Nevermore
08-05-09, 04:49 PM
[CLOSED. Forgot to put it in the title. x-x]
Arimov floated, an ink-shaded drawing in a personal gloom. He looked down upon the city lights; saw miasmas, maybe two. They drifted lazily around the double helix strands of cobblestone city, twisting around the darker cysts that scarred his thoughts and marked his brain. The elf looked down with mock contempt, displeased that time was still – and then he fell, driven by unseen force. A spin, a revolution (two or three, maybe four) as his vision blinked from sky to asphalt pavement ‘low, a single clock tower piercing through a cloudy afternoon. A lunar moon hung crooked in the black strip of darkness holding salty sparkles, and Arimov was displeased. A mere crescent in his realm, where waning was shunned and waxing encouraged? Preposterous – a parable of petty paltry set into the peppery, concrete jungle that was rushing up to say “Hello.” His spaceman tumble was cut off abruptly and Arimov was allowed to stand on his feet. Neon lights and billboard businesses cast eerie glows into the limitless street, mannequins the only citizens in sight.
“Hello,” said the concrete jungle – a disembodied calm personified by light and mauve decay that had set upon the clock tower. Perhaps an odd, groovy new age fungus in his elder state of mind? But Arimov had no time to mull over this peculiar occurrence as the face of the great grandfather ticked a final tock, and the great clashing of midnight bells interrupted the steady silence. Námo Gîl and Tûr Amarth, mockeries of that crooked lunar moon, were gripped tightly in his hands, knuckles blaring snowy white in contrast to the tarmac. An empty airplane passed by overhead, engines working soundlessly as it flew without destination through the atmospheric nothing. Looking to one of the pale puppets that stood nearby, Arimov asked a question. No reply. Its blue-collar attire did not look, per se, very threatening, and thus with a single strike of a crescent moon a beheaded, smiling face fell to the ground. There was a deep rumble in the bowels of the earth as titans (slow as ents, those things) decided what the most immoral punishment would be.
The hissing of poison stopped him still. Looking lopsidedly at the decapitated dummy, he found the source of the noise: a scorpion, or perhaps three trillion, peered over the edge at him. Such insect-like animals. He hated them – but he could not take his rage out on an inanimate object, no? Such impotent fury would seethe through the safety of his mind and alert marauding simians, perhaps some grander than he, and that was not a thing to be taken lightly. Arimov was the apex predator of this particular region, and he had every intention of staying that way. Tûr and Námo began to spin and moons turned to whirlwind, crisscrossing at a crass intersection with a wet and silvery sheen. The stop sign tried to swoon him over with its freshly-painted red coat, but it did not work. “Hello,” said the elf to the concrete jungle. The clock tower gave a throaty laugh as the minute hand hit two, and the scorpions stopped squirming.
Then the buildings seemed to bend and distort into Victorian madness, a multitude of ancient manors seeking vengeance for long-dead vendettas. Arimov looked frightened but, mind you, did not feel that way. Deep in the cavities of his cerebrum lurked that innate knowledge, voicing itself as the mannequins disintegrated into weightless ash, that he would reign victorious over whatever assaulted him this day. The clock tower’s laugh turned to a cackle as its cyclopean eye stared down with intensifying hate, and the malice seemed to pour forth from every alcove and rock gargoyle, from every architectural curve and depression. It was a primal sort of loathing, filled with derision and scorn… but this Silvan elf would prove to be its anathema, the single chisel to shatter a beautiful marble sculpture. Some would look at it as an act of vandalism, perhaps worthy of execution. In Arimov’s mind, it was a work of art: every bit a masterpiece as Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel mural, or da Vinci’s Mona Lisa.
“Goodbye,” said the concrete jungle.
“Wouldn't you like to sit with me and sip some tea?” asked an inquisitive elf.
“No, I don't think I would,” replied the concrete jungle.
“That,” began the predator, “is very disappointing.”
Arimov floated, an ink-shaded drawing in a personal gloom. He looked down upon the city lights; saw miasmas, maybe two. They drifted lazily around the double helix strands of cobblestone city, twisting around the darker cysts that scarred his thoughts and marked his brain. The elf looked down with mock contempt, displeased that time was still – and then he fell, driven by unseen force. A spin, a revolution (two or three, maybe four) as his vision blinked from sky to asphalt pavement ‘low, a single clock tower piercing through a cloudy afternoon. A lunar moon hung crooked in the black strip of darkness holding salty sparkles, and Arimov was displeased. A mere crescent in his realm, where waning was shunned and waxing encouraged? Preposterous – a parable of petty paltry set into the peppery, concrete jungle that was rushing up to say “Hello.” His spaceman tumble was cut off abruptly and Arimov was allowed to stand on his feet. Neon lights and billboard businesses cast eerie glows into the limitless street, mannequins the only citizens in sight.
“Hello,” said the concrete jungle – a disembodied calm personified by light and mauve decay that had set upon the clock tower. Perhaps an odd, groovy new age fungus in his elder state of mind? But Arimov had no time to mull over this peculiar occurrence as the face of the great grandfather ticked a final tock, and the great clashing of midnight bells interrupted the steady silence. Námo Gîl and Tûr Amarth, mockeries of that crooked lunar moon, were gripped tightly in his hands, knuckles blaring snowy white in contrast to the tarmac. An empty airplane passed by overhead, engines working soundlessly as it flew without destination through the atmospheric nothing. Looking to one of the pale puppets that stood nearby, Arimov asked a question. No reply. Its blue-collar attire did not look, per se, very threatening, and thus with a single strike of a crescent moon a beheaded, smiling face fell to the ground. There was a deep rumble in the bowels of the earth as titans (slow as ents, those things) decided what the most immoral punishment would be.
The hissing of poison stopped him still. Looking lopsidedly at the decapitated dummy, he found the source of the noise: a scorpion, or perhaps three trillion, peered over the edge at him. Such insect-like animals. He hated them – but he could not take his rage out on an inanimate object, no? Such impotent fury would seethe through the safety of his mind and alert marauding simians, perhaps some grander than he, and that was not a thing to be taken lightly. Arimov was the apex predator of this particular region, and he had every intention of staying that way. Tûr and Námo began to spin and moons turned to whirlwind, crisscrossing at a crass intersection with a wet and silvery sheen. The stop sign tried to swoon him over with its freshly-painted red coat, but it did not work. “Hello,” said the elf to the concrete jungle. The clock tower gave a throaty laugh as the minute hand hit two, and the scorpions stopped squirming.
Then the buildings seemed to bend and distort into Victorian madness, a multitude of ancient manors seeking vengeance for long-dead vendettas. Arimov looked frightened but, mind you, did not feel that way. Deep in the cavities of his cerebrum lurked that innate knowledge, voicing itself as the mannequins disintegrated into weightless ash, that he would reign victorious over whatever assaulted him this day. The clock tower’s laugh turned to a cackle as its cyclopean eye stared down with intensifying hate, and the malice seemed to pour forth from every alcove and rock gargoyle, from every architectural curve and depression. It was a primal sort of loathing, filled with derision and scorn… but this Silvan elf would prove to be its anathema, the single chisel to shatter a beautiful marble sculpture. Some would look at it as an act of vandalism, perhaps worthy of execution. In Arimov’s mind, it was a work of art: every bit a masterpiece as Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel mural, or da Vinci’s Mona Lisa.
“Goodbye,” said the concrete jungle.
“Wouldn't you like to sit with me and sip some tea?” asked an inquisitive elf.
“No, I don't think I would,” replied the concrete jungle.
“That,” began the predator, “is very disappointing.”