Lavendre
08-02-2007, 11:31 PM
This was submitted to my school's Literary Art Magazine, but didn't make the cut, for some reason. I hope it's appreciated. It has Christian themes, such as Saint Peter, the keeper of the keys, although I'm a Zen Buddhist. I hope that's not so confusing. ^^;
Ashes, Ashes
(I Fell Back Down)
~By "Lavendre"
The rubber soles of my sneakers, clawing away from the ball of my foot, smacked and clapped against the ethereal steps of the glass spiral staircase. The misted throngs of milky, silver clouds seemed to swirl and combine in a perfect harmony, twisting and furling its way down to the slowly spinning earth below.
If I squinted, I could still barely make out the shell of my black, shadowed body below, sprawled in a cowered mass across the carpet of my bedroom.
It was exhausting. I had pattered my way up so many of these crystalline steps. In spite of the burnt out sear of fatigue plaguing my calves, I felt as if I were a puppet on a string, being tugged along and up, up, up into the gray and blue oblivion.
My hand gropes ahead of me, as I heave myself up another step or two, collapsed on my chest, elbows, and knees. A bead of cold sweat instantly beads on my brow, as with a whispering –swiff-, my fingertips brush a patch of worn, supple leather.
The stinging, metallic scent of smoke plumes into my eyes and nostrils, as I bat my eyelashes, and meekly, weakly lift my chin to the owner of the boot’s toe.
A coarse chuckle bubbles from his chapped, wry smile, as he pulls the base of the cigarette from his lips, twirling it between his dry, pallid fingers, and with a twitch, dashes a flick of ashes into the abyss below. The pistons of smoke from its dull, orange and white tip waft through the breezeless, chilly air, collecting and braiding into the pillars of clouds that the staircase spiraled around.
His hair is the colour of an unglazed bed of tar, like an overly traveled urban blacktop, and thick, the waves almost floating about his young face in ragged, but elegant arches. His bronzed, amber flecked eyes peer at me in an expectant sort of acknowledgement, as if he’s been expecting me for hours, now.
Tied loosely about his neck is a knotted, gnarled, and nappy scarf, the olive green yarn trying to split away from itself in all directions, as if gravity were trying to rip it into strings. One end was thrown over the shoulder of a light brown flight jacket of brown suede, with a dark leather trim on the collar. To his chest is fastened a gleaming silver D-ring, from which dangles a rusted, battered harness clip, with a dozen cast iron keys heavily gripped to it.
The man tosses the butt of his smoke aside, and it tumbles on down into the majestic darkness. Clumsily, I stagger unto my feet, catching a glimpse of the endless black gate behind him, stretching through the eternity in both directions.
He grumbles a scathed cough, batting his eyes as he arches a bold, sharp brow.
“That. Was stupid.”
He extends his dark-denim clad legs with an annoyed ghost of a reluctant sigh, and swipes for my wrist, pulling it closer.
The grubby fingers of his free hand slide and massage their way over the smooth, white skin, and grate to a hesitant slide, raking their way along the glistening mess of cherry. The blood had all ready begun to dry, and stick to the skin with a crusted black film at the edges of the gash, melting into a thin crevice of scarlet in the fractured neap below.
He shoves it away with a disgusted flick of his rugged hand, shaking his head gravely with a scratchy crackling of his mane. With a –slink- and hiss, he unclips the cluster of keys from his jacket, and pockets them with a rustle, his fist instead resurfacing with a fresh stick of paper-wrapped tobacco.
“Sorry, kid,” he grunts, as his thumbnail scratches the spine of the lighter, the flame jumping to life as it catches the Marlboro’s nose, “I’m not letting you in.”
The quietly subtle tip of the smoke paints his youthful face in a faded light of wear and tear, casting shadows at the crow’s feet webbing out from the darkened hammocks beneath his eyes.
And in an instant, I felt the gushing of the cold wind whip through my hair, and I saw his jittering shape tumble away, my demolished sneakers flipping over my head.
But his gruff voice was just as crisp, just as close; and the coppery scent of tobacco was still stained on my palette, his words echoing as my warm fingers grasped the knotted carpet, and a dry cigarette butt.
“You’re lucky I don’t tell Him…”
Ashes, Ashes
(I Fell Back Down)
~By "Lavendre"
The rubber soles of my sneakers, clawing away from the ball of my foot, smacked and clapped against the ethereal steps of the glass spiral staircase. The misted throngs of milky, silver clouds seemed to swirl and combine in a perfect harmony, twisting and furling its way down to the slowly spinning earth below.
If I squinted, I could still barely make out the shell of my black, shadowed body below, sprawled in a cowered mass across the carpet of my bedroom.
It was exhausting. I had pattered my way up so many of these crystalline steps. In spite of the burnt out sear of fatigue plaguing my calves, I felt as if I were a puppet on a string, being tugged along and up, up, up into the gray and blue oblivion.
My hand gropes ahead of me, as I heave myself up another step or two, collapsed on my chest, elbows, and knees. A bead of cold sweat instantly beads on my brow, as with a whispering –swiff-, my fingertips brush a patch of worn, supple leather.
The stinging, metallic scent of smoke plumes into my eyes and nostrils, as I bat my eyelashes, and meekly, weakly lift my chin to the owner of the boot’s toe.
A coarse chuckle bubbles from his chapped, wry smile, as he pulls the base of the cigarette from his lips, twirling it between his dry, pallid fingers, and with a twitch, dashes a flick of ashes into the abyss below. The pistons of smoke from its dull, orange and white tip waft through the breezeless, chilly air, collecting and braiding into the pillars of clouds that the staircase spiraled around.
His hair is the colour of an unglazed bed of tar, like an overly traveled urban blacktop, and thick, the waves almost floating about his young face in ragged, but elegant arches. His bronzed, amber flecked eyes peer at me in an expectant sort of acknowledgement, as if he’s been expecting me for hours, now.
Tied loosely about his neck is a knotted, gnarled, and nappy scarf, the olive green yarn trying to split away from itself in all directions, as if gravity were trying to rip it into strings. One end was thrown over the shoulder of a light brown flight jacket of brown suede, with a dark leather trim on the collar. To his chest is fastened a gleaming silver D-ring, from which dangles a rusted, battered harness clip, with a dozen cast iron keys heavily gripped to it.
The man tosses the butt of his smoke aside, and it tumbles on down into the majestic darkness. Clumsily, I stagger unto my feet, catching a glimpse of the endless black gate behind him, stretching through the eternity in both directions.
He grumbles a scathed cough, batting his eyes as he arches a bold, sharp brow.
“That. Was stupid.”
He extends his dark-denim clad legs with an annoyed ghost of a reluctant sigh, and swipes for my wrist, pulling it closer.
The grubby fingers of his free hand slide and massage their way over the smooth, white skin, and grate to a hesitant slide, raking their way along the glistening mess of cherry. The blood had all ready begun to dry, and stick to the skin with a crusted black film at the edges of the gash, melting into a thin crevice of scarlet in the fractured neap below.
He shoves it away with a disgusted flick of his rugged hand, shaking his head gravely with a scratchy crackling of his mane. With a –slink- and hiss, he unclips the cluster of keys from his jacket, and pockets them with a rustle, his fist instead resurfacing with a fresh stick of paper-wrapped tobacco.
“Sorry, kid,” he grunts, as his thumbnail scratches the spine of the lighter, the flame jumping to life as it catches the Marlboro’s nose, “I’m not letting you in.”
The quietly subtle tip of the smoke paints his youthful face in a faded light of wear and tear, casting shadows at the crow’s feet webbing out from the darkened hammocks beneath his eyes.
And in an instant, I felt the gushing of the cold wind whip through my hair, and I saw his jittering shape tumble away, my demolished sneakers flipping over my head.
But his gruff voice was just as crisp, just as close; and the coppery scent of tobacco was still stained on my palette, his words echoing as my warm fingers grasped the knotted carpet, and a dry cigarette butt.
“You’re lucky I don’t tell Him…”