight pale,
Through spells and blood untouched by years of care.
But toils the heart knows too well to forget
Are mirrored out, through that pale, probing stare.
A clearing wide, all ringed by sylvan woods,
The autumn wind, all howling, singing chill,
Arises from the stillness of the clearing,
To shake from leaf and blade their icy frill.
A silver glare, shone from crystal sphere,
Which glows with alien fire, all liquid flame.
Held aloft in one strong hand it summons.
The winds respond as each is called by name.
Summoned from the winds who gave it birth,
And taught it how to fly, like them so free.
Tribute to a fantastic short story found online.
I'm feeling scarily romantic,
a little too serious about nothing.
A strange pale demon
slipped into my sleep
last night,
and I've been trying to
banish the beast
from my late evening thoughts.
But I can see him
lurking in the growing shadows.
He's watching me,
waiting patiently
for the right moment,
the right amount of darkness
for him to touch me and take me away
to the darkest of underworldly places
And I want to be stolen away,
to be kept small and quiet,
to be hidden from the eyes of men.
Part two of something that I found on the PC, and had completely forgotten about. Now the trick is to find part one.
Worst of all was the darkness. Cold and oppressive, it seemed to have a substance of its own, being far more than the mere absence of light. By now he would do anything for a little light. Not that he would be able to see, blinded as he was by days and weeks in utter darkness, but to bask in its brightness; to escape, if only for a moment, the feel of the dark about him.
As countless times before, he began to explore the cramped space with his hands. It was three paces wide from wall to wall; from the third wall it was four hesitant steps to the door, which was positioned a goodly bit above the floor. He could not reach the ceiling even with outstretched hands, and to stand upright was arduous on this slippery floor, slick with a thin film of the stagnant water that had dripped and dripped still from the unseen ceiling, and covered with other things that he would prefer not to dwell on-wished he could avoid to think about. He didn’t know how many had dwelt here in the darkness before him, as he did now, or how cleanly these had cared to be. At least he had long since become numb to the smell.
There was no mercy for those condemned to death. Not even in the form of a latrine.
From his sleeping corner-he had long since divided the space into a sleeping corner, an eating corner, a day corner, and a latrine corner-from his sleeping corner came the scratching noise of a rat, sifting through the rotting straw upon which he slept. He hoped, at least, that it was a rat. Sometimes, he would catch a glimpse of gleaming eyes in the dark, even though there was no light for them to reflect, and if there were rats, he didn’t know how they entered or left, nor could he catch them.
Light. Each cell of his body craved it; each fibre screamed for it. The first time he had seen the gleaming eyes-the first light he had seen in days-he had thrown himself toward those pale pinpricks of light without knowing why, acting on instinct, but their owner, whether rat or something else, had been too quick for him. Now he just watched them longingly; the only visible point for him to look at in the compact darkness. The eyes stared back at him; pale, gleaming, hungry, and filled with a sort of expectant patience.
With a rasping sigh he sat up, stiffly, in his day corner. The wall was cold and rough against the bare skin of his torso; water trickling down the wall from the ceiling was forced into new paths over his body. He flinched as the icy water found its way into the deep scars and wounds, not yet fully healed, that covered his back, making it stiff and sore. Whips had caused these wounds; whips and sticks and the cruelty of his guards. Yet it was neither the abuse nor the wounds it had left that tortured him the most. Nothing was worse than the darkness, the terrible darkness. Many he had heard of had gone mad from the lack of light in the dreadful kind of darkness in which he had now been held for almost half a year.
If only he had known before what this darkness would be like, he would not be here. He had not been afraid of flogging; back then, nor of dungeons, nor of darkness. But what he had done had far exceeded even what he was willing to do-willing to accept the consequences of-and drunkenness, anger, and overconfidence had turned a fistfight into a murder. Even then he had been arrogant, taunting the guards even as they dragged him toward the dungeons and the dreadful darkness. It was for this they had flogged him; it was for this that they had kept him for almost two weeks at a time without food, allowing him nothing but water.
He wrapped his spindly arms about his emaciated body, once tall and powerful; he bowed his head and wept bitterly. He tried to imagine sunlight-see it in his mind’s eye at least-tried to picture the city in the golden light the sun, a meadow at dawn, the light on the waves of the sea-but all he could summon was words. He could no longer remember what these things looked like. Even so, he sat long thus, repeating the word to himself, over and over, as though the word were a charm or a path to salvation: Light. Light. Light. He knew that he was going mad, but he couldn’t help but laugh at himself. It was a shrill laughter, and bitter, wholly unlike the laugh he had once possessed.
A faint clatter came from far away, and even though he didn’t know for sure whether it was a real sound or just something he had imagined-if it were but a figment of his imagination, it wouldn’t be the first time he harkened to sounds that weren’t there, grasped at things he only thought he could see, or flinched at the touch of invisible hands-but it might be a guard, and guards carried lanterns, and lanterns were Light.
He always longed for the guards to come, prayed constantly that they would arrive soon. It wasn’t the food he longed for. He had long since ceased to feel hunger, and ate only out of habit. It wasn’t even the water, even though thirst was the one physical need he still felt as keenly as ever. It was the light of the lanterns or torches, warm and comforting even though it blinded him, even if it came only along with a punch or the kick of a heavy boot, that he was no longer capable of avoiding or defending himself against. He heard a shrill murmur arise among the other prisoners, imprisoned here, deep within the earth, like himself. Light, they murmured. Light. Light.
Through the small, barred window of the cell door he could see a flickering light reflected against the opposite wall. It took him a minute to remember that the word used to describe such light was ‘ruddy’. Heavy footfall echoed in the hallway, and the glow grew stronger and stronger. Even before the lantern itself appeared in the window, the light was bright enough to blind him, but even when it did appear, and the light was so bright that it seemed to sear him and drive needles of pain through his eyes, he remained still and gazed directly into the light, reluctant to look away for even a moment, let alone cover his eyes. For a moment, he could almost remember the light of the sun; its warmth against his skin. Almost. For a moment.
“It’s today”, said the guard who carried the lantern, with a grim and coarse voice-but not cruel. Most guards seemed to hate him, and the other prisoners; this and a few others seemed to feel only contempt. It was the others that had flogged him.
It’s today. It’s today. He racked his brain, tried to comprehend what the guard had said-the implications thereof-and suddenly he realised what it meant. Today he would be brought up!-above earth!-back into the sunlight! His eyes teared with joy. Today he would be relieved of the horrors of the dark forever, never be forced into a dungeon deep below ground again.
Today, he would be hanged.
He was utterly blinded by the light, but he heard the door open, and he backed away. Even the gentles of the guards would strike him down if he stood close to the door when they opened it; if he stood in their way, if he threatened them. He stumbled and fell backwards to the floor, but he barely noticed it. He heard a low clatter and a scraping noise, whereupon the door was closed anew and the heavy footfall of the guard disappeared in the distance. The echo lingered for a long time, and in his mind, it lingered even longer.
But the light did not disappear.
It was the last light of the damned. It took a long while before his eyes could adjust enough for him to even make out the lantern that stood by the door, even dimly, and his vision was further impeded by the tears of joy that he wept as he understood that he would no longer dwell in darkness, would never dwell in darkness again, even while waiting for the guards to return.
On this day, he would be hanged, and he knew that he had only a few hours left to live.
Leaning over the warm glow of the lantern, he couldn’t recall ever being happier in his life.
Oh, and for those that asked, the "health problems" amount to muscle problems in my back. Not fun, but it could be much worse. And now - other stuff.
From the full moon this past week.
An ageless face, made clear by starlight pale,
Through spells and blood untouched by years of care.
But toils the heart knows too well to forget
Are mirrored out, through that pale, probing stare.
A clearing wide, all ringed by sylvan woods,
The autumn wind, all howling, singing chill,
Arises from the stillness of the clearing,
To shake from leaf and blade their icy frill.
A silver glare, shone from crystal sphere,
Which glows with alien fire, all liquid flame.
Held aloft in one strong hand it summons.
The winds respond as each is called by name.
Summoned from the winds who gave it birth,
And taught it how to fly, like them so free.
Tribute to a fantastic short story found online.
I'm feeling scarily romantic,
a little too serious about nothing.
A strange pale demon
slipped into my sleep
last night,
and I've been trying to
banish the beast
from my late evening thoughts.
But I can see him
lurking in the growing shadows.
He's watching me,
waiting patiently
for the right moment,
the right amount of darkness
for him to touch me and take me away
to the darkest of underworldly places
And I want to be stolen away,
to be kept small and quiet,
to be hidden from the eyes of men.
Part two of something that I found on the PC, and had completely forgotten about. Now the trick is to find part one.
Worst of all was the darkness. Cold and oppressive, it seemed to have a substance of its own, being far more than the mere absence of light. By now he would do anything for a little light. Not that he would be able to see, blinded as he was by days and weeks in utter darkness, but to bask in its brightness; to escape, if only for a moment, the feel of the dark about him.
As countless times before, he began to explore the cramped space with his hands. It was three paces wide from wall to wall; from the third wall it was four hesitant steps to the door, which was positioned a goodly bit above the floor. He could not reach the ceiling even with outstretched hands, and to stand upright was arduous on this slippery floor, slick with a thin film of the stagnant water that had dripped and dripped still from the unseen ceiling, and covered with other things that he would prefer not to dwell on-wished he could avoid to think about. He didn’t know how many had dwelt here in the darkness before him, as he did now, or how cleanly these had cared to be. At least he had long since become numb to the smell.
There was no mercy for those condemned to death. Not even in the form of a latrine.
From his sleeping corner-he had long since divided the space into a sleeping corner, an eating corner, a day corner, and a latrine corner-from his sleeping corner came the scratching noise of a rat, sifting through the rotting straw upon which he slept. He hoped, at least, that it was a rat. Sometimes, he would catch a glimpse of gleaming eyes in the dark, even though there was no light for them to reflect, and if there were rats, he didn’t know how they entered or left, nor could he catch them.
Light. Each cell of his body craved it; each fibre screamed for it. The first time he had seen the gleaming eyes-the first light he had seen in days-he had thrown himself toward those pale pinpricks of light without knowing why, acting on instinct, but their owner, whether rat or something else, had been too quick for him. Now he just watched them longingly; the only visible point for him to look at in the compact darkness. The eyes stared back at him; pale, gleaming, hungry, and filled with a sort of expectant patience.
With a rasping sigh he sat up, stiffly, in his day corner. The wall was cold and rough against the bare skin of his torso; water trickling down the wall from the ceiling was forced into new paths over his body. He flinched as the icy water found its way into the deep scars and wounds, not yet fully healed, that covered his back, making it stiff and sore. Whips had caused these wounds; whips and sticks and the cruelty of his guards. Yet it was neither the abuse nor the wounds it had left that tortured him the most. Nothing was worse than the darkness, the terrible darkness. Many he had heard of had gone mad from the lack of light in the dreadful kind of darkness in which he had now been held for almost half a year.
If only he had known before what this darkness would be like, he would not be here. He had not been afraid of flogging; back then, nor of dungeons, nor of darkness. But what he had done had far exceeded even what he was willing to do-willing to accept the consequences of-and drunkenness, anger, and overconfidence had turned a fistfight into a murder. Even then he had been arrogant, taunting the guards even as they dragged him toward the dungeons and the dreadful darkness. It was for this they had flogged him; it was for this that they had kept him for almost two weeks at a time without food, allowing him nothing but water.
He wrapped his spindly arms about his emaciated body, once tall and powerful; he bowed his head and wept bitterly. He tried to imagine sunlight-see it in his mind’s eye at least-tried to picture the city in the golden light the sun, a meadow at dawn, the light on the waves of the sea-but all he could summon was words. He could no longer remember what these things looked like. Even so, he sat long thus, repeating the word to himself, over and over, as though the word were a charm or a path to salvation: Light. Light. Light. He knew that he was going mad, but he couldn’t help but laugh at himself. It was a shrill laughter, and bitter, wholly unlike the laugh he had once possessed.
A faint clatter came from far away, and even though he didn’t know for sure whether it was a real sound or just something he had imagined-if it were but a figment of his imagination, it wouldn’t be the first time he harkened to sounds that weren’t there, grasped at things he only thought he could see, or flinched at the touch of invisible hands-but it might be a guard, and guards carried lanterns, and lanterns were Light.
He always longed for the guards to come, prayed constantly that they would arrive soon. It wasn’t the food he longed for. He had long since ceased to feel hunger, and ate only out of habit. It wasn’t even the water, even though thirst was the one physical need he still felt as keenly as ever. It was the light of the lanterns or torches, warm and comforting even though it blinded him, even if it came only along with a punch or the kick of a heavy boot, that he was no longer capable of avoiding or defending himself against. He heard a shrill murmur arise among the other prisoners, imprisoned here, deep within the earth, like himself. Light, they murmured. Light. Light.
Through the small, barred window of the cell door he could see a flickering light reflected against the opposite wall. It took him a minute to remember that the word used to describe such light was ‘ruddy’. Heavy footfall echoed in the hallway, and the glow grew stronger and stronger. Even before the lantern itself appeared in the window, the light was bright enough to blind him, but even when it did appear, and the light was so bright that it seemed to sear him and drive needles of pain through his eyes, he remained still and gazed directly into the light, reluctant to look away for even a moment, let alone cover his eyes. For a moment, he could almost remember the light of the sun; its warmth against his skin. Almost. For a moment.
“It’s today”, said the guard who carried the lantern, with a grim and coarse voice-but not cruel. Most guards seemed to hate him, and the other prisoners; this and a few others seemed to feel only contempt. It was the others that had flogged him.
It’s today. It’s today. He racked his brain, tried to comprehend what the guard had said-the implications thereof-and suddenly he realised what it meant. Today he would be brought up!-above earth!-back into the sunlight! His eyes teared with joy. Today he would be relieved of the horrors of the dark forever, never be forced into a dungeon deep below ground again.
Today, he would be hanged.
He was utterly blinded by the light, but he heard the door open, and he backed away. Even the gentles of the guards would strike him down if he stood close to the door when they opened it; if he stood in their way, if he threatened them. He stumbled and fell backwards to the floor, but he barely noticed it. He heard a low clatter and a scraping noise, whereupon the door was closed anew and the heavy footfall of the guard disappeared in the distance. The echo lingered for a long time, and in his mind, it lingered even longer.
But the light did not disappear.
It was the last light of the damned. It took a long while before his eyes could adjust enough for him to even make out the lantern that stood by the door, even dimly, and his vision was further impeded by the tears of joy that he wept as he understood that he would no longer dwell in darkness, would never dwell in darkness again, even while waiting for the guards to return.
On this day, he would be hanged, and he knew that he had only a few hours left to live.
Leaning over the warm glow of the lantern, he couldn’t recall ever being happier in his life.