p.s I liked your stuff OP, terse and lean, unlike...
On the walk back through nowhere in the UK, all of my senses are alive to Jacob’s description. I notice that the air, which doesn’t sit or hang in between the street lights, but is merely pitched there, calls forth nothing but it’s own cold, and when a midge dances through it, from one point of illumination to another, all but the cold air which it displaces will not be animated, and there is not metaphor to be had. I look at the piebald canopy of pale glows and black, shimmering over the top of the Lindam, and as I had thought of them: the lights as little eyes or fairies, the jet and unseen roads as webs of tar, they slide off, and underneath is Lindam council estate, chock full with people patiently breathing, and flicking through their television channels; they are going nowhere. And it is not without remembering Jacob’s crooked smile that I see the empty plaza, where Cecily is approaching 24 hours from now, through a dream she later tells me was full of harsh luminous water, which to touch felt like sand paper and to look at was to see bleak stone. When I get to my house there is orange light mixing with orange light and ambulances out the reach of fire. My Uncle has sat down to T.V with the hob roaring and now most of his skin shines like wet cellophane. The ambulance crew and the firemen don’t speak a word but run, run, run in and out and around the flying flames and to the van and to the gurney. By my Uncles side I walk on feet that feel like charged balls of nothing, up to the open mouth of the van and weightlessly onto it’s stiff lip. I know he doesn’t know that the house is on fire, or that Jack’s brain caught it’s death on the steadfast pavement in 1972; and I am glad. And then we are going at the same speed, on our way to the heart of nowhere in the UK. But then the ambulance man says that we are going to Waltham county general and we are 41219.
Anton Antoevsky the ant ambled through the forest of grass. His shabby hat leaned perpetually, his legs were covered in a grubby muslin, and his boots were floppy and nearly disintegrating. In short, he was a very low ranked ant. His life was one that no ant envied. He knew it, they all knew it. All of the other clerks in the office hated him. He was neurotic, groaning to himself as he hunched over his desk, copying, copying, copying. He was headed to the tavern, the lush that he was. He was going there to attempt to drink away the embarassing scene that was still fresh in his mind. His face spasmed in pain when recalling the event, recoiling from the memory, he hastened his gait, following the familiar scent path, reeking of booze. His mind, however, would not be foiled in its memories, and returned to the thought of her.
"But you cannot be serious, Anton, I could not imagine being with such a lowly clerk as yourself. You must know this as well as I do." Said Antonina Antinovich with a look that nearly destroyed him. "But, Antonina Antinovich, you must know my passions for you, I am not a coward, I cannot take it any longer, you must love me!" shrieked Anton Antoevsky, growing more and more shrill with desperation. "You must calm yourself, Anton, I will not let you bully me into loving you, yes, we were young once, you wrote me love poems endlessly, I once had affections for you. But now that we are older, you must know how ridiculous you are to me, how foolish you are! You have no prospects, no passion for your work, you are constantly besotted, and you are viciously poor and shabby. I cannot take you seriously any longer, nor can I tolerate your presence, I have given you attentions out of pity, but no more. You must go, Anton." With that, the poor ant stifled a cry of sorrow as his protestations were ignored, and he was hurried away by her servants.
This scene assaulted him to the point of tears nearing his destination, he bit them back as he came under the familiar broad leaf that covered the tiny tavern, and stumbled into the hole, a small cavern crowded to the brim and loud with the chatter of drunken ants. As he tripped over a rock lodged in the entrance, he reached out and grabbed the nearest steady object, which, in this instance was an ant. A very quick tempered and rich ant, in fact. The ant in question was Konstantin Rumyantsev, a Captain in the Queen's army. "You over-segmented fool! You spined master of mistakes! You have ripped my cape!" fumed Konstantin Rumyantsev, his face growing red with palsied rage. "I am so sorry, Konstantin Rumyantsev! Forgive me, I am so clumsy, I did not see where i was going and.." blustered out Anton Antoevsky, already recognizing Konstantin Rumyantsev and in fear for his life of the commanding armyant in front of him, "You will have to pay for this! Clearly you are a poor ant, so I must force you to pay in the only way you can, with your life! Find your seconds, and meet me in -- Valley at dawn!" after this outburst, Konstantin Rumyantsev stormed out of the tavern, tattered cloak hanging from his magnificent attire. "My god, what have I done, I am doomed, I will be killed! I cannot go, but if I refuse I am a coward, I must go into hiding!" cried Anton Antoevsky to himself, not even seeing the crowd gazing at him with amusement. He slumped at a mound and begged for a drink. After it had soaked his tiny ant brain, he was stricken with an idea. "If I were to take this challenge, and kill him somehow, I may gain Antonina Antinovich's attentions once more, oh god, perhaps this is my only chance," he mused, "but how could I defeat this monster? I can barely aim a pistol and I am already shaking from fear, oh what can I do?"
The next day, at dawn, Anton Antoevsky had arrived at -- Valley, a massive dip in a sidewalk. With his seconds, a pair of gossips, he was sure that they would spread either his defeat or success against Konstantin Rumyantsev, and it would soon reach the ears of Antonina Antinovich. When Konstantin Rumyantsev arrived with his seconds and a pair of elegant pistols, Anton Antoevsky began to tremble miserably. "Are you prepared to die? That cloak you mangled was worth more than a thousand of you, filthy worm." with these words, Konstantin Rumyantsev shook with wrath and took aim at Anton Antoevsky, fired, and missed. Anton Antoevsky had heard the shot, his eyes shut tight, he was certain he was now dead, and when he opened his eyes, he would be gazing into ant God's face. He opened his eyes hesitantly, to be shocked to find that he was still alive, and looking at a crestfallen, but still wrathful armyant standing several paces away. "My chance! My time has come, my--" Suddenly, they were all crushed by a man strolling to work.
The sun momentarily rested atop the eastern horizon, the sand of the Great Desert glittering in the early morning. A group of shadows shuffled about the huntress’s camp while she lulled beneath her makeshift tent. A slight misstep of a bandit stirred the pale visage beneath the long flowing blonde mane. Anticipating the inevitable, the shadow hiding beneath the silver mask signaled with a wave and collapsed the shelter. The woman rolled and grasped for her prized possession only to grasp the sand beneath where it once lay. The slender shadow that had moved towards the sun upon the signal removed the short cylinder from her cloak, took aim at the girl, and then watched her crumple to the ground following the short *whiz*. The huntress sneered in the sand, paralyzed. The mask inched forth, tauntingly twirling the broken sword of the girl’s father. He whispered an apology, but the eyes beneath the mask only reflected an abyss of sadistic joy. The man turned on his heel, waved another signal, and a boot promptly impacted the left half of the young woman’s visage, sending her into a black void not unlike the eyes behind the masked shadow.
(During a shelling storm going on in the background)
A mountain lays pierced through the earth, it holds a red house nuzzled at the bottom. It was not immune to the dullness, the colors of a pimpled red and a rich silver were laid on top of the brown. Neither had it been immune from the sound, the rumbling speaks to the core of this red house. The souls of the house rest in a cushioned daze, the sound soon catches up to them. The vibrations pound into the wall to crack upon a young being sleeping in the darkness. A swift blow is dealt, the arrow-like vibration rumbles upon the slight cracks that seep light into the interior, a dark bloody red light fills in from the horizon. It stirs but does not stricken the mind of this young girl, she mumbles her soft sleepy dreams. But still, the arrow draws deeper into the heart of the red cabin, a second blow pummels against it as a slab of metal plummets off the shell of the house. It pummels into the ground and breaks; the sound of the break accompanies a louder beat that cuts upon the girl’s dark abode, the red light slips into the room again. The girl rolls and slowly moves in her sleep, she clings to the subconscious world as the breaking noises turn to soft hymns in her mind.
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