Darkest before the Dawn.

Phew, uni is really starting to heat up so my posting may be a little erratic over the next few weeks - but I've been enjoying writing and posting stuff so much lately that I'll be damned if I let the blog fall to the wayside, even if I end up posting edits of pieces that I have put up before (I will have to do this for one of my assessments anyway so it seems rather logical, not to mention the fact that I said edited versions would one day become part of the work that I post).

Lucky for you however, I have one new piece for you to read before we get to editing. Unluckily however this piece was, once again, written in response to Maldoror (don't worry though, this is the last one that I wrote - the assignment they were for only asked for three) so it has some similarities to 'The Executioner' (more so than to 'The Beast', as it is definitely the least surreal of the three).

Anyway, I'm running rather low on sleep, so before I write too much here is -

The New Man



From the beginning I only sought to survive. I had tried all that I could think of, all that would keep me from what I would later come to so enjoy. Tried and failed, as there came a day that I could no longer bare it, on the day when I was sick of having no coin in my pocket, or food in my belly, I took to the streets, a rough cudgel held tight in my hand.

The first one was wealthy. I caught him in the night as he stumbled his way from one tavern to another, his pockets full of the tinkling of tiny bells. I preyed upon his weakness: The drink had made him slow, had made him trusting. I walked with him, I placed my hand about his shoulders and joined in his bawdy songs. We laughed and smiled like old friends and then, once the streets had fully emptied, I gave him a smart rap behind the ear and dragged him away from the street so that I could pick his pockets clean.

This first time I had not meant to kill, simply to take and go, but no matter how hard he may have tried, the first forgot how to breathe and never again did open his eyes. Leaving him where he lay I would not find this out until morning, until I heard the whispers on the streets. I returned to the scene, to find a crowd huddled round the gaping mouth of the alley where I had left the man that had now spat him back out into the world.

The people muttered to each other, asking 'what it was the world was coming to'. Walking among them I felt sure that I would be discovered, that some errant look on my face would give it all away. I felt the man's money grow heavy in my pocket. I felt myself grow still, waiting for the cries of discovery.

I waited for nothing. Constables came and dragged the man away without a backward glance and then, slowly, the crowd too dispersed. To my surprise it was in this moment that I came to know true joy. True delight. I had bested another human being in truest way that I have yet been able to discern. I had deprived him of both his money and his life, without a single repercussion or the slightest chance for him to seek revenge or a repeat of our competition.

From that moment onwards a new knowledge burned in my brain. I saw now how the world should be: absent of the clutter of rule and law or good and evil, where life and death were decided by ones ability, by their strength and cunning.

There would be many after the first. I found I could not stop. Each night I stalked the deepest darkness of the streets, each night I would catch a new victim in my web and then we would compete. I made a mockery of the qualities so valued by society and hoped that one day they would realise that wealth and beauty and piety were as nothing, if one could not hold onto them.

But they did not seem to learn and it became all too easy. I craved a challenge, craved someone who might best me. Each night the city heaved more violently under my feet. Fear began to choke the streets as people cowered, knowing that there was something out there that hunted them. I revelled in it and slowly came to realise that if there was no-one out there who was worthy, with a will as strong as mine, then maybe I could create them.

Very quickly was I drawn to a young officer in the constabulary. A family man. With verve and principle. A staunch follower of his laws and codes. I left him letters, I left him notes: always mocking, always hinting. We became opponents, even if he did not know it. Many times I would let him think that he was close to catching me, and then I would pull it all away.

I watched as he slowly lost himself to his frustration and began to cast of the bonds that society had given him. That he had given himself. He became violent and reckless in his investigations. Quick to anger, quick to follow through. I sculpted him into a new man.

Eventually the time came when I knew he was close to breaking. Knew he was close to casting it all away so that he run out onto the streets and hunt me like I hunted others. He teetered at the edge of the abyss, only needing a single, small, push...

I took his family.

His grief was brilliant. His rage startling. He wept and swore, hammering at walls and leaving bloody smears. He called for me. Told me of his hate, of what he would do once he found me. I drank it in, savoured it, and then, when I was full I let him know where he could find me.

We met in the deepest pools of shadow that hung between the streets. His eyes flashed hatred, from his throat he let loose a animal snarl. At that moment I new rapture. Finally! Here was a man who was worthy! A challenge! I laughed with glee. We threw ourselves at each other like beasts.

For an eternity we fought. Trading bites and blows in equal measure. We rolled upon the ground. , trashing violently, carelessly, mindlessly.

In the end I saw my mistake. I had driven him to far. Given him too much. Now his fury outstripped my own. He gained leverage, his hands snaking around my neck. Squeezing. In the last few moments of my life I knew fear once, but very quickly it was replaced by pride. I had set my own rules and now I would lose by them. Lose to my own creation. As the last whispers of air left my lungs and the world reduced to pinprick lights, I felt that there was a small matter of satisfaction in that.




Alright, might be a little bit before the next original one (I'll see what I can squeeze in between essays) but I should update again soon with an edited version of one of the last few works that I put up - probably 'The Tree' as I've got some good feedback on that and I am now of the opinion that it is in need of some heavy trimming (horrible pun intended) as I (and this is something that I will admit as it bothered me at the time) let trying to fit it into a vaguely uniform syllabic structure get in the way of writing what I wanted to write.


M.

The Beast

The human imagination is an amazing thing and so it is often incredibly interesting to mentally chart the stages in the development of a story, both during the period in which it only exists in your head and during the time that you actually begin to get it all down on paper. Even when a story is inspired in part or completely by another, new ideas can take you in rather unique directions, leaving the resulting story with subtle (and sometimes not so subtle) references to other stories and concepts. - A mishmash of ideas if you will - Something that seems to fit in nicely with that old adage 'there are no new ideas. There are only new ways of making them felt,' that is if you believe in that sort of stuff (frankly I think there are plenty of new ideas, although I'm not sure I could lay claim to any in my writing).

Anyway, that sort of leads me into the story that I've got for you today - like 'The Executioner' it was written in response to Maldoror, but as you will see it is rather different, for while some of the key themes from Maldoror are still there (though not necessarily the same as those that were focused on 'Executioner'),there is a much greater emphasis on the surreal and it also contains (I think) much more in the way of conceptual imagery.

Still, I don't won’t to do too much deconstruction before you've read the damn thing, so here it is:


The Beast


Far beyond the time of man is a place where nothing lives and nothing dies. High above the sky lies blank as canvas that every now and again billows as the cold wind pushes itself across the bitter swelling of the sea, so stained by those that came before. Their remains now twisted into some cruel bower that lies just beyond the shore, a reef of bleached bodies and broken limbs. Devoid of thought and memory.

Rotted ice takes the place of continents, withered into thin lines and jagged edges: a scattering of glass upon a stagnant pond. A broken chandelier in a bathtub. Some contain the bones of buildings, marked by soot and ash, while others cradle themselves around the fallen branches of the great tree.

The old roots still hang from above, ever ignorant of gravity, they are held up by their own weight but no longer grow. Here nothing lives and nothing dies. They are wilted and scarred from an age of misuse, the bark long ago stripped away to expose once tender flesh to ripping and tearing of claws and gnashing teeth.

This is the work of the beast:

The last whole thing with a half a mind, it circles through the seas. Heaving through the bitter shallows to blink and sniff at a world that it no longer understands. For the beast looks but it does not see, it stares out upon the
endless sea with empty eyes, with sockets scooped out.

So it spends its days twitching blindly in the wind and chewing on noise that may have once been words. Always hunger pulls at it; it shivers and shakes in need. A mess of ragged skin and muscle long soiled and stained by sea and sap, it bays at the empty sky because it cannot understand why it needs.

It is a hunter that has forgotten how to hunt. A man that has forgotten that it is a man. What it is to be a man. So it wanders and it searches and sometimes it stumbles upon roots that it has not yet touched and for a time the hunger can be hidden away and it can think, but those times a few now. Once drained the roots stay drained, as here nothing lives and nothing dies.

Too often it finds itself returning to old roots, searching for sap that it may have missed. Sometimes it meets with success and so, driven wild by need, it tears at the tired roots and they in turn twist and shudder in helpless agony. The beast pays no mind. The root cracks and splinters and in a frenzy the beast tries to suck out what little marrow remains.

Black ooze. Black tar. Thick drops slide down into the sea – and float, refusing to mix. The beast cries in anguish and falls to its knees, cupping ruined hands and trying to sift the black from red.It gulps down what it can. The red sea is bitter. It burns at the throat. The beast claws at itself and cries, and then, helpless, cups hands and drinks again.

For here, nothing lives and nothing dies and the beast knows only hunger.


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Originally the idea was simply to write a short piece around need and the sometimes animalistic nature of man (ideas presented in Maldoror) and I think that for the most part I accomplished that, although most definitely not in the way that I had originally envisioned, with a lot more references to other things apart from Maldoror creeping in to it.

All in all I rather like it. It's different and I think I may have actually managed to describe the landscape that was present in my head while I was writing in a way that others may end up seeing the same thing and I like the idea of that very much.

Still, stuff doesn't just go up here for my pleasure, I'm trying to get feedback so once you've read it let me know what you think.

Until next time,

M