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Morgan
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Morgan |
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Allan Riverwood
since 2001-01-04
Posts 3502Winnipeg 
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Tapping on the glass into the nursery was the first task of the day for Morgan, and a gruelling one it was. Much consideration was put into pressure... Morgan had been taught, and he had known, that the pressure of the tapping was important. For an aquarium, the tapping would cause the fish to scatter and cascade about one another. Fear drove Morgan from wishing this to be so; he did not want to have to endure the spinning and careening of a thousand infants in the air, ramming into one another and splattering their contents about. Apart from that, the glass could even shatter, sending into the room the shards of weaponry hidden by the tranquil, icy harmony of glass within itself. The blame, the shame... the emotion was all too much for dear Morgan. Perhaps some men could smile at a thousand colliding infants, but not he. Morgan was a lover, and a kind man. So the tapping was light upon the window. The point of the tapping was undefined - was it so much for the infants as it was for him? He twisted his ugly mouth into what only he knew to be his smile, tickled his thigh through his dirty black jeans with his free hand and gently tapped the window with the other. On most days he would have not been allowed this opportunity, on most days he'd be caught, he knew, and strapped down by the pretty nurses. Or maybe they would decide to send the fat nurses this time, it they wished to be crueller to him. Perhaps they would even be bold and come for him themselves. Then they would shoot him, or cut off his body parts... or torture him or rape him. He did not know, he could not remember exactly what it had been in the past. Not tonight though. Tonight was an empty area. Tonight it was Morgan's night... it was his time. The nursery belonged to him. Not another set of lungs breathing the air in there hosted a body capable of creating a change in the room, the lifting of a baby, the opening and closing of a door, even the tapping on a window. Tonight, Morgan was in charge, he knew. Tonight, in this nursery, he was God. Had it been two years? Morgan was unsure... there was really no way to tell. Not his memory, nor his pretty nurses, were trustworthy enough. Either way it had been a long time since Morgan had been to the nursery, without being scolded and taken back, or whatever had happened. He was just a small boy then, and he was with his mother. They held hands, back in those days. He, a child, holding hands with his older mother. A man and woman not quite right, connected by the cord in Morgan's navel - but not even that anymore. Morgan didn't know if he still had a bellybutton, he didn't want to look. He was too afraid of the truth, that they had removed it when they removed his mother. "There, Morgan," his mother had said to him, tapping a spot on the glass gently, and at the same time pointing at one of the cribs. "There, the second one on the right. That's your baby sister. Gwendylyn." Or Gwen, as Morgan would scarcely be able to pronounce it. He saw her then, she was just a round head with eyes and a mouth drawn in, and small holes poked out for a nose. Just like all the rest. All babies were the same. It was the truth, Morgan knew, and everyone was afraid to admit it. The only difference was in the colour of blanket they were endowed with, which was some way of creating the illusion that infant males were any different than the females. This is why his mother had counted out the cribs as the only way of knowing which one was his sister. Aside from blanket colour, there really was no other way. The faces of the babies were clearer when Morgan was inside the nursery. He could see each detail of each face, every infant almost identical to the next. Worms in their pink and blue cocoons, writhing only slightly to allow passage to a bodily function, a yawn, a sneeze, an excrement. On the outside world it was Morgan who was spoken down upon, beaten, chained up in rubber rooms, and injected time and again with his daily tincture. It was all because of what he was incapable of. In this room he was the all-capable. Morgan was capable of free will, of devotion, of desire. The infants were capable of eating, sleeping, excreting. They could survive. Morgan could live. "There, Morgan. There, the second one on the right." Morgan could remember clearly his mother's voice, not so much for the words or the number but for the sound she created with each word. The way every syllable rolled down her tongue like spun honey, sweetly icing a slice of bread. He had loved his mother, she was the only woman that Morgan had ever kissed. She was a pretty one too. It was inhuman to think that a pretty woman like Morgan's mother would kiss him. Morgan knew very well how the world worked. The pretty people kissed each other, and the ugly people, like him, had dry lips. At the thought, he chewed his worn and bitten nails for a few moments, as he stood before the vast ocean of children. "You are different, Morgan. You're not like the others," his mother had told him. Of course Morgan knew this, any mirror could educate him well enough. He was one of the ugliest of the ugly people. He was the one who would never kiss one of the pretty nurses, he was the one whose lips were already beginning to dry. There are ugly people in the world, but there are no ugly babies in the nursery. All babies were the same. His mind boggled at the concept of his own infanthood. Was I a baby once? Like his naval, he had been too afraid of the answer to see for himself. It was one of the questions that Morgan had always left unansked, and therefore unanswered. Truly, which answer would have been good news? If he had been an infant; that means that he'd have once been a porcelain doll, with tiny coal eyes and wet, pink lips. That he had grown out of it. Had he not been, he'd have been a newborn abomonation. They'd have gasped at his human features, his expressioned face and body. His independence, his willpower. The profound statement of his existence. This made Morgan wonder suddenly if there were ugly babies... perhaps they just didn't keep them in the same room. Alas, Morgan could never know this, nor could he so much as remember his own infant life. He knew, now, to find his sister. Some link to his past, the truth behind him. If he could see in her future something such as himself, if he could see anything so much as a crooked lip or a twisted brow... that would be enough to permit him to draw a conclusion. He tapped each cradle as he walked by, counting them. The second one to the right. Then it had hit him. Then his movement ceased, he no longer walked from one cradle to the next. His finger tapped the same one continuously, decreasing in pressure each time. The second one to the right... this was completely irrelevant. How was he to know what that meant? The second to which right? Morgan gasped for air, to help him breathe, and to satisfy his racing heartbeat. He wasn't supposed to be here, he knew. But tonight it was empty. Tonight, Morgan was God. And God was helpless before the paradox of a thousand identical cribs. Morgan began shaking his head. He couldn't allow this. This was his night. This was Morgan's night. His head shaking evolved into a darting motion, from side to side. He would only check the pink ones. And only the pink ones that were second to the right of something. That would be the solution, he knew. Then, he would be able to recover his sister Gwen, to see her face, whatever it might be. His time running out, Morgan quickened his pace. He walked around looking at every baby. No longer looking for baby Gwen, rather looking at them all. All of them were the same, though. A thousand twins, as though birthed from some perfect womb. A thousand beady faces. Not one crooked, dry mouth. They dragged Morgan out of the nursery and back into his chambers, his shoelaces gently tapping the smooth flooring of the nursery. His resistance was scarcely effective, and perhaps unnoticable. Through his crooked mouth he screamed "Gwen," while submitting to the phalanx of infants. The beautiful and the ugly, the nurses and the Morgans of the future. Reaching for them Morgan knew the truth, but refused to accept it through his defiant screams of his sister's name. Had he seen baby Gwendylyn, he would never have even known. [This message has been edited by Allan Riverwood (edited 06-12-2001).] |
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| © Copyright 2001 Brian James Lee - All Rights Reserved | |||
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fractal007 Senior Member
since 2000-06-01
Posts 1958 |
This was great! I was quite impressed with the imagery here. You've done a rather good job introducing characters gradually. I'd work on the sentence structure a little. "If history is to change, let it change. If the world is to be destroyed, so be it. If my fate is to die, I must simply laugh" |
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Poet deVine
Administrator
Member Seraphic
since 1999-05-26
Posts 22612Hurricane Alley |
Allan, I really enjoyed your story! I look forward to reading more from you.  |
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Dr. Jo-Bizz Member
since 2001-06-06
Posts 97 |
this is really great. i just recently found the prose section of pip.... i'm excited. what is the connection between this and your poem about sister gwen? just currious. am I allowed to know? dr. jo-bizz But His word was in my heart |
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Allan Riverwood
since 2001-01-04
Posts 3502Winnipeg |
Poem was my sister Ganamede. Gwen does not = Ganamede. Two diff people. Thanks for trying to make a compare though, doc.  Build a man a fire, and he's warm for a day. Set a man on fire, and he'll be warm for the rest of his life. |
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LoveBug
Moderator
Member Elite
since 2000-01-08
Posts 4697 |
You know I love this story, but I'll say it again. I love this story!!! The descriptions and the storyline itself are both exceptional. Keep writing prose!!!!!!  "Men judge generally more by the eye than by the hand, for everyone can see and few can feel."-Machiavelli |
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Dusk Treader
Moderator
Senior Member
since 1999-06-18
Posts 1187St. Paul, MN |
Very interesting tale, Allen. I enjoyed how you presented the tale from the point of view of a disturbed person. Great tale and keep writing! "They that start by burning books will end by burning men." -- Heinrich Heine |
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chasing rain Senior Member
since 2001-05-15
Posts 737Canada |
Allan, not only are you extremely talented at writing poetry, but you are amazing at writing prose as well (same thing, isn't it? yeesh) Throughout the entire piece, I was left in thought. The way you described Morgan's mother talking...I never thought of people talking like that. It just seemed right for it to be there. Very impressive. To see the nursery through the eyes of a child is very different than what I would have thought. To me, Morgan seemed more...educated, when you wrote about babies being the same. Funny...kids. Then again, aren't we all? Kids, that is. *racks her brain to remember what else she had to say* The themes throughout are well thought out. When you wrote about Morgan being different, that was very effective. It added more character to Morgan, as well as his mother, (at the part where she said that he was different). The ending...that was...it was perfect. I felt so empty inside, like echoing silence almost. I could picture it perfectly. It really hit the spot. Overall, I can't really think of anything that you need to work on right at the moment...too many flashing things that are distracting me...hehe. But if i do think of something, I'll let you know. Thank you for a wonderful read (and reminding us that we were all children at one time...or still are.)Until next time...  -Leah Va pensiero sull' ali dorate... |
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Romy Senior Member
since 2000-05-28
Posts 1170Plantation, Florida |
Maybe I'm reading more into this then I'm supposed to, but to me, this is a very deep story. I was so intrigued with it and found myself going back to different points and reading it again! It made me curious, and I searched to find the clues that would answer my questions. I think you did an excellent job on this, and I'm impressed! More! Debbie |
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Lady In White
since 2001-02-12
Posts 2799USA |
A very interesting story. I have the feeling that it could be expounded upon, given the mystery it left me with...perhaps a second read will clear that up for me... Well done Sir...more, please! |
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Angel_in_Armor New Member
since 2001-08-22
Posts 2 |
Simply amazing my dear friend. Of all the peices I've read of yours, this one has to be my favorite...along with the spur of the moment poem you wrote and showed to me. I've never before read any form of writing where the author succesfully portrayed a mental subject without copping out and bluntly saying so. And, in case I actually need to say it, yes that does mean I'm both impressed and inferior. ^_~ |
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anonymous albert ?
since 2001-03-23
Posts 2979 |
...an amazing piece of prose...you written this VERY well...sO much behind this...LOVED the entire thing...post some MORE...eh? [This message has been edited by anonymous albert ? (edited 09-08-2001).] |
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shadow974 Senior Member
since 2001-06-21
Posts 636Michigan |
Wow, this was a fantastic story, the way it unfolded was great. It left me thinking... Throw your heart out in front of you |
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paladin
since 2001-08-05
Posts 930Pensacola,Fl. |
I have a brother who is retarded.This story in many ways reminds me of him.He was a beautiful baby but grew into a large not so handsome man.I remember how gentle he was with his big hands.He was different but in a way that some how made him special.Good story. paladin |
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