EXCERPT from The Art of Madness (Work in Progress) The dream remained the same. The players, the scenes, shifted, tumbling and shifting like wisps of smoke. Once a week, without fail, the dream continues, fragments of a world gone mad, and every time he knew he was seeing hints of a story out of order. It was always the exact same thing, but different. Tonights performance, in its exquisite mystery, was a dream of the Sea of Glass. Phoenix stood on its shore, the burning sun overhead, feeling the wind whipping his jacket behind him, the sand cutting into his skin as he witnessed the pilgrimage of the damned. Cloaked in rags bound with steel clips, they walked in line, the smallest in front, testing the surfaces as the still waves, frozen, towering several stories above with their glinting stalactites, pointing down like the fingers of the gods accusing them of wickedness. He bore witness, the silent sentinel on the horizon of doubt, a lone figure whose form mingled in with the illusions the heat gave, a mirage. The reflections and reflections of reflections that surrounded the pilgrimage kept him safe from view as well, not that it mattered. In this place he never spoke, he never moves, he merely bore witness. He watched as a large man, hated by the caravan, stepped off the path provided by the tracker in the front, who tosses back sand in front of them to show the path, only to be swept and gathered once more by his partner in the back. No one could safely travel the entirety of the Sea of Glass. No one dare find out if it ended, and if so, what awaited them on the other end. The thirteen of them that remained, soon to be twelve watched the far distance. They shielded their dirty faces from the sun, their boots worn and patched until the original materials were a mystery, their bodies shielded what they could be from the reflected lights around them. Phoenix wanted to yell, to warn them, as he saw the large man yell and walk off the path more, the ground cracking beneath him. The scream was echoed at first, as it rose in pitch and resonance, the circular waves and tunnels turning the mans final sounds into the high pitched crystalline whine and melody that was known as the reapers organ. They turned their heads as he slid down the rounded tunnel that had opened up, looking like a natural formation of ice, a cavern, save for the fact that once gravity held him to the mandolin like edges of the tunnel, he bled, again and again with every motion, skin and tissue stripped as he slid down, the fluids released only glided him down more. The others watched in despair and dismay. One turned to look in his direction, and Phoenix tried to move, to wave, to signal that he was there. It was then the monster came, growling and leaping into his view, a rush of dirty, sun bleached yellow hair, leather and steel, and the face. It wore a gas-mask, the eyes enclosed in black tinted reflective lenses coated with dust. It shook him and screamed, its small hands around his throat. As he fell into unconsciousness, he also rose from it, covered in sweat. Feedback welcome.
Posted on: Thu, 21 Nov 2013 08:00:48 +0000
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