Post by cyker on Jan 17, 2007 2:07:31 GMT -5
So a man walks outside at 5:00, in shadow. It’s dark enough that the streetlamps are the gatekeepers of the back ways, and when he crosses the threshold from his lane to the avenue the sulfurous light flickers out behind him, closing the road home. As he walks forward his feet rarely leave the ground, sliding quietly along the pavement. His steps are slow and measured, his knees bent too much for dignity, his back straight and unmoving as though a vise clamped it. His stomach expands and contracts with breath while the people he passes, men and women, raise and lower their chests like birds with plumage. He’s not interested in their territory or their mating; instead he stares at their centers, eyes never rising past the heart. Those who see him scrape along rarely decide to remember. Memory, after all, is a choice we often forget to make, and he knows this well. He stops at one alley and sniffs at its air, which smells, like him, of rain and oil and what he's looking for. He shuffles in and draws his soul.
Yes, it's about knowledge, but that knowledge isn't about secrets. Yes, it's about training but that training isn't about confidence. Mindfulness is about the closest word we have to what's needed.
It's got more nicks on it than it did last night and the notches stand out like pustules, but it's there and it's sharp and its balance isn't gone yet.
The kind he’s found tonight likes to hide behind people and tonight it's hiding behind a ragged sleeper with a brown paper bag. The man advances, soul in hand, down the alleyway, knowing that if he has to tell himself ‘Do this,’ he has already failed.
His quarry looks at him from behind the other man, ugly and dark. His pace quickens slightly, sliding in a more fluid step than any of the plodding streetgoers might have done. By the time he's reached his distance, his prey has shifted and leapt for him.
It never gets easier. His opponent has talons and speed and brutal instinct. He's armed with his soul and bringing that to bear is as hard as it sounds. He knows that this kind likes to fight close, to get behind you if it can. This knowledge is his best weapon now, but no man is attentive enough to keep his face to such things forever.
The struggle ends quickly. The man, sweating only slightly, brings his soul with measured slowness down into his prey, filling the alley with silent yelping, and then stillness. He rises, brushing the grime from his knees, and moves over to the sleeper, who has not stirred through the battle. Gently, the man loosens the sleeper's grip on the bottle and lets the vine's blood wash the street. From beneath his coat he produces an orange and a small loaf of bread, which he tucks beneath the folds of the sleeper’s blankets, save for a crust. Turning, he drops the morsel of wheat to soak in the puddle of alcohol, thinking of how only half of Christ actually nourishes. As he begins to shuffle away a tiny sliver of his soul crunches softly under his foot, the noise most like hard rubber crushing iron filings, or claws. He doesn't miss a step. The sound is familiar.
His next trip takes him to the bathroom of a shelter, and the next to a building of squatters, and the next to an apartment complex. In each he fights, quick and dirty, and in the last two he wins nothing but passage. Four in a night is enough for him; he turns homeward. In the darkness between the streetlamps he sheathes his soul, and it leaves him gasping.
He visits a corner grocery and leaves with a pint of milk and a disappointed scowl on the face of the grocer. As he trudges home, hoping the sodium beacon has reopened his alley, his steps make small wet noises as they glide over fresh puddles and he thinks about the sound the small piece of mutton hanging in his kitchen will make seething in his new milk. He'd be glad Leviticus has a grandfather clause, were he Jewish. A passerby notes his odd gait and thinks "Nimrod!" and at this the man smiled a thousand years ago and the remnants show on his face. Quickly those ancient muscles slack again, calming the ripples of flesh they hadn't quite stirred.
His door has three locks but they're waiting for him anyway, behind his couch. He makes it to the center of his one room before hitting the floor. The milk soaks into his shirt as they beat at him; tears come without warning as his nose takes the brunt of a hoof. One climbs upon his back and wraps its forelegs about his neck, pushing his Adam's apple back up toward his mouth. He fumbles toward his center, preparing to unsheathe himself, hoping he has enough air.
He's done this enough that he can get his soul out and clear, but with flat and voided lungs it's all he can do to beat at his strangler as with a club. Yet even a clumsy blow from a soul weighted with purpose is enough to loose its grip. He sucks breath and tastes God again.
Two sweeping strokes are enough to clear him his space and he gathers his legs under him one at a time. From his knees he fends them off, slowly widening the circle around himself. A tiny rivulet leaking from his ear traces his jaw and joins the milk on his neck, but the moonlight ignores the blood and reflects only whitely on his furniture.
He knows a cut that starts from one knee and uses it. His next is a backswing and now he has his feet. A few of the smaller ones break ranks, but he has never pursued them. He knows he’s won, now, but he’s still unsure what the price will be this time. Three more cuts carry him to his living room wall and he plants his back to it, while the hoof he severed boils shadows and melts away. Now the others begin to fade back, leaving the largest standing alone before his couch. They quickly vanish into the gloom, but the biggest one remains; he’s seen before how the alphas always have something to prove. He inhales and ends the fight.
Yet when his soul tears through its springy neck, it coughs, wind passing jaws that were fastened mute for perhaps forever. Only once has this happened before; that time he gasped, this time he chokes, and he knows that if someday it happens again he’ll die of grief. He returns to his knees, soul cast thoughtlessly in a corner, and approximates a desperate prayer. The rasp of his foe’s single breath still reverberates off the linoleum, multiplying into a chorus of kisses stolen from on high. Somewhere, he knows, the sun is rising, but the only taste of that fact is the moonlight through his greasy window, and that pale creature still can’t see his blood.
Pain and panic fade, and he rises, lost but lighter. He leaves his soul on the floor, abandoning discipline for just a few precious seconds. Hunger bites him. He looks about his kitchen and realizes that his milk is gone, soaking his shirt, and with it the ability to successfully masticate his meat. He can no longer digest bread or wine. All that is left is his bag of apples. He takes one, picks up a peeling knife and turns to a small wooden cutting board. He begins slicing the fruit thinly but without relish; apples have always been delicious, but never worth the price. Yet as he leans in to attend his task the moonlight reflects off of his discarded soul and strikes him full in the face. White light blankets his vision, memories roar up from their depths, and just before he drowns he shuts his eyes tightly. Unable to guide it, he plants the knife squarely into his finger. Blood oozes out of him, and apple juice oozes in.
There in the bright darkness, metal buried in his hands, he blows his spirit out his mouth and hopes that when his lungs expand again a different spirit will come back in.
* * *
-Nat / Cyker / Coeli / Vhaelloth
* * *
EDIT: fixed a typo
Yes, it's about knowledge, but that knowledge isn't about secrets. Yes, it's about training but that training isn't about confidence. Mindfulness is about the closest word we have to what's needed.
It's got more nicks on it than it did last night and the notches stand out like pustules, but it's there and it's sharp and its balance isn't gone yet.
The kind he’s found tonight likes to hide behind people and tonight it's hiding behind a ragged sleeper with a brown paper bag. The man advances, soul in hand, down the alleyway, knowing that if he has to tell himself ‘Do this,’ he has already failed.
His quarry looks at him from behind the other man, ugly and dark. His pace quickens slightly, sliding in a more fluid step than any of the plodding streetgoers might have done. By the time he's reached his distance, his prey has shifted and leapt for him.
It never gets easier. His opponent has talons and speed and brutal instinct. He's armed with his soul and bringing that to bear is as hard as it sounds. He knows that this kind likes to fight close, to get behind you if it can. This knowledge is his best weapon now, but no man is attentive enough to keep his face to such things forever.
The struggle ends quickly. The man, sweating only slightly, brings his soul with measured slowness down into his prey, filling the alley with silent yelping, and then stillness. He rises, brushing the grime from his knees, and moves over to the sleeper, who has not stirred through the battle. Gently, the man loosens the sleeper's grip on the bottle and lets the vine's blood wash the street. From beneath his coat he produces an orange and a small loaf of bread, which he tucks beneath the folds of the sleeper’s blankets, save for a crust. Turning, he drops the morsel of wheat to soak in the puddle of alcohol, thinking of how only half of Christ actually nourishes. As he begins to shuffle away a tiny sliver of his soul crunches softly under his foot, the noise most like hard rubber crushing iron filings, or claws. He doesn't miss a step. The sound is familiar.
His next trip takes him to the bathroom of a shelter, and the next to a building of squatters, and the next to an apartment complex. In each he fights, quick and dirty, and in the last two he wins nothing but passage. Four in a night is enough for him; he turns homeward. In the darkness between the streetlamps he sheathes his soul, and it leaves him gasping.
He visits a corner grocery and leaves with a pint of milk and a disappointed scowl on the face of the grocer. As he trudges home, hoping the sodium beacon has reopened his alley, his steps make small wet noises as they glide over fresh puddles and he thinks about the sound the small piece of mutton hanging in his kitchen will make seething in his new milk. He'd be glad Leviticus has a grandfather clause, were he Jewish. A passerby notes his odd gait and thinks "Nimrod!" and at this the man smiled a thousand years ago and the remnants show on his face. Quickly those ancient muscles slack again, calming the ripples of flesh they hadn't quite stirred.
His door has three locks but they're waiting for him anyway, behind his couch. He makes it to the center of his one room before hitting the floor. The milk soaks into his shirt as they beat at him; tears come without warning as his nose takes the brunt of a hoof. One climbs upon his back and wraps its forelegs about his neck, pushing his Adam's apple back up toward his mouth. He fumbles toward his center, preparing to unsheathe himself, hoping he has enough air.
He's done this enough that he can get his soul out and clear, but with flat and voided lungs it's all he can do to beat at his strangler as with a club. Yet even a clumsy blow from a soul weighted with purpose is enough to loose its grip. He sucks breath and tastes God again.
Two sweeping strokes are enough to clear him his space and he gathers his legs under him one at a time. From his knees he fends them off, slowly widening the circle around himself. A tiny rivulet leaking from his ear traces his jaw and joins the milk on his neck, but the moonlight ignores the blood and reflects only whitely on his furniture.
He knows a cut that starts from one knee and uses it. His next is a backswing and now he has his feet. A few of the smaller ones break ranks, but he has never pursued them. He knows he’s won, now, but he’s still unsure what the price will be this time. Three more cuts carry him to his living room wall and he plants his back to it, while the hoof he severed boils shadows and melts away. Now the others begin to fade back, leaving the largest standing alone before his couch. They quickly vanish into the gloom, but the biggest one remains; he’s seen before how the alphas always have something to prove. He inhales and ends the fight.
Yet when his soul tears through its springy neck, it coughs, wind passing jaws that were fastened mute for perhaps forever. Only once has this happened before; that time he gasped, this time he chokes, and he knows that if someday it happens again he’ll die of grief. He returns to his knees, soul cast thoughtlessly in a corner, and approximates a desperate prayer. The rasp of his foe’s single breath still reverberates off the linoleum, multiplying into a chorus of kisses stolen from on high. Somewhere, he knows, the sun is rising, but the only taste of that fact is the moonlight through his greasy window, and that pale creature still can’t see his blood.
Pain and panic fade, and he rises, lost but lighter. He leaves his soul on the floor, abandoning discipline for just a few precious seconds. Hunger bites him. He looks about his kitchen and realizes that his milk is gone, soaking his shirt, and with it the ability to successfully masticate his meat. He can no longer digest bread or wine. All that is left is his bag of apples. He takes one, picks up a peeling knife and turns to a small wooden cutting board. He begins slicing the fruit thinly but without relish; apples have always been delicious, but never worth the price. Yet as he leans in to attend his task the moonlight reflects off of his discarded soul and strikes him full in the face. White light blankets his vision, memories roar up from their depths, and just before he drowns he shuts his eyes tightly. Unable to guide it, he plants the knife squarely into his finger. Blood oozes out of him, and apple juice oozes in.
There in the bright darkness, metal buried in his hands, he blows his spirit out his mouth and hopes that when his lungs expand again a different spirit will come back in.
* * *
-Nat / Cyker / Coeli / Vhaelloth
* * *
EDIT: fixed a typo