Offline Turbines.
(An Outcry in Style)
His monitor glazed green, stagnant red, and monotonous revelations sputtered out like final drops of water after a drought. Polygons lauged round and steady and ions began a burrowing to end all mind excavations from an unseen springrite. Windows, stained with death, cracked and shattered along an elongated stretch of tranquility surge. He fought off legions of shadows as poison flowers fell through loud silence, his rusted armor birthed a sublime friction as an angel unleashed his divine fury. Four wings, wrapped in dynamite and whiter than the brightest sail of a ship under Newsun's rays, turned dancing mist into a wall of diamonds as sunshine split the dark enemies into brief memories. His cottage caught on fire and his four wings called out to the Valfather, who sent dogs to bring him back into captivity. But Kleos was his true home, and it had been as long as he could remember; a World of Fair Report. Why had he appeared to this boy at this moment? A sunken pool of light, transmitting crouching knowledge on whims of bravery. Eventually, he came to valuable conclusion that he cannot die in vain. Letting flames cut his wings, orange heat swallowed him and his futile predicament like whales do squid.
Weapons never felt his grasp, and a challenge sought was a kill in a blink of hummingbird eyes. Clouds follow him, as he does represent higher standards for those with strong hearts. Propped up slightly against blue air, he glanced back at the ashes of past hope. Shadows gone, all he saw was the deep pool of light that connected worlds. A mysterious, and a known. Now it was due to work full time, and accomplish what past gods had upheld. His parade that floated away was now made up of stone and sand, it settled into the ground far too perfectly to not understand the action. Leading the way, in small doses. A moose, sacraficed in non antler season, drew conclusions for a boy well on his way to manhood, all while in the body of what he was to become.
With that, Michael walked over the water to the middle of the pool and sank out of sight.
--
This is Me and My Music.
--
Excerpt from my new One Act (still to be titled):
Bran: I packed down the barn supplies this morning.
Virinsa: Packed down?
Bran: In the pannel truck, next to Hren's boxes.
Virinsa: Packed down?
Bran: What do you want me to say?
Virinsa: You're making your own language.
Bran: Pack up that tone.
Virinsa: Leave this house.
Bran: You take the form of an angel in anger.
Virinsa: A nightmare.
Bran: You should know, I always have sex with that angel.
Virinsa: A dream?
Bran: It's only negative because when I wake up, she's gone. I look through a red city with white people, and all I see are black eyes staring.
Virinsa: Did I not just tell you to leave?
Bran: You did, but I chose to think of it as something I said to you. So you leave.
Virinsa: Let's just fuck.
Bran: Indubitably.
No comments:
Post a Comment