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| Passions in Prose |
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Static |
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Alicat Member Elite
since 1999-05-23
Posts 4094Coastal Texas 
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The images flickered fitfully across the boundless depths, captured momentarily by syndication. There, so tethered, they would play out for those who had need to see, them without meaning in the armpit of night. That is neither the beginning or the end, nor even the middle. Rather, it is something behind, a crystalline mind unbound. It wasn't always this way. For one thing, there was pain. The kind of pain which begins just behind the eye, snakes through the brain to the spine, and when it is certain that it has your full attention, it squeezes. That kind of pain. Though in some moribund fashion, it was a familiar companion, one known by sight from afar. And, unlike others, it had never left him. Until that one day. It was a crisp Autumn, where the air stung the cheek and the sun warmed the hair. Thomas MacLean was running. Not from something or towards somewhere. Just running in general and in particular. His companion rode shotgun. And there, where the drifts of leaves run deep by this rutted track, his companion abruptly left. What came instead was a searing heat and the sensation of his eye filling like a sponge. Then came a pain he had never felt before or since, and in darkness he descended, both in body and sight. When he was fourteen, kicking prismatic sprays of fallen leaves along a rutted track, the images came. They weren't the kind the pundits and professionals, often wearing the same smock, would natter on about...the seeing with fingers, the smelling of colors, the tasting of sound. No special sensual augmentation. He just kicked the drifts of leaves for no known reason, not even to him. When there came the images, the visions, the maddened flickering across his mind, slewing and panning and never ending. They reeled and wound and continued, mobius. Day and night, or night to night in his case, the pictures played without surcease. Food lost texture, bed went untousled. His meager grip on sanity sustained by merely sitting still, quite still, with deep somnambulistic breaths. Only then could he contain the urge to claw out his disabused orbs in a vain attempt to free the visions trapped within a chamber of bone. And in that pose, throughout the years, he has remained, becoming one with the times. Times being what they are. Nightly, when the appointed constructs fail, when networks sign off, when 'snow' falls ensnared in an electron orgy, there one can still see the man, the mind, the one with the times, glimpsing briefly what he sees. Alicat 1/10/04 |
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| © Copyright 2004 Alastair Adamson - All Rights Reserved | |||
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Dusk Treader
Moderator
Senior Member
since 1999-06-18
Posts 1187St. Paul, MN |
Well, first I should say that I'm not really sure where this piece totally went, but it was an interesting journey none the less. The images used were quite intriguing, the one I felt was the oddest had to do with the "armpit of the night." I really enjoyed this piece though I feel I'll need to read through it a couple more times to get a better grip on it. "Knowledge is far superior to Belief, for Belief is the way of the uniformed." - Scott Cunningham |
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Alicat Member Elite
since 1999-05-23
Posts 4094Coastal Texas |
I understand what you mean. Having written this one in a 5 minute flurry of typing trying to aptly describe the picture in my head, I don't so much think I failed, just that I couldn't describe the scene enough. As several people who have read this one remarked, this is a story waiting to be written, and I have to agree. Reading over this one time and again, it's not so much a short story, essay, or prosaic piece. It's a rough synopsis, an abstract of something which doesn't yet exist. Hopefully, in time, I can change that.  |
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