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Thread: Story Time

  1. #1
    Pleasing the Fates Senior Member A Nerd's Avatar
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    Default Story Time

    Just brief 'stories' perhaps even an attempt at a poem in the future for this thread. No proofreading though. Grammar might be lacking.

    The ships sailed heading for the northwest passage, the family plot all bore the same year of death, I am sure there are more examples but the width and gait of the mouth of time has surely swallowed them up. Very odd that a man’s capacities should be overtaken by something that which science and general know how, cannot explain. Science may be and certainly was an archaic form of spell craft, but something that floats in the air and burrows beneath the earth seems to have a better grasp of the generalities that rule our pleasant, yet sometimes temperamental earth. These shadows of the woods, these unexplainable noises in the night as the mind attempts to pacify itself, only to be interrupted by an unknown fear. History will tell us that the deep wood and the savages who dwelled within them were conquered as were the territories to the west of the new arrivals. But do they still linger? Can science disprove an opinion based on a memory seen with eyes or heard with ears much like that on a head of science? The wooded areas may have been cleared for civilization, the savages have been tamed and put out to pasture, but what did they leave behind? There is something unknown and unknowable to those who disbelieve in what they do not understand. To look back and truly see is a difficult thing. But unexplainable things shall always be present as long as there are curious minds to note that at least there might be something lurking in the fog of time. What is on the cool winds of the hibernation months that will cause goose bumps on skin that feels no cold? What casts steady gazes at your back when you are alone and unable to turn around to see it? Tricks of the mind? Can a well-educated and well-grounded mind be unsettled by that which it learned a long time ago was just an illusion or a subconscious fear that best be let alone? We can blame it on superstition. We can blame it on youth and inexperience. Or, we can perhaps follow the source of the breeze, turn ourselves around and take a long, deep gaze at the shadows in the corner of our empty rooms. People enjoy a fictional, controllable fear. The unknowns however, settle in the marrow and cause a shiver that no amount of heat can subdue. It is like the icy gaze of malevolence gazing deep into your soul and you cannot look back to see its mood. Is it malevolent? Probably not, but fear can out dictate ration thinking. What is to become of this unsettled mass of unknown unknowables? As science advances beyond our world to places only deep minds can even fathom, what shall they find there? It does make one wonder, but not for too long for ration and the reasoning behind it shall always silence the speech of the silent.
    Silence is beautiful

  2. #2
    Pleasing the Fates Senior Member A Nerd's Avatar
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    Default Re: Story Time

    I was just practicing with stuff on this one. I plan to continue this writing if you will whenever the mood should arise. I don't know where it's going at this point. Nowhere perhaps. Anyway, here it is:

    Gazing out the window into complete darkness, you see, the moon obscured by passing clouds that would be called fair weather clouds were it not at such a late hour of the evening. The stars do emit their glow but with a crescent moon obscured, it would seem any such trip into it, it being the darkness, unlikely. My room is a glow with a single candle lit. The fireplace has gone cold. It merely smolders with the ash of a once warm fire that did indeed touch to core of my being keeping me quite comfortable in this room for which forever seems to dim, dim, and dim to the lighting reminiscent of the outside. With a hiss, the candle has gone out. For shame, I seem to have misplaced another. The matches are gone as well. How could I neglect my safe and secure surroundings as such and misplace such necessities of a dark and cold winters evening. Reaching for my coat, hat and other adornments that will protect me from the cold, I must indeed make my way out of doors to collect some wood. It should be where I left it I shall chuckle to myself in order for a shiver to warm my spine. Early January it is, quite cold, but to my good fortune not a flake of snow has fallen this evening or for that matter any before. New England weather can be so temperamental you see. I wander through the remaining rooms of my small cabin which are limited to the cooking area/seating room. The hearth in this room has long gone cold as well. Not a flicker of red glow can be seen beneath the rather large cauldron I make some stew in. It was a delightful stew, venison, some garden vegetables and a gravy so thick it still sits comfortably in my stomach despite having been put there some hours ago. The scent remains, for the cauldron is still half full, but it is as cold as the evening I must soon put myself out into the mercy of. The table, a large wooden beast of a furniture setting I must say, is empty. Four large chairs surround it where shadows that play tricks on my vision seem now to occupy. They move and gesture to one another. Rather odd, for I can hear no conversation, but there do indeed seem to be translucent beings gathered around the table having some inaudible, rather interesting it does seem, conversation. It is funny how things like this table setting can play tricks on the mind when you are alone and it is dark. I find the door, which wasn’t hard to do, the cabin being so small. Once opened, a shrill and piercing breeze brushes across my face instantly turning it to the reddish hue of a drunkard. My nose begins to run, my whole body winces as it gets used to the discrepancy in temperature between my, what was, seemingly, cold cabin to an even colder out of doors. Once I close the door behind me, I take a minute to actually enjoy the evening somewhat. The winds hiss through the pines, the moon is again exposed casting ghostly shadows upon the clearing surrounding my cabin, sounds unknown echo through the darkness of the dense wood that surrounds the clearing that surrounds my cabin. Ever circle. Ever circle do the noises. What causes them I know not. Forest creatures? Falling limbs and other natural debris hitting the forest floor? Whatever the case may be, I make my way toward the several chord of wood I prepared earlier in the year in preparation for the winter. I break the spines of fallen twig and blade of grass as I walk. They rustle and snap as I make the several steps toward the wood pile that is at the border of my cabin’s property. I build a shed for it last summer. It is just a simple building. One large room, no windows and one entry door at the front. The front being the wall that points at my living cabin. It is oblong in shape, rather rectangular, with a high slanted roof. It took little time to put up for there is an abundance of wood here and the other building supplies I had brought with me when I chose this spot to merely exist. It is funny how quickly one can forget the particulars of society when you live alone and isolated for an extended period of time. I haven’t even lived here for over a year and the noise and bustle of the city is all but forgotten. Replaced by what is ever growing as a beautiful January evening.
    Silence is beautiful

  3. #3
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    Default Re: Story Time

    What can be seen with the eyes is interpreted by the mind. I told myself that on so many a lonely evening as I strolled down the narrow, empty streets seeking what I could not see but knew existed in the darkness. The city was asleep. The sky was high and bright, adorned with the stars and their consuming constellations putting needle holes in the black void that is this warm evening. The moon was a crescent. Quite bright it would seem, you know, at times the moon seems to glow with greater luminescence at its lower phases than when it is full. That is the way it seemed to me tonight. A dull glow seemed to illuminate the buildings and streets, compounded by the shadows that existed or my eyes put together as they danced across the variety of structures in some strange dance that beckoned me closer as if I could join them. They would fade and dance away as I approached, but to follow them seemed pointless for I could never get close enough. I would walk in circles chasing the dark women who seemed to want for my attention but would never reciprocate my attention. The wind blew softly, a siren song that carried my weight, moved my feet and kept my heart pumping with anticipation for that clarity that seemed to exist in the heavens but was lost in my mind somewhere which seemed as intangible as the dark women who danced in circles around and around my now motionless body. I do believe my name was called, as the wind sung somewhat in a stronger more base pitch. I hear it slightly as a hiss as I turn my head about and about and the dark women dance and the sky mocks me with a clarity and beauty I will never find. How I longed for some foliage, so I induced movement and my feet promptly carried me to the park at the center of town. It too was dark, obviously, and the dancing was frenetic as the tree tops swayed in the dance that the wind provided. My name again, into the dark dance I entered. The ground was soft, my footprints were audible as I made my way in. The dancing of the dark women now moved too quickly to take in their individuality, a mass of feminine form of shadow swirling faster and faster as the wind picked up and the trees moaned in the burden of their sway. I found a bench, sat down and took it all in. I could still see in all in my mind as my eyes closed tightly as I could now feel the dark women caressing my face. Oh how it was so alluring. That song of wind passing through the canopy, the deep moan of the trees and the dancing women I could now see moving about on the darkened inside of my closed eye lids. They were very close and I could now see them more clearly than when my eyes were open. Dark hooded dress, pale complexion. Raven haired beauties they were indeed as I saw them dance. Their hair as I could see it from beneath their hoods. It seemed to be attempting to pull away from them like the arms of the unfortunate as the grasped for the moon light, the stars, anything but those pale, dark eyes beauties. I found I couldn’t stand, I didn’t even know if I was sitting anymore. My eyes would not open and my limbs no longer moved. As I heard my name called one final time, echoing through the chasm of my ever tiring mind I let myself go. I succumbed to the song, the dance the clarity I now felt, and slept. Come dawn, there was no sunlight, no signs of a new day. Just the dance upon the inside of my forever closed eyelids and a want for those beautiful dark women.
    Silence is beautiful

  4. #4
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    Default Re: Story Time

    In the past things just seem so perfect. Hindsight as some might say is always clearest to the observer who can see the problems and fix them without necessarily doing so. What I mean is the past will always be perfect to he who wants it to be. Gazing across the decades at times gone by. Whether it be via photograph or even moving photograph. It is all the same. In my vision of the past I see a desire that cannot die. I see a desire that can never die. Fixed in that still or series thereof, if only the ability to communicate. Quite the impossibility, but if it were allowed, were it possible, perhaps things might have turned out differently. Not to change history, that is not the intent. Merely to reach out to an individual or group of individuals and conjure up some series of sentences to make them aware of your existence and your desire to note theirs. And so we begin. Nature has allowed me to converse with the dead. Well, the dead and the living. You see in the current still I am observing some of them are dead and some are living. But the concept remains the same. All philosophical spiel aside, conversations were being had. Lives of the past and present were being affected. It was a dream actually. A magical, amorphous, great golden idea that was allowing me, the hero of this tale, to interact with the past. Now the medium shall be undisclosed. So shall the subject matter. But let it be known that I was interacting with the dead and living in a still or series thereof. It was quite the brilliant experience. The fairer of the sexes seeming even more so due to the antiquity of the still. The males were loud and boisterous which seem so ancient and archaic to the modern observer, even though only a few decades had passed. All facets of my new found ability and the complete collection of human emotion would be observed in both myself and my newly found company. To the minute detail I will try to purvey this information on the captive reader very shortly, but for now, let it be known, a time bridge had been established. What I am to do with this time bridge and how it affects those involved will be covered to some extent in the near at hand future. A future for me but for my contacts anchored in the past it is all but immortality unless I should seek them out in the present. Again, dead or living. You may ask how could any being of this world be immortal? How could time not persist in an ever aging universe? Well, the answer is thus: The still or series thereof are fixed in the span of 3-4 years. I, your hero, will only be traversing the time bridge (a rather catchy name I must admit), to speak with the past during the years of this before mentioned span. Why this span you may ask? No particular reason. As disinteresting as that sounds I just happened on the time period in question, build the bridge, and began a long and exhaustive interaction with the inhabitants. The entries to follow will not be a diatribe of convolution, but rather, an erratic view of life in the past as seen through the mind of someone who can be here and there at the same time. I, your hero. At the expense of formulating any more clichés, which isn’t by accident I might add, I will conclude this edition and start to prepare for the next one. I assure you, I have a moderately firm grasp of my faculties, I am not yet crazy. This is merely an experiment with notions, ideas and is more or less fiction.
    Silence is beautiful

  5. #5
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    Default Re: Story Time

    I am gazing at the stills, yes I think it best to clarify. There is not one still in this example of time bridge, but rather a series of stills that move in a very meticulous order such that what I am witnessing moves about here and there. They dance on the screen (you need a screen to view it?!) (yes), the members of my conversational party. Dancing might seem too silly actually. They just walk about, postulate, speak all the normal actions of a human design that I and all else have become accustomed to. Now, Time Bridge is possible with one still. It has been accomplished on several occasions that slow fade from memory for it has been awhile since anything relevant to the still in question or not in question (remember, there have been quite a few. Perhaps I even failed to mention that). Stills can be quite old, but the technique remains the same. More or less. There is just less to see and hear. For it is but just a split second in time. Not an ever moving period of various lengths. But I digress. I wish to concentrate on the 3-4 year time span of my current endeavor. Or rather, my fraternization with those who occupied a time before me. No, I had yet to be born in the span in question. I did see the decade, albeit later along the 10 years, well, I remember one year of the decade in life. The stills in question are earlier than I but I have never lamented where I was to visit for the interactions are such pleasure that I literally gave up intoxicants such that I could see them and partake in the occupants of the stills spirits rather than the rot gut I was pouring down my throat. Interesting path this tale has just taken. I just now recalled the alcohol ingestion during my earlier forays into the past via a time bridge. Ah, that burning, foul tasting and unpleasantly pungent liquor. How I loathe it! Slowly lulling the senses to dull wit, foul humor and eventually unconsciousness. Time Bridge is best enjoyed sober. Quite the simple statement I assume, but truth none the less. (Am I drunk now?) (Most certainly not! Just some tea and a slight twinge of enthusiasm. Nothing more). It’s funny really, as I think back to my many interactions, including the 3-4 year span I frequently mention, I do so traversing my own past. Yes, I speak of alcohol again. Everything that could have been said, heard, understood and remembered are lost. It was either not retained due to the sea of whiskey that flooded my brain or perhaps I was precautious and involuntarily pushed to the back of my subconscious where it was eventually lost. Foolish of me really. But it seemed to embellish what I was doing at the time. The interaction seemed heightened. I wasn’t necessarily paying attention to the subject matter, but I was connecting with the players within the stills (Moving stills yes, for that is the subject of this story). What was being exchanged you might wonder. To be quite frank, I do as well. I must admit this current memory trace speaks of intoxication and as I said it always lead to unconsciousness. I don’t remember a thing. Well, I remember snippets here and there, but nothing particularly substantive. (The 3-4 years man! That is the topic!) Well damn it all, it did want to describe the period a little more but I was sidetracked and found that the information I could provide on prolific intoxication via rot gut whiskey might enlighten the reader and at the least provide some humor. What I can say as time grows short (one page per episode) (…rules are our friends…), is that this is not necessarily magic, just the results of a vivid imagination. (Yeah…yeah). Ah, she agrees, with herself of course. Which is always the best way to conduct yourself when talking to yourself. The 3-4 years are hard to define at this point for I wish to keep the period vague to protect and similarities to those living or dead. Also, I haven’t decided how I wish to do that. This is the story of the so-called time bridge after all. Progress in defining has been made, yes, but it still needs more detail. I think my years of time bridging (verb) has left me somewhat unsettled you might say. Well, not to an extreme degree, I just need to brush up on my social skills nothing more. I want to stretch this thought as far as I can take it. (Rot gut whiskey)(Of course not)Time Bridge and the one place I want to focus on is the ultimate goal. I just fear it might take some time to arrive. To conclude this (is it convoluted?)(Oh yes.) I will merely state that I too once received a shaving kit (thanks rot gut) but that was some time ago.
    Silence is beautiful

  6. #6
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    Default Re: Story Time

    Time Bridge was a dream of sorts long before the stills in question that I mention all too frequently. Why should it be mentioned ad nauseum? Well the reason is that in an effort to keep this manic ordering of time and space comprehendible, I must mention it again and again to maintain its structure (the form of which varies none from place to place), and retain its integrity (by which I mean it’s purpose and periodic usage). Is that even true? Well, to mention it over and over is a nice way to adhere to plot for someone who has a hard time doing so. But let’s move on. Its first conception was antique stills, predating 1900. There was such a fascination with the faces, the flesh and the life twinkling in the eyes of the subjects that I needed a deeper connection to them. So many years prior to my current life span (yes indeed, if I may be blunt, the first subject was circa 1850), seeking out what was seeming lacking in the present; in person, in appearance and within the realms of plethoric emotion. I dabbled in Time Bridge to rectify what I concluded was a problem with my own thought process, my own indifference (lack of emotion?), and my own empty efforts that gained only dismay and deep rooted cynicism. I became quite addicted to these old photos. Brick by brick I would pose questions, attempt to reach the life I could see in the long dead eyes in these people and have (seemingly) long conversations with the dead once alive. To attempt a physical touch (were it possible, heh heh, me thinks it is, heh heh) would be inappropriate so it wasn’t attempted but the temptation was and is (I do still view photos of said period from time to time) hugely relevant. Were (speaking strictly on photos) my visits selfish? Did I have ulterior motives to some company and perhaps some compassion? I would think not. For I never could discern how much, if anything, concerning my words and choice of topic ever got through. It is far easier to see the return of emotion when the picture is moving, films and such in other words. A genre completely different to old photos and daguerreotypes. What was seen then? What kept you looking (still looking) at your medium, your desired destination for Time Bridge? It’s the life in those eyes! That glimmer of light reflecting through the eye and extenuated by the fleshy orbit of a beautiful face and expression. Captured accidentally, yet effortlessly by the photographer so many years ago. (This piece is sounding too philosophical)(Is it?). Reaching back over and over you come to notice certain generic differences; clothing, hair style, furniture, etc. But the overall character, the actor in the play, is starkly different. Did I catch a movement of that glitter? Did the head moving in agreement or perhaps to disagree? Could I evoke such a movement of static frame that my words, my thoughts are reaching the subject? This is madness! It couldn’t possibly be so! Aye, but to my casual eye, methinks I did indeed see something. Something missing from my present that feeds the conversation, feeds the plethoric emotion, feeds that inner being (That social being by nature that we all are) in the isolation and silence of the photo (and myself). What develops I don’t feel free to comment on, at this point in time anyway, it would seem too early (rushed perhaps). It is times like these that you seek out a certain finality. A certain end all to make the evocations more physical, a soft, fleshy tangibility. As nice as this might sound (to some) it would seem at this juncture, an impossibility. I have yet to see any signs of an H.G. Wells novel in my experiences. But to quote another (not H.G. Wells) ‘he’s always looking’. I say again, this is madness, it must be! The appeal for the antique (antique women namely)(shhhh…the men are just as interesting from an intellectual standpoint) mutes the fear of modern day repercussion. Modern day repercussion being defined as an unstable and social inept madman. Possible diagnosed as such once or many times by an ever interested army of illuminati like phycologists. But the fear of this (it’s happened already), the social rejection that follows is over time, more loosely entertained such that all I need do is peer into the past via Time Bridge and those fears are forgotten. For the time being anyway.
    Silence is beautiful

  7. #7
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    Default Re: Story Time

    Time Bridge is an interesting take on reality. The ability to go here and there with thought treading over the ornate façade and lovely paving stones that make the trip back and forth so seemingly worthwhile and opportunistic. But just like anything else in life, you could be gambling. Not with money or other valuable items, but rather with emotions and sentiment. Interlaced with love, loss, pain, pleasure, you really run the gamut with a fragile mind (should yours be fragile) that certain sensations of emotional self-destruction are evident and ultimately inevitable. Shall we pose a vague example? I must recant the original destination of Time Bridge for the moment, for it would seem I reached a dearth of the most valuable of resources to be mined from that area. Oh, you vain and arrogant sort echoes back across my paving stones. The ones I laid for you, my dear. But nonetheless, I had no other options and took my leave. Shall I revisit? Perhaps. But the purpose of the endeavor has changed. It has changed permanently…forever. I assume now that the time loop of 3-4 years will unravel and travel forward as it had been doing prior to my arrival and the players will age normally and soundly with my absence. They will grow old and some will die, but that is the nature of time. That cruel reality rears its head to inter the architect and maker of the time bridge to his or her failed efforts at whatever he or she was seeking. A reality slap? Somewhat akin, but not exactly. The pain arises from your failure to connect realistically and completely with the players (with no help from dear Google) such that you swell with dismay and sadness and the desire to revisit and rectify seem hopeless and unnecessary. What brought it about you might ask (I know I certainly did)? I forgot that my time continued to move despite 3-4 years in constant, (very close to) arduous repetition. Feelings just wane. Is it human nature to the modern day time traveler to lose interest in what was once so seemingly desirable? If I may speak briefly, I would say, ‘yes’. But what if you were to return and try to rekindle the log? What if you, having gained some wisdom with age and experience, were to return and start over? Could this mend the failure (even broken promises can be mended) and have that which you started out for in the beginning? The void in my chest tells me ‘no’. My mind demands and explanation. You’ll get it, you oh so imbalanced gift of mine. My sprit has been broken. My motivation is dead. My eyes are dimmed to what was once beautiful. Cordiality could be entertained, but that would be the limit of revisiting in, say, (a nice round number) a decade from now. Experience would dictate that I look elsewhere. And so I have humble yet attentive readers (oh you don’t know what it means!). I have sought safety in photographs and seem to have hit upon a vein I wish to prospect further. Ah, the subject is delight and beauty. The subject reflects a past I thought I had lost (perhaps, overlooked). The subject is ripe to lean and be enabled. The before mentioned has motivated an even more ornate Time Bridge to trod. It is such a divine desirability that I would encase it in marble, statuettes in effigy and a foundation strong enough to bear the weight of my sullen footsteps (failure means defeat. A subjugation to futility and pain) hence, sullen footsteps. I will not quote what I have seen, but the osmosis like comments I make and gestures with my eyes have begun a process (once more) that seems to dictate that this one, this child of nature, could have the gift. Time travel is a lonely process (H.G., are you listening?). Damn that child for being so terrific (quotation). As you let you mind wander and your thoughts are digested consider this: To be unique is lonely and a majority of the senses act in pairs.
    Silence is beautiful

  8. #8
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    Default Re: Story Time

    Time bridge has been concluded. Here is something new. Proof read, no spell check.

    I enjoy a good cup of tea. To excess of course, in iced form. It always wakes up a groggy mind in the morning and the caffiene is a stimulant I do enjoy in large doses. Sipping this morning, as I always do, I was harkened to cast a gaze contrary to what I was occupying my time with. Time sings, breathes and melodically passes the time quickly with a degree of sheer enjoyment. Caffiene and those melodic touches dance in my mind and I drift off, lean back in my rather weathered sofa. Very consuming this daily ritual of mine, but today, it was affected by an infrequent gaze that grows more and more commen as time in the form of many repetive and uneventful days continue to pass me by. I note my joints ache with sedintarism, my hair greys and my fingers reach more and more quickly to light yet another cigarette. My feline friend sits to my right, quite unaffected by the surroundings. She is consumed by that placid and desireable sleep which I happilly note as her stimulant of choice. Her sporatic dreams occasionally draw my attention as she gestures in a cat language that I become more and more fluent in as the days pass. Her sleep looks quite pleasant, but my gaze keeps me from the contact high for sleep she is giving me. Lighting yet another cigarette, ah, damn my addictive personality I think I let my feline friend continue a slumber uninterrupted. Sip, puff, listen as infinately rapid growing in tendency as does my growing affection for a gaze that seems to actually be quelling my addictions. The cigarette is put out and the remainder of the large quantitiy of iced tea I made gets poured down the drain. Some vile intoxicant it is I think. I take one last sip before I pour it out. Didn't waste much I think to myself and the gaze. I can't waste anything I think again. Yet the tea, the cigarette, even the music fades to a dull hum in the back of my mind. I look again when I return to my sofa. Fondly, affectionatelly, with a happiness that seems to replace all my cheap thrills that merlely stimulate. The gaze provides so much more. Sure a cigarette is great but they don't make my happy, just content. Happiness is a rarity in my cleanly surroundings. Sure I am occasionally happy, but this is different. The happiness is akin to my childhood when all things were neatly arranged, the future was too far away to contemplate and constant companionship was deeply satisfied by the immediate family. Now, I am alone. If but for only the gaze. I look again. Ah, such pleasure. Perhaps I will let the child rest. Fall back in time to pleasant memory seekings that not even my warming heart will tell me what it desires or any other fruitful things for that matter. Feeling warm with flushed cheeks and a innocent smile I sit back on the couch which previously I was perched on with an unknown anticipation of desire fufilled. I hear music. I Thirst again. I light a cigarette.
    Silence is beautiful

  9. #9
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    Default Re: Story Time

    Sorry about the spelling.

    The walls are a very pale and cold hue of white. There is a rather nice painting of a colored pot (rather large) with a collection of flowers in it that adorns the white walls. The television that occupies another corner of the room is off. Hasn't been on for some time. Out the one window I look. Nothing much to see. Just an overcast sky that the sun light hasn't seemed able to penetrate. I have been looking for some time but alas, it is unable. A very sterile scent permiates the room. A scent that never goes away (almost oppressive in odor). The room is also very cold (is the air conditioning on? Why don't they turn on the heat? I am rather cold, at least it would seem as such). Here in a a bed I lie. For some time now it seems in all actuallity. I don't remember for how long I have been here. I don't even remember being delivered here, to where I attempt to rest yet seem uncomfortably unable to do so. How long have I been awake? Am I asleep? All I have been doing is to just lie and think. Mostly of strange conveluted forgettfulness. Less and less of my so many childhood fantasies that brought me pleasure in my youth. The thought were of all things that are entertaining in youth. Love, hope, desires (so many others too I am sure, but those others I have forgotten). Ah, how my bones ache. The bed and this rigid position I haven't the strength to adjust seem so merciless toward my poor aged state of decay. In walks an apparition. Apparitions float about me from time to time to prod and observe. The conversation they speak to one another is unintelligable. If they speak English (my native language) I can no longer understand it. Perhaps I just lack the desire to understand the complicated jargon that no longer seems relevant to me. They leave. Ah, the whole would seems dead as I am confined to my rigid body in the bed that grew even more uncomfortable once these shadows of what I still can barely remember pass away from my view. The door closes with a soft click and I am once more alone. Did I ever have company? Not the kind that I wanted anyway. Though, I do remember having some sense of desireable company but that too has faded to gray much like the remainder of my memories. Earthly pleasures no longer have their appeal. Food remains uneaten (where did that come from?), a half empty glass of water sits on a nondescript piece of furniture to my right. The water seems to be accumulating a bizarre appearance of dust on it's surface. Were I thirsty, I think I would not take a sip. Isolation and loneliness is all that seems to occupy my thinking as of late. Granted, a certain acceptance and lingering and ever growing ache of want for the uncertain swells in my heart and mind. I move (ah yes, so I did) yet make no effort to remove my form from the bed. I think I will stay here forever I say to myself aloud. Strange, I cannot understand my own tongue anymore. Strange combinations of sounds, letters and enunciations that my ears can no longer perceive. My dulling mind can with some effort, but nothing more. I shut my eyes (so tired, weary and resigned). Slowly the darkness I see spins, spins, spins and hence I sleep. In sleep, cognizant of sleep I am no more.
    Silence is beautiful

  10. #10
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    Default Re: Story Time

    My Dearest One,
    Does the time pass so slowly that the angst and dismay seem to procure some sort of overcast that won't allow for some needed sight of clarity and warmth from the sky above? In this suspended animation I find myself in my hair grows more and more gray, my body aches with want and my mind drifts off into an oblivion of slowly passing timelessness that I seem I have to, I must, traverse alone.
    I remember simpler times. Youthful gaity and optimism that has faded and been taken by some unseen reaper who stalks my every move. All the while mocking my distorted immortality. It alludes to the fact that this void, this absence, this isolation will never end. I long for the touch of living flesh. A return of warm, affectionate heartbeats and that transfixed gaze we used to share in times gone by. I do realize, we were youths at the time, but I can't seem to forget that face, those eyes, the warm rays of happiness that seemed to give you an aura, a halo of a blessed, loving, silken desireability. Oh, damn my position and profession. But without it, would we have ever met? Would we be ever reunited? I ask these questions in a saddened state that seems to be ever piling more and more weight upon my chest. I am slowly being crushed under and suffocated by my lonliness and longing for you. More weight I demand! I am obliged to continue the request, and it is honored.
    My travels outside my self induced tomb have taken me to sparse locations. My favorite is amongst much beauty and tranquility of nature. The tall pines who's canopy is illuminated by occasional sun some mornings, glow like memories of your forever youthful face. I look up higher and I see your eyes beyond the canopy. A deepness whose limits I cannot see nor comprehend. How I wish I could reach up and understand what awaits, what I can possibly find upon reaching their limits. Ah, the mysteries of the universe that seemingly await me somewhere beyond the vacant horizon of sky. However, even the quiet tranquility of this beautiful setting can't satisfy my need. It only breeds more want. I have been able to stomach my fear of losing you. I have locked away my lusts and the need to look elsewhere. I have heaped myself with earth in order to stay pristine for our reunion but the ever growing want continues to consume my essence. A sip of something potent on occasion will disguise the want as depression, but it is only a temporary fix. Nothing seems permanent anymore.
    On I walk. Running will not speed up time. As if running in no particular direction would help me find you anyway. You seem lost but within grasp. I reach and grasp nothing, but I know you are out there somewhere, under the same sky as I, so I walk on. Sipping something potent I remove the noose of want from around my neck and tie it around my waist and decide to sit idle. I pile myself with all my moods relating to you and wait. The wait seems, and probably will continue to be, endless. But as your memory swims around my heart and keeps me warm and dry, I smile. I Look up at the canopy and beyond and have that ever so brief sense of contentment with my situation and lean against an evergreen, sip and wait. What else can I do? I grow tired and cold. I again sip, remember, and with that I am warmed with hope. The hope comes and goes, but will never be forgotten. Please remember me, for I will always do the same.
    With all I can muster,
    Always yours.
    Silence is beautiful

  11. #11
    Pleasing the Fates Senior Member A Nerd's Avatar
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    Default Re: Story Time

    It's been a while. Please excuse my poor spelling. Grammar perhaps as well. :)

    Staring out of the window into the great beyond, you know, the vast untamed of virgin growth that is slowly being twarted by progress, can evoke a voluminous cloud of thought that consumues beleif and factuals that had always guided action. Demonic presences, savages and the weaker minded who made their way into the growth to escape what is true and good to be more of a part of what they always were. Society shuns them all, and rightly so I think to myself. Night has fallen, and the only apparent is what lies on the edge of this mental illness that seems beautiful and benign, but in all actuality, we followers of the true faith, know is mereley a cloak of falsehood. As I stare and draw open the window because I desire the summer air that eminates from that cloak. It is so sweet and enticing! I take a deep breath and my mind bound by the civilized I live among seems to wane to wants and needs I know to be unsavory. Yes, that perfume I inhale again of some unknown and unseen wearer, with a glorious pungency that waters my eyes and elates my burguning mood into a frenzied realization that this man who hasn't known pleasure for untold amonts of time in the stringent and sterile may find a way to realize it and truly be jovial. Jovial, like in youth, as a boy, when cares and wants changed as often as day to day. Always different and new. This clarity is sheer brilliance! I can now hear them. Rustling in the underbrush, singing sordid melodies that drift across the delicate winds that caress my cheeks. My eyes tear and my lungs swell with what smells like a soft billows of earth, foliage and wild flower. Such pleasure! Who wears such a perfume that could entice a simple man with such a strict following of moral code and endeavor? Almost in a trance, I leave the comfort and safety of my room and make my way to the door of my dwelling and enter the the night for further and indeed, closer inspection of the environment that seems to now envelop my entire being. Brushing away the scent with my arms does nothing but cover my body in this essence. I shake my head and stomp my feet in an effort to woo it away. But nothing works. Damn, as a rare profanity leaves my lips, I can't rid myself of this feeling and my once stomping feet now take me closer to the precipice of sin. The longing to enter I can no longer bear. I move aside some damp foliage and enter this tomb, this catacomb of superstition with it's labyrenth of failings from what is right and good. With each step I distance myself from that dogma of yore into that which I must seek and follow to find the truth of what I believe now lies beyond my eye sight. Yes! That's it! I am merely trying to disprove what I have been told, what I have learned since my youth and find that this evil I am entering is really as kind, gentle and benign as it seems. I stroll for a while. Quiet, serene and so delicate is this place I have wandered deep unto. So sweet the smell! So still and placid my surroundings do appear! Lost I am, but I don't care, such ecstacy this whole of nature brings! Damn, I say again, how can it be punished so by clearing land for more sermans of fear? More rape of this beauty such that tall ships can sail and bring more encroachment on it's fragility? I hear nothing but the surroundings sighing in relief. I can now understand it's plight! Yes! Utter and total isolation from time itself! It is bliss I shout! Inhaling the perfume of this place once again, which now I seem to be the source of, as I can smell it as it evaporates from the sweat that glistens upon my skin and brow beneath the ever glow of the summer moon. I look up at the canopy and as I slowly sink down into a seated postion, I feel peace. My former position and place in society no longer seems to possess any value. I feel as one with my surroundings and desire no longer to return the way I came and be slowly crushed beneath the stones of society. I recant! I yell! Take me in and away from the rank and file, the day to day drudgeries and the constant worry for unseen successes that I can't achieve at home but seem to have finally realized as I rest my head upon a moist and mossy earth. Breathing deep, and quickly, the perfume burns my nostrils and lulls my frenetic mind to complacency. As I feel my persperation soaking me in pleasures, the darkness overwhelms me and I sleep. Nothingness quells my fear, tranquility envelopes my being like a shroud and this unknown without any answers, is my answer to all my questions and the last question I will ever ask. The shush of the winds as the foliage dances in agreement requests that I say no more, just sleep. So I oblige it.
    Silence is beautiful

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