Thread replies: 3
Thread images: 1
2016-01-30 14:09:49 Post No. 7640394
Post No. 7640394
I could really do with some inspiration right now so can we be like /ic/ and attempt a progress thread?
Early morning sunlight rippled over the gently stirring waves, as a small merchant vessel sailed softly northwards on a vast ocean. The red semi circle of sun over the horizon was pleasant, whilst a small breeze whistled in the salty air, calling forlornly to no one. There were no clouds in the slowly illuminating sky and in that strange transition period between night and day Aisha’s immense dual-moons were still perceivable.
To say my arm stung would be an understatement. The pain was immense and I felt light-headed; I could already feel fevers fickle fingers beginning to cling to me. I had bandaged it up as best as I could, but I wasn't a nurse, and a foul mixture of pus and blood had began to seep through. I could literally smell it festering. Or maybe that was my over active imagination, everywhere and everything smelt dead and foetid nowadays.
The doctor span his lustrous Fryer quill between his fingers, the front foot in his cross legged position swinging idly. His crisp slacks revealing a pair of thin beige socks. Behind him, through a wide spotless window, Trent could make out lanes of unique airships depositing and loading their wares in the docks. In the quiet moments he could hear their collective drone; a comforting sound.
As we settled down to sleep, crushed amongst the confines of our one-man tent, she kissed me. Full. On the lips. It was a short kiss, careful and delicate. My lips stayed unmoved. When she had pulled away, she settled down, curling herself against the lines of my body, embryonic. I held her tightly, lending her warmth and comfort. I watched her fall asleep, her form rising and falling slowly, a dirty hand clutched to the corner of her mouth.
As though an echo she had returned to places of note, drawn not by logic but something more elusive; a thread unwinding from the hem of her dress that she followed to and beyond lost locations, focused entirely on the evanesce of the silvery wisp.
Despite the undisturbed nature of the island, the trail she took was well worn into her mind, and she had returned to the spot where her home had once been or would be, to where she would lay her head and watch the stars, to the small patch once round the back where an old nag would bristle and bridle as the sun fell and now the grass grew knee-high.
Below the bridge at Whitehall, there is an alcove. If you take the stairs at the hours when the tide is lowest you can reach it, pressed upright against the wall and mirroring a crab with your toes in the sludge. Once there, swallowed by the recess, you can climb the concrete slope and, in the damp seclusion, breathe.
If you care to look for them you will find memories there, in the old stone walls, imprinted in chalk. Entwined names of entwined lovers, merging together to form an enduring, oddly intimate orgy.