Tom was in a dark place, but that may be due to the lack of light, it might have had a lot to do with the fact that his optimism had vacated the area. He was still smiling a dumb smile, though, and as he was looking for his escape, he noticed that his companion Charles had noticed his smiling as well, and Tom could sense Charles' decline in persistance to help the neurotic Major.
Despite the darkness, there was still a sense of impending day settling among the two men. Tom's smile, although making an uneasy tension, was confident, and when Charles asked what was so delightful, Tom replied "I've only got one tooth left." This, being unbelieveably untrue as Charles stared at the faint yellow teeth living in Tom's mouth, the laughter that erupted from behind them creaked, and Charles did not dare to ask what he meant. He assumed it would be some term from the seven that would really not make any sense than to the fighters.
Charles was a success. Charles had decided to travel for the rest of his life after become a success, and so he ended up somewhere hot and desert-like, and that was where he had been stranded, lost, and compelled to travel onward on foot, when he had run into the Major and had lost his battle with staying on his life course immediately. Tom had changed him. Charles was one of those "buy the crowd a few rounds" sort of guy, someone who would pick up the cheque without being asked, hold open the door, and this was why --he figured-- that Tom stuck with him. He was suave, he had women, he was a success.
Despite him being a success, Tom had rescued him one day while he was sitting beside some cactus feeling peckish, poking the spokes and when Tom, who was so together and polish-esque took him in he realised just how far gone his successful life had taken him. The Major had flipped his world until Charles knew that not only was his life a failure, but he would only redeem himself while helping this deranged nobody.
But Charles was never a confident man. This was clear in the shadow of the Major. His lines, his walking strides, his straight back were all skewed within Tom's perameters. Tom took hold of Charles' soul and recognised him as his helper, not as an individual. He was an object within Tom's world, and within Tom's reach you shuddered at the sound of speech.
And you fleed from laughter.
And so the second Charles heard the laughter, the insane laughter, he knew that it was no time to bring up questions or why they were standing in the middle of an irrelevant darkness. Charles knew that regardless of his past life, his last life, Tom would not take gratification, or ever forgive his helper of the fact that he was a survivalist success, that although Tom had survived the seven hours in the mountains, Charles had survived thirty years of continuous, perpetual society. Society trumps mountains, but soldier trumped mundane.
Charles was mundane. He had no substance to his name, no grit under his nails. Tom was definitely dirty, and by civilization's sense you stood away from the unhygenic. Charles had been afraid of Tom once, and although the fear lingered like a bad taste it did not tempt him to escape. Charles would be safe as long as the Major continued to play his own game upon him, to manipulate the surroundings in which they stood in now.
They were in the blackness, and their breathing was prominent within the heat and the rain, the silence. There was darkness, but their faces were visible. It was unheard of to Charles, the awareness of the other's face in darkness, but there it was, plain as day, the yellow the smile the stench, the dirt, the unhealthy, the eyes. The Major's eyes were looking straight above Charles' head, and he could do nothing but purse his lips and hope to the almighty mountain that Tom stayed calm, stayed in his boundaries, stayed "optimistic" for the time being.
And then it hit.
It wasn't really a surpirse, either, since Charles knew that at one point Tom would send him hurtling off of the mountain. But in his last few seconds of alive consciousness, Charles thought of his desk at home, with his silver ink pen with no cap sitting to the right.
The Major's laugh hung in the air, it was heavy, a sinking laugh that crawled under the rocks and stung the ground. It waited, it waited for another sound, but there was none. Tom turned away from the edge of the cliff, and cracked his neck. This was something that happened far too often to be healthy, but when the only thing keeping you healthy was that one mandatory glass of water a day...
Tom had needed the Word. The Word had been picking at a cactus when he had found him in the dry place, some distance from the mountains, and the Word had told him things about the success that only the success would know, and Tom had deduced enough from the Word to know that although he was a git, he knew what he was talking about, and he would have to be brought along.
Tom was on a journey. He was looking for the great mountains, the stone mountains that took years to appreciate after the modelling of them took only some months. People lived and worked and strived in these mountains, and the great one was large and had glass and was surrounded by inferior mountains. The magical mountain would redeem Tom of his journey. Tom would be satisfied at this mountain, because the seven had taken seven hours to pick-ax their way through resources, through bark and dirt and water, through air and purity, and the men who had lost due to their laziness would swirl in hell for Tom's sin of living had prevailed, and revealed itself to be resounding in the heavens of the mountains.
Tom would find the mountain that the Word spoke of so clearly, and he would take from it what was his, what would should have been his from the beginning. Not some lazy job, not some Major title, not a title at all, but a silver ink pen. The pens were for the success, but Tom wanted one to burn. By burning the silver ink pen, he would die a happy, satisfied, zero.
In the darkness Tom thought of his smile again, how he would continue it until he had forgotten the Word, and until he could see his own hands again. The funny thing about the darkness was that you could see faces, but not anything else. It was an infinite unlight of mystery except when it came to identity, unless you were alone. Tom, who was staring at his hands, or where they would be in the light, and figuring that if the Word was gone, he needed another.
His work would not finish until all of the mountains fell.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Saturday, October 15, 2011
dazed, in the sunshine, with a back heard (EPILOGUE?)
It seemed as though it were only a year later, but three had passed since the mountains had been raided and the soldiers had been killed, and yet there were still wives, lovers, mothers, searching for their sons. If it weren't for the list, the grand list that revealed every name, and the identifications of the dead there would be no use for such a search, but so many names did not add up. The mystery, the agony, the intense and willing self-imposed pain and grief that a mother felt when a son was subjected to such a duty and then, after seven long years of labour, was cut down, sliced in his prime.
It had to be guilt, really.
But there was nothing for a mother to do, other than to lose her mind and herself among the mountains, scattered amongst the weeds and the remnants of a worksite, an area where the men would have stood for hours, slaving away, at their machines their plain and simple army gear, their brows thicks with sweat, dust and focus. It was pride that the mothers lovers longers should have been feeling, but they felt responsbile. As they should have been, really.
The seven years was preluded by a terrible accusation: laziness. Flying words like spitfire, the shields melted away with ease as the then "soldiers" crashed to their knees, pleading that they could do anything. Mighty, men on high pride, vanity, and yet the crusaders, the real warriors of their time had been cut down. So there was proposed a plan, and Tom was the head.
Tom. Tom Tom Major Tom was the head. He held his high, too, along with the lazy bastards surrounding him he too believed he was invincible. He was the ultimate. Tom took his tea with a side of gold, right off the crown if possible. He had no mother, no lover, no follower to come looking for him after the seven, and even beforehand he had no accusations, he was pushed forward with an itnernal catalyst of passion.
Tom dreamed of absolute intrusion. He defined laziness as something that could be cured but only by freat lengths, the purest work, the explosions. The best part? Tom knew the plan since the beginning. He knew there would be failure, he knew of the extinction, he knew that the ploy of the already-successful was to rid the world of people who had no dreams. And he intended to ignite this idea, this loss of impassionate people to his own dream of transition. Pf an identity.
Tom, however, was far too ignorant to the fact that his passions mirrored none of the hierarchy. Tom took what he wanted, he took the seven as a whip-enslaving, lip-biting infestiation decreasing; a long, tedious excursion into the good-riddence of the un-needed. He stepped on the hands of those workers who had begun to believe in the quality of men, the partiality of teamwork. The successful did not realise that by conscripting so many men together had formulated a cult, a dream, a passion, a fire that began within and spread, the flames engulfing the laziness's souls, and transformed a generation of men into a power.
Surprising enough, they killed them all. It was the end of success, then, and Tom had realised it in the red light within the first ten seconds. Seven hours gone and the wasted time had only given them time, loss within gain, and then Tom had run. He had passion prior to the seven, and he intended to inspire chaos elsewhere. Major Tom, the dreamworker, the spellbinder, the enslaver, the enslavement. Major Tom, the Brava.
And so he began his challenging encore towards the "successful," wondering if there would be a lost Major Tom tombstone sitting atop a glorious hill on those mountains, surrounded by admiring flowers and wreaths, hankercheifs that surrounded the others'. That was what was custom on the mountain apparently, respect paid for the attempts of the men, and each man his own tombstone stood shining. Tom had not visited his own yet, but that was near, the moment increasing in importance as his plan continued to grow. Tom, with his lack of family lack of compassion for the other stones, he wondered if his stone would be bare after all, but figured against it.
He had not engaged in dialogue in a month, living under the ground in a small cave as the shots had come across and down and around, sweeping. He had been swept, after all, to his hiding place prior to the seven, where he knew the Success had taken great liberty to ignore. Tom knew he was important. He had been sitting in the cave for nearly a month before he realised he would be okay, but of course he would, he was the great Sir Major Tom. The valiant crusador, on behalf of the successful everywhere, he lead the dispassionate into their demise and had survived himself, he was not the weakest link.
Well that was fun for now, I think I'm just going to write about Tom being a DICK, but I'm going to need to brainstorm some of his plan. I'm thinking the dispassionate tombstones are going to be blue, and he paints his red, for anarchy, and then continues to destroy the dispassionate, being praised by himself, he lives in his own world. why do I always write about men who live in their heads? I could insert duality of the successful following him, and at the end... at the end he could finish his plan, but he could be brought down, moral of the story? the focus? Everyone is passionate about one thing but dispassionate about the other? Or don't be an asshole, but that's apparent. Tonight seemed like a good night, I put on some zeppelin and just sat here crying for a bit, I fell in love with Tom tonight, admidst his vanity, he is a knight of the round table in my head, and he is stepping down from the grandeur wood and taking some well earned advice: not looking in the mirror, that narcissistic bastard.
night.
It had to be guilt, really.
But there was nothing for a mother to do, other than to lose her mind and herself among the mountains, scattered amongst the weeds and the remnants of a worksite, an area where the men would have stood for hours, slaving away, at their machines their plain and simple army gear, their brows thicks with sweat, dust and focus. It was pride that the mothers lovers longers should have been feeling, but they felt responsbile. As they should have been, really.
The seven years was preluded by a terrible accusation: laziness. Flying words like spitfire, the shields melted away with ease as the then "soldiers" crashed to their knees, pleading that they could do anything. Mighty, men on high pride, vanity, and yet the crusaders, the real warriors of their time had been cut down. So there was proposed a plan, and Tom was the head.
Tom. Tom Tom Major Tom was the head. He held his high, too, along with the lazy bastards surrounding him he too believed he was invincible. He was the ultimate. Tom took his tea with a side of gold, right off the crown if possible. He had no mother, no lover, no follower to come looking for him after the seven, and even beforehand he had no accusations, he was pushed forward with an itnernal catalyst of passion.
Tom dreamed of absolute intrusion. He defined laziness as something that could be cured but only by freat lengths, the purest work, the explosions. The best part? Tom knew the plan since the beginning. He knew there would be failure, he knew of the extinction, he knew that the ploy of the already-successful was to rid the world of people who had no dreams. And he intended to ignite this idea, this loss of impassionate people to his own dream of transition. Pf an identity.
Tom, however, was far too ignorant to the fact that his passions mirrored none of the hierarchy. Tom took what he wanted, he took the seven as a whip-enslaving, lip-biting infestiation decreasing; a long, tedious excursion into the good-riddence of the un-needed. He stepped on the hands of those workers who had begun to believe in the quality of men, the partiality of teamwork. The successful did not realise that by conscripting so many men together had formulated a cult, a dream, a passion, a fire that began within and spread, the flames engulfing the laziness's souls, and transformed a generation of men into a power.
Surprising enough, they killed them all. It was the end of success, then, and Tom had realised it in the red light within the first ten seconds. Seven hours gone and the wasted time had only given them time, loss within gain, and then Tom had run. He had passion prior to the seven, and he intended to inspire chaos elsewhere. Major Tom, the dreamworker, the spellbinder, the enslaver, the enslavement. Major Tom, the Brava.
And so he began his challenging encore towards the "successful," wondering if there would be a lost Major Tom tombstone sitting atop a glorious hill on those mountains, surrounded by admiring flowers and wreaths, hankercheifs that surrounded the others'. That was what was custom on the mountain apparently, respect paid for the attempts of the men, and each man his own tombstone stood shining. Tom had not visited his own yet, but that was near, the moment increasing in importance as his plan continued to grow. Tom, with his lack of family lack of compassion for the other stones, he wondered if his stone would be bare after all, but figured against it.
He had not engaged in dialogue in a month, living under the ground in a small cave as the shots had come across and down and around, sweeping. He had been swept, after all, to his hiding place prior to the seven, where he knew the Success had taken great liberty to ignore. Tom knew he was important. He had been sitting in the cave for nearly a month before he realised he would be okay, but of course he would, he was the great Sir Major Tom. The valiant crusador, on behalf of the successful everywhere, he lead the dispassionate into their demise and had survived himself, he was not the weakest link.
Well that was fun for now, I think I'm just going to write about Tom being a DICK, but I'm going to need to brainstorm some of his plan. I'm thinking the dispassionate tombstones are going to be blue, and he paints his red, for anarchy, and then continues to destroy the dispassionate, being praised by himself, he lives in his own world. why do I always write about men who live in their heads? I could insert duality of the successful following him, and at the end... at the end he could finish his plan, but he could be brought down, moral of the story? the focus? Everyone is passionate about one thing but dispassionate about the other? Or don't be an asshole, but that's apparent. Tonight seemed like a good night, I put on some zeppelin and just sat here crying for a bit, I fell in love with Tom tonight, admidst his vanity, he is a knight of the round table in my head, and he is stepping down from the grandeur wood and taking some well earned advice: not looking in the mirror, that narcissistic bastard.
night.
Monday, October 10, 2011
MAJOR TOM
His eyes, specifically, sported dagger-like qualities, those that could tear holes deep into the nearest target, the smallest target, the longest, farthest, challenging target. He tore up streets and boulevards in a daze, everyday seemed like a horse race, a gambling game narrated by a soundtrack of grunts and stunt-driven swillings.
He was drawing a fine line, dividing his tone of sarcasm and sincerity to hit his target. In plain and short terms, his wit flew out of his hands and hit his opponents in the face, square in the jaw, bull's eye. He laughed then, sharp, everything about him from his prestigous reputation to his.
not liking major tom, his name's gonna be tom, and he's going to be a jackrabbit bitch, avoiding compassion and spontanuity, but he's not going to be described starting with his eyes. I don't think I'm going to describge him at all.
Seven hours into the operation, the green light finally blew out and the red erupted. Not just any old soft, mild indication, but an ignition that pounded the whole place to a stand still. The head, Tom, who was standing at the very front with his ax in hand against the last large tree, the bark still hugging the blade, stared at the ominous red light. What did red mean again? He looked blankly at the shining pool of light that flushed his workers, that made them look like faceless cattle. They also were holding axes, their tree’s were smaller, more precise in their roots. He, naturally, had taken the biggest but easiest to take down. It was about to come to, but the red light posed an interesting predicament upon the workers as a whole, to finish or to just leave.
They hadn't been stable, the mountains in the distance were all shining a crisp green light as well, after being flushed in soft pale reds for the last seceral hours, it was disorienting. The mountains, the holes, everything looked as though it was no longer covered in dirt but grass, lucious green grass, and it was full and primal and well-deserved, but nobody celebrated. They had failed. They dropped their axes, and evacuated immediately. The first to leave? Tom. He had snapped, his eyes snapping shut after a long paused stare at the changed light. He knew it then, that although his reputation of success had been impecible, he had lost.
But it wasn't just that, really, he was going to run far away from the mountains, his boots would not carry him as fast as he had wanted. His men thundered behind him, a stampede of cavaliers wishing to vacate the area, render the land immoveable, this was one mountain that was staying in solid ground. Their failure would reflect in the coming moments, months, decades. Their failure would resonate in the following histories to be written. Their failure would be the end to all disappointment, as nothing would live up to the dissatisfaction as theirs.
So they ran.
And the ground shook from workboots and the dust rose, sticking to sweat and hair amongst the floundering men, who had all realised their defeat and had begun to roll away from the scene, the only evidence worth leaving was that of the axes. All axes blazed with fingerprints and yet they all ran, a herd of wilda beasts ready for the firing squad, a challenge for the masses. They were hounding the ground so intensely that they did not hear them when they began their jounrey far off. They did not realise until it was too late.
And that was the end of that. The choppers rolled in, the guns rolled in. The utility-belt saviours of humanity, irrefuseably, stormed in. They hounded the mountains, and every work boot was stopped in its tracks. Every callused hand, every sweat-drenched brow, every dirty, unseccessful git hit the ground, and the thundering of bodies soon drowned out the noise of any other. Not the chopper's propellors nor the gunshots, the feet slowly came to decreasing levels, and soon the mountains were filled with the bodies of the men who had taken too long to finish what they had started.
They had definitely failed.
So that'd be the first part, anyway, and I was debating on continuing and maybe making this a flash forward, but I thought now I'll just keep their task vague and continue on with tom's story. He's going to get through, no magic realism just some very good politics interwoven...somehow. This is the beginning, anyway, probably just the beginning, maybe it won't make it, but for now the picture in my head is in film noir old western style.
He was drawing a fine line, dividing his tone of sarcasm and sincerity to hit his target. In plain and short terms, his wit flew out of his hands and hit his opponents in the face, square in the jaw, bull's eye. He laughed then, sharp, everything about him from his prestigous reputation to his.
not liking major tom, his name's gonna be tom, and he's going to be a jackrabbit bitch, avoiding compassion and spontanuity, but he's not going to be described starting with his eyes. I don't think I'm going to describge him at all.
Seven hours into the operation, the green light finally blew out and the red erupted. Not just any old soft, mild indication, but an ignition that pounded the whole place to a stand still. The head, Tom, who was standing at the very front with his ax in hand against the last large tree, the bark still hugging the blade, stared at the ominous red light. What did red mean again? He looked blankly at the shining pool of light that flushed his workers, that made them look like faceless cattle. They also were holding axes, their tree’s were smaller, more precise in their roots. He, naturally, had taken the biggest but easiest to take down. It was about to come to, but the red light posed an interesting predicament upon the workers as a whole, to finish or to just leave.
They hadn't been stable, the mountains in the distance were all shining a crisp green light as well, after being flushed in soft pale reds for the last seceral hours, it was disorienting. The mountains, the holes, everything looked as though it was no longer covered in dirt but grass, lucious green grass, and it was full and primal and well-deserved, but nobody celebrated. They had failed. They dropped their axes, and evacuated immediately. The first to leave? Tom. He had snapped, his eyes snapping shut after a long paused stare at the changed light. He knew it then, that although his reputation of success had been impecible, he had lost.
But it wasn't just that, really, he was going to run far away from the mountains, his boots would not carry him as fast as he had wanted. His men thundered behind him, a stampede of cavaliers wishing to vacate the area, render the land immoveable, this was one mountain that was staying in solid ground. Their failure would reflect in the coming moments, months, decades. Their failure would resonate in the following histories to be written. Their failure would be the end to all disappointment, as nothing would live up to the dissatisfaction as theirs.
So they ran.
And the ground shook from workboots and the dust rose, sticking to sweat and hair amongst the floundering men, who had all realised their defeat and had begun to roll away from the scene, the only evidence worth leaving was that of the axes. All axes blazed with fingerprints and yet they all ran, a herd of wilda beasts ready for the firing squad, a challenge for the masses. They were hounding the ground so intensely that they did not hear them when they began their jounrey far off. They did not realise until it was too late.
And that was the end of that. The choppers rolled in, the guns rolled in. The utility-belt saviours of humanity, irrefuseably, stormed in. They hounded the mountains, and every work boot was stopped in its tracks. Every callused hand, every sweat-drenched brow, every dirty, unseccessful git hit the ground, and the thundering of bodies soon drowned out the noise of any other. Not the chopper's propellors nor the gunshots, the feet slowly came to decreasing levels, and soon the mountains were filled with the bodies of the men who had taken too long to finish what they had started.
They had definitely failed.
So that'd be the first part, anyway, and I was debating on continuing and maybe making this a flash forward, but I thought now I'll just keep their task vague and continue on with tom's story. He's going to get through, no magic realism just some very good politics interwoven...somehow. This is the beginning, anyway, probably just the beginning, maybe it won't make it, but for now the picture in my head is in film noir old western style.
home run
wow it feels weird to post here, consider this a disclametory bullshit post so that i don't feel the need to explain myself any longer. i felt like writing this one story yesterday, actually it was saturday night and i started it out with the word
seven
and i figured that's a good enough start as any, since this is sort of a big deal. so i took that seven and decided to not post any capitals in this post, or a lot anyway. those two things are unrelated, but the point to this post is to disclaim the fact that i will be posting some characterisations, descriptions, and detail research on a certain story for a certain purpose, and i don't really care who reads it.
this is all just because microsoft word de-creatifies my life, so, yup.
things that are keeping me up to speed: the graval I'm about to take for this stomach ache, I'm a poet, hard ass, and I'm counting down until one, I should be a rapper because my life just drags on, I drowned before and now I'm back to make the most off my problems, I never realised how exploitation of feelings make so much money.
what? I don't know.
night
seven
and i figured that's a good enough start as any, since this is sort of a big deal. so i took that seven and decided to not post any capitals in this post, or a lot anyway. those two things are unrelated, but the point to this post is to disclaim the fact that i will be posting some characterisations, descriptions, and detail research on a certain story for a certain purpose, and i don't really care who reads it.
this is all just because microsoft word de-creatifies my life, so, yup.
things that are keeping me up to speed: the graval I'm about to take for this stomach ache, I'm a poet, hard ass, and I'm counting down until one, I should be a rapper because my life just drags on, I drowned before and now I'm back to make the most off my problems, I never realised how exploitation of feelings make so much money.
what? I don't know.
night
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