Post by Miles Okri on Jul 31, 2016 21:55:53 GMT
"Against the...gold plated balls?..of Midas, whose hue we hope to never turn.
The counter itself was an antique piece, aged and neglected, a theme which reflected itself in the bedroom which hosted it and possibly his apartment throughout had it not been for his feeble attempts at renovation. Sounds of an advertisement wafted through the thick air. Bottles of various forms unified by their alcoholic stench were sporadically placed on the counter’s marble top, playing weeds to the set pieces of a radio turned on and the mirror into which he starred, adjusting his tie. It was a blue thing whose dull color was cut through by white lines which moved in the most perfect 45 degree angle, one which he could be proud of. The tie meshed well with his black suit, a far cry of wealth from his dejected "home," (if it could be called that,) a far cry which filled him with a peculiar warmth. For the first time in many years he saw a true smile in that mirror, his hands fastening the tie about his neck like a noose. He leaned in close to the mirror to stare past the bottles and into his smiling face, reaching to a comb and refining the elegant flow of his now clean hair and shaved face. He’d forgotten that this man was once the one that so many had called to out of lust. It felt good to remember. Yet, beyond that was the nagging awareness that this day would be his last, truly his last: The End of foul fortune. He wouldn’t call the warmth within euphoric by any means, but the harmony it brought, ironically, brought with it the clarity of peace. Peace, the one thing which Death had to it’s name!
He laughed a subtle laugh and his reflection smiled back him with teeth stained yellow. Freckled about his warm face were dull, orange spots against an otherwise pale complexion marred by wrinkles unbecoming of his age. Yes, this man was once handsome, his lackluster brown hair beginning to betray hints of gray and already, his shaved facial hairs were unnaturally bristle. He looked tired. Immaculate form had depreciated to a point where he was unfit for the hands which remembered how to properly grip a blade by it’s hilt. A familiar song played on the radio, a genre which he had always despised but was faintly fond of. They called not to his weathered sword-hands, but to the supple ones which had once flowed up her own frail form, gripped gently around their firm cocks, and filled past her feeble collections of green. Were these the hands of Markos, of Jennifer, of Enrique the Map Maker? Perhaps those hands belong to something else entirely, it mattered not, for they were his now, and he’d put an end to their collective sufferings.
He laughed a subtle laugh and his reflection smiled back him with teeth stained yellow. Freckled about his warm face were dull, orange spots against an otherwise pale complexion marred by wrinkles unbecoming of his age. Yes, this man was once handsome, his lackluster brown hair beginning to betray hints of gray and already, his shaved facial hairs were unnaturally bristle. He looked tired. Immaculate form had depreciated to a point where he was unfit for the hands which remembered how to properly grip a blade by it’s hilt. A familiar song played on the radio, a genre which he had always despised but was faintly fond of. They called not to his weathered sword-hands, but to the supple ones which had once flowed up her own frail form, gripped gently around their firm cocks, and filled past her feeble collections of green. Were these the hands of Markos, of Jennifer, of Enrique the Map Maker? Perhaps those hands belong to something else entirely, it mattered not, for they were his now, and he’d put an end to their collective sufferings.
Of the...the seed of greed, whose life turns either way.
(What is with the sexual imagery?)
Markos' breath went soft.
(What is with the sexual imagery?)
He looked to the window which beheld the slums of Pauvres, blanketed by a gray rain. There was a boy which ran through the streets and towards shelter. As he watched the poor soul clutch his hat tight, Markos reasoned that that warmth within might not be only his. Perhaps it was an orchestral harmony which preludes The End. But such things mattered no longer. A smile. He looked to the gray sky of the day, passed the stained window and to the soft clouds, entering silent prayer to nothing.
He glanced down from the gray sky, from the window, and looked to himself in the mirror once more. Never had he imagined how handsome he was in a suit! It’s tan and slick surface seemed to gleam in the sunlight which broke past clouds and through window. The bow-tie too gleamed, one which was in stark contrast to everything he wore, its bright and checkered red a grand "Hello!" He knew bow-ties were unbecoming of a businessman, but there was only one life, and all this talk about Gods didn’t seem true to him anywho. Possible, yes, magic was already established after all, but gods? He shook his head in a chuckle, turning slightly to his side to gaze at his handsome self at a new angle. Where was the goddess of the Magi?
A spec of dust he found on his shoulder, dusted off with a brief motion. He heard the chime of his phone’s alarm, he’d have to leave now if he wanted to walk and avoid any risk of ‘grand theft auto,’ but it was no matter at all, he was already prepared. Out the bathroom he went, slipping on the hanging trench-coat whose black and thick manginess would conceal his fine outfit as he left the bedroom, headed towards the kitchen counter. Three hotboxes in a cloth bag, Markos’ final, and might he add, delicious meal. He hooked the bag through one arm and made to the exit, though one final destination rested near the entryway. Glancing down to the counter against which his umbrella was propped, he saw one fine silver pistol attop a week’s worth of work narrowed down to one envelope folder, a few papers, and one contract, gods forbid their use. He chuckled, a grim thought: “...well, sans one” presuming, of course, that such beings even existed. He supposed that this ambiguity would be resolved by the day’s end, and so he tucked the folder away into some compartment along the insides of his trench-coat before stuffing the pistol into an easily reached pocket, taking up his umbrella, and making his exit.
Of Power's power,He glanced down from the gray sky, from the window, and looked to himself in the mirror once more. Never had he imagined how handsome he was in a suit! It’s tan and slick surface seemed to gleam in the sunlight which broke past clouds and through window. The bow-tie too gleamed, one which was in stark contrast to everything he wore, its bright and checkered red a grand "Hello!" He knew bow-ties were unbecoming of a businessman, but there was only one life, and all this talk about Gods didn’t seem true to him anywho. Possible, yes, magic was already established after all, but gods? He shook his head in a chuckle, turning slightly to his side to gaze at his handsome self at a new angle. Where was the goddess of the Magi?
A spec of dust he found on his shoulder, dusted off with a brief motion. He heard the chime of his phone’s alarm, he’d have to leave now if he wanted to walk and avoid any risk of ‘grand theft auto,’ but it was no matter at all, he was already prepared. Out the bathroom he went, slipping on the hanging trench-coat whose black and thick manginess would conceal his fine outfit as he left the bedroom, headed towards the kitchen counter. Three hotboxes in a cloth bag, Markos’ final, and might he add, delicious meal. He hooked the bag through one arm and made to the exit, though one final destination rested near the entryway. Glancing down to the counter against which his umbrella was propped, he saw one fine silver pistol attop a week’s worth of work narrowed down to one envelope folder, a few papers, and one contract, gods forbid their use. He chuckled, a grim thought: “...well, sans one” presuming, of course, that such beings even existed. He supposed that this ambiguity would be resolved by the day’s end, and so he tucked the folder away into some compartment along the insides of his trench-coat before stuffing the pistol into an easily reached pocket, taking up his umbrella, and making his exit.
The ‘dining room,’ whose function itself meshed with ‘living room’, was, in part, the last which mattered. Thus it was so that with his last ounces of effort, it had been vacuumed clean beyond his prior attempts to house any hypothetical guest, straightened up, and otherwise put in order. The unneeded personals of couch, TV, and many others had been sold away to fund the fine clothes this meeting required, leaving the apartment itself dulled of any intimation towards regular life. A stranger would have been left with the impression that this was not a place where one had lived for anything longer than a year, but it was. A lone table was placed near a far corner of the room, draped over by white cloth with 3 antique chairs placed equally about it circumference. Attop it was an expensive red wine with seal intact, napkins, a pitcher of water, cups and wine glasses for three, and a missing main course. The scent of cigarette smoke and alcohol had been purged from this room by a set of candles that smelled of vanilla, placed in the table’s center. It was a dull room. A dullness which he avoided, sat on stool in the cool summer air that carried itself to his balcony. He emptied the third beer of the last six-pack he could find, mindlessly cracking open the fourth. Then the fifth. He sighed, where was the boy?
The sixth left half full and he heard the knock.
The phone clicked off, the coin was pressed flat, the phone put to his pocket. Heads, not tails, what did that mean? The sixth left half full and he heard the knock.
and the incorruptible passion we must hold.
We call to you...
The table had been set, the glasses filled with wine, the cups filled with water, the gentle scent of vanilla clashing with Markos' heavy breath. Hidden away was the plastic bag and it's now emptied Hotboxes, their package, a nice spaghetti and meatball dinner left untouched with two bowls dedicated to sauce and spaghetti and each chair now outfitted with their own plate and fork before them on the white, the modus operandi presumably "self-serve" considering the spoon and fork in each serving bowl, glass and large. The trench coat was draped over Miles' chair, and against his own Markos slouched, staring at the dinner in an anxious silence. His fingers drummed against the cloth, a cigarette added smoke to the air from his mouth, his ash tray already beginning to grow it's own pile. The only chair left empty was the one nestled closest to the far corner, both to allow those who stared at it easy escape, and to allow the one who would find it a sense of security. Miles' finger toyed with with a coin, pressing down on it's edge.
We call to you...
The coin trembled under the pressure of his finger, he stared to the unclaimed chair then back to the screen, leaned into his cushion with one elbow propped against the wood, hand to his phone before his eyes and legs crossed.
Kupiec."
Kupiec."
Markos' breath went soft.
