Zadown Posted January 29, 2003 Report Posted January 29, 2003 ... darknessnearfetiddirtyabysstearingsmallthingswithclaws ... The voice rose again from the deep sea of oblivion inside my head. I ignored it as usual, concentrated on the sound of my boots on wooden floor: thud thud thud thud. It was reassuringly ordinary, every thud pushing my unnatural gloom further away. I had changed - the voice was nothing to me now. Or so I said to myself and pushed my hat deeper down. The numbers on the doors flickered past, 604, 606, 608 ... and finally 610. ... bloodbrothersbigbigjawsandtalonstearslicecolorred ... As I reached the door and fumbled for the key I had been given with my gloved hands, I frowned. The odor was unmistakable: it was smell divining more work, more shouting headlines, more grief and hatred in a world already suffused with them. It was the smell of decaying blood. Involuntarily my nostrils flared and my left hand twitched. Paying no heed to these small rebellions of my body I carefully inserted the key to the lock and slowly, almost with reverence turned the key. A click told me it had been the right one. ... musttearjoinbrothersscreamengravemarkworshipopenrip! The door opened slowly, resisted my push as if the air inside was heavier. The voice screamed and ranted with unexpected fury, wailing harder with every inch the door swung inwards. My eyes burned with irritation when the air from inside met them - the feeling when I inhaled was a bitter mixture of pain and homesickness. Sulphur and blood. Still the door was in motion, in a world that seemed to slow down to contain all the different attacks against my senses that the air carried. The frown melted into snarl as my right hand fell to the butt of my gun, a gesture I knew was hours too late. The corridoor behind me faded from my awarness. Before me, the room I had come to inspect on a routine mission displayed all it's contents in a red-tinted display...
Impostor Posted January 29, 2003 Report Posted January 29, 2003 please explain to me how it is that you're so fucking good at this. (is overwhelmed) Impostor bring on a brand new renaissance, 'cause I think I'm ready
Peredhil Posted January 29, 2003 Report Posted January 29, 2003 LAUGHS OUT LOUD Although I don't think I'd use the exact same words... () I share the heart behind it. It IS a rough draft feel for one of your Z', but you translate the images with such raw power it's really hard to stand back and notice. Most people have to WORK to be so powerfully raw! Sometimes critiquing your works feels to me like a fern telling a redwood tree, "yup, you can still grow..."
Rune Posted January 29, 2003 Report Posted January 29, 2003 I'm just gonna keep reading it over and over.
Zadown Posted January 29, 2003 Author Report Posted January 29, 2003 Heh, the recipe for one of these is to be haunted by a dream for over a year, get annoyed by the same image constantly intruding on your thoughts and finally exorcise it by writing with respect to the vision. What is amusing is that the actual image I had lies somewhere just after the final "..." in the written version - but I feel that describing bloody murder in grisly details often steals more from the strenght of an image than adds to it. For the pieces where I describe real landscape (A Winter Night) one just needs to stop and concentrate and memorize a moment. Very easy.
The Portrait of Zool Posted January 29, 2003 Report Posted January 29, 2003 I showed this to my wife to legitimize my time here in her eyes. Thanks.
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