2003-11-19
The world is silent, the night as deep and dark as the tomb. Clouds drift through the sky, forlorne phantoms neither belonging to or apart from this world. Their melancholy, vague figures pushed aside, hurried along by some unseen, etheral hand. A break in their gathering reveals a pale sliver of the moon, her normally waxen light somehow made clearer, sharper by the coldness of the night air.
Frost gathers on a window pane, catches the light of the moon. Reflected, diffracted... feeble light shines in an abandoned room. The polished wood floor attracts the moonbeams, captures them and stretches them across it's surface. Bookshelves, ornate wooden desk, padded leather chair... all are bathed in this unearthly glow.
A door opens, shattering this world of blissful silence. Harsh brightness from elsewhere invade this room, chasing away the frail, delicate shimmers of moonbeams. The door closes, the cruel light from beyond banished once more. The frightened moonbeams are left in peace, as they were before. However, they were no longer alone with the night and the room.
A footstep echos on the wooden floor, then another and another. The moonbeams dance and scurry away from the feet, afraid of being bruised and broken under the uncaring weight of the interloper. A silent shadow steals across the floor, stalking and scaring the precious light from the moon. Across the room, behind the desk... then stops in front of the frosted window. The noise ceases, the prowling shadow lies still. The moonbeams are grateful, yet cautious.
Steady breathing fills the room, a heartbeat just barely heard. The figure, whose face remains shrouded in darkness, holds up a little box and a stick... rubs the two together. Harsh light invades the room again, but it is small, contained, flickering and frail. The figure brings it to their face, places it against a small cylinder that it has cradled between it's lips. Inhales, ignites the cylinder... writhing strands of orange light appear on it's tip until, fully lit, the end of the cylinder becomes a glowing orange thing.
The figure shakes the little stick a bit, the flame disappears, and the moonbeams rejoice. The figure puts it's fingers to it's mouth, remove the burning, smoking cylinder and suspend it in the air. Silence, for several seconds more. Then, it speaks.
"Just when I thought I was out," it drawls, sounding dark and sinister, "they drag me back in." It pauses, the moonbeams quiver in anticipation. Then it is bringing the cylinder to it's face and replacing it between it's lips. Inhales, pauses... then harsh noises pierce the night air.
*cough cough hack hack cough gasp wheeze*
This continues, the moonbeams flee. Finally the noises stop.
"What the hell am I doing?" I demand, looking incredulously at the cigarette in my hand. "I don't even smoke!" I look around, see an ashtray on the desk and put out the partially-burned cigarette.
"So anyways," I continue, "all this to say I thought I had escaped the clutches of Carla and Lynnsey (But especially Lynnsey. But especially Carla), but no... that's too much to ask, isn't it?" I pace around furiously for a few brief moments. The moonbeams quiver and tremble nervously. I stop. "Geez, guys, enough already. Just screw off, why don't you?" And lo, the moonbeams screwed off.
"As I was saying, I failed miserably in escaping their treacherous clutches. 'So, Theresa, how much Kenshin have you watched?' you ask? A few episodes last night. I finished 46 yesterday. You happy now? Huh? Huh? Areya?? ARE YOU HAPPY NOW, YOU BLOODY HARPIES!?!?!"
And I'm spent.
Frost gathers on a window pane, catches the light of the moon. Reflected, diffracted... feeble light shines in an abandoned room. The polished wood floor attracts the moonbeams, captures them and stretches them across it's surface. Bookshelves, ornate wooden desk, padded leather chair... all are bathed in this unearthly glow.
A door opens, shattering this world of blissful silence. Harsh brightness from elsewhere invade this room, chasing away the frail, delicate shimmers of moonbeams. The door closes, the cruel light from beyond banished once more. The frightened moonbeams are left in peace, as they were before. However, they were no longer alone with the night and the room.
A footstep echos on the wooden floor, then another and another. The moonbeams dance and scurry away from the feet, afraid of being bruised and broken under the uncaring weight of the interloper. A silent shadow steals across the floor, stalking and scaring the precious light from the moon. Across the room, behind the desk... then stops in front of the frosted window. The noise ceases, the prowling shadow lies still. The moonbeams are grateful, yet cautious.
Steady breathing fills the room, a heartbeat just barely heard. The figure, whose face remains shrouded in darkness, holds up a little box and a stick... rubs the two together. Harsh light invades the room again, but it is small, contained, flickering and frail. The figure brings it to their face, places it against a small cylinder that it has cradled between it's lips. Inhales, ignites the cylinder... writhing strands of orange light appear on it's tip until, fully lit, the end of the cylinder becomes a glowing orange thing.
The figure shakes the little stick a bit, the flame disappears, and the moonbeams rejoice. The figure puts it's fingers to it's mouth, remove the burning, smoking cylinder and suspend it in the air. Silence, for several seconds more. Then, it speaks.
"Just when I thought I was out," it drawls, sounding dark and sinister, "they drag me back in." It pauses, the moonbeams quiver in anticipation. Then it is bringing the cylinder to it's face and replacing it between it's lips. Inhales, pauses... then harsh noises pierce the night air.
*cough cough hack hack cough gasp wheeze*
This continues, the moonbeams flee. Finally the noises stop.
"What the hell am I doing?" I demand, looking incredulously at the cigarette in my hand. "I don't even smoke!" I look around, see an ashtray on the desk and put out the partially-burned cigarette.
"So anyways," I continue, "all this to say I thought I had escaped the clutches of Carla and Lynnsey (But especially Lynnsey. But especially Carla), but no... that's too much to ask, isn't it?" I pace around furiously for a few brief moments. The moonbeams quiver and tremble nervously. I stop. "Geez, guys, enough already. Just screw off, why don't you?" And lo, the moonbeams screwed off.
"As I was saying, I failed miserably in escaping their treacherous clutches. 'So, Theresa, how much Kenshin have you watched?' you ask? A few episodes last night. I finished 46 yesterday. You happy now? Huh? Huh? Areya?? ARE YOU HAPPY NOW, YOU BLOODY HARPIES!?!?!"
And I'm spent.
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