Fiction Fragment 2.1
Well hello. It has been a while, hasn't it? I won't be so presumptuous as to apologize, but I'll give as my excuse that I've spent the last month in four different countries, and haven't had many thoughts worth putting down.
This, though, was written before all that. It's the latest installment in a series of very short fragments of fiction. You'll notice that this one is called 2.1, while the others (one, two, three, four and five) were signified by just a single digit. I've decided to call fragments one through five chapter one, and this here is the first part of chapter two. It wouldn't hurt too much to revisit chapter one before reading this one. It has been a while. (A post regarding my short trip to Ireland should be forthcoming.)
I walked along a rocky shore. Ahead of and behind me the shore stretched, ending and beginning —- if it could do either —- past the far horizon, which played the role of sentry, keeping the shore from meandering up into the dark purple and black sky. To my right was nothing, and to my left was the sea, which was also nothing. I walked for days.
I saw a light out at sea. It was far away, but the light was bright and when it came, it poured all up and down the shore, filling the cracks between the rocks. It came and went, came and went, came and went. I saw that the light came from a lighthouse.
I was near the base of something tall. Something brick, something sea, something light —- I was near the base of a lighthouse, towering above me in endless rows of bricks, at the base of which was an open door. Through the door I could just see the start of a staircase running along the interior. I was near the base of a spiral stair.
In a lighthouse off a rocky shore a man called I was climbing a tall spiral staircase. Presently he reached the top. A bright light circled just above me like a vulture, lighting up my surroundings. After one sweep of the light, my surroundings were nothing. A second sweep answered the long mystery of what was at the top, for there the woman stood, but the light moved on and she was gone.
A third sweep —- she stood like Nike, noble and proud, but her eyes were closed. Her hair was wild in the salty wind and she held something in her outstretched hand.
The light swung around again for a fourth sweep —- she held a rabbit, its ears caught in her white-knuckled fist, dangling terribly. Its fur was caked and matted with dried blood. The wind rocked it gently as it dangled and stared out at me with black eyes over its bloodied whiskers. The light had stopped its rotation and it now shined mercilessly on the woman and her attentive prize.
At the top of a lighthouse I was looking into the eyes of a dead rabbit; it looked also into mine.
This, though, was written before all that. It's the latest installment in a series of very short fragments of fiction. You'll notice that this one is called 2.1, while the others (one, two, three, four and five) were signified by just a single digit. I've decided to call fragments one through five chapter one, and this here is the first part of chapter two. It wouldn't hurt too much to revisit chapter one before reading this one. It has been a while. (A post regarding my short trip to Ireland should be forthcoming.)
I walked along a rocky shore. Ahead of and behind me the shore stretched, ending and beginning —- if it could do either —- past the far horizon, which played the role of sentry, keeping the shore from meandering up into the dark purple and black sky. To my right was nothing, and to my left was the sea, which was also nothing. I walked for days.
I saw a light out at sea. It was far away, but the light was bright and when it came, it poured all up and down the shore, filling the cracks between the rocks. It came and went, came and went, came and went. I saw that the light came from a lighthouse.
I was near the base of something tall. Something brick, something sea, something light —- I was near the base of a lighthouse, towering above me in endless rows of bricks, at the base of which was an open door. Through the door I could just see the start of a staircase running along the interior. I was near the base of a spiral stair.
In a lighthouse off a rocky shore a man called I was climbing a tall spiral staircase. Presently he reached the top. A bright light circled just above me like a vulture, lighting up my surroundings. After one sweep of the light, my surroundings were nothing. A second sweep answered the long mystery of what was at the top, for there the woman stood, but the light moved on and she was gone.
A third sweep —- she stood like Nike, noble and proud, but her eyes were closed. Her hair was wild in the salty wind and she held something in her outstretched hand.
The light swung around again for a fourth sweep —- she held a rabbit, its ears caught in her white-knuckled fist, dangling terribly. Its fur was caked and matted with dried blood. The wind rocked it gently as it dangled and stared out at me with black eyes over its bloodied whiskers. The light had stopped its rotation and it now shined mercilessly on the woman and her attentive prize.
At the top of a lighthouse I was looking into the eyes of a dead rabbit; it looked also into mine.
posted by Matthew at 3:16 PM
1 Comments:
Whew!
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