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Old 06-24-2008, 09:13 AM   #1
The_Catto
The Rhythm Schism
 
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Join Date: Jan 2006
Location: New South Wales, Australia.
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Forever

I have no idea what to call this little thing I have here so I just called it the first thing that popped into my head.
I'm not even sure to make of this piece. I didn't read any of it until I finished writing. My mind was a machine and my hands were doing their own thing. It was wierd. It's wierd and in my opinion, does not flow really well, but I wanted to see what you all think about it.
Hope you all enjoy.


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‘Can I still feel emotion?’
‘Am I still able to feel the touch of the wind as it would caress my face so long ago?’
‘Is there anything left of what I used to be?’


The two stood there, silently. Silence was torture at its very most atrocity. Sucking in a thin line of molecules that eventually led down into the cold, dark depths of a void that no longer existed, one of the two figures unknowingly flicked their wrist in a snapping motion. Then they were still once more.

Fog turned to dust, and dust turned to water. Spiralling out of control until, at last, there was only flesh and bone.

‘What really is a memory?’

Night was forever. Forever was just a still minute of a second that had not even turned on the clock yet. Was this plane such a paradoxical world that even time itself stood for nothing?

“You’re quiet tonight?” whispered a whisper.

“Nothing to talk about,” answered a voice that was not even there.

“As if there is not,” said the whisper mischievously. “What do you think is happening?”

“Nothing,” said the voice. “I do not even know your name.”

“I have many names,” answered the whisper. “Call me John.”

“No,”

“Why not?”

“That’s my name.”

“So?”

“You can’t have my name.”

“Fine,” the whisper said as it gave in. “What would you call me then?”

“I would call you evil; demented; scary.”

“Ah, then we have something in common, then.”

“We have nothing in common.”

A leaf fell from the sky and landed softly on the substance below. The figure looked down. He could not perceive the leaf, but he knew it was there.

“So,” continued the whisper. “What do you think is happening?”

“I do not know,” answered John. “But I feel different.”

“As do I,” replied the whisper. “What can it be I wonder?”



A knife through a dark and twisted veil sheds its steel to create a blade of that which is nothing. It pierces a heart that continues to beat even though there is no blood; a foul bewitchment; a disgusting twist of sorcery that still continues to intertwine with the living spirit of a dead being.
‘Can I fail that which I have not done, or can I succeed in failing in that which I have been victorious?’

An interesting question.

“Of that which I have no answer,” said the whisper.

“So you can hear my thoughts,” Concluded John.

“Fool,” hissed the whisper almost in a mocking voice. “I am you thoughts.”

“I do not understand...”

“You will.”





* * *



Take a breath,
Make a wish,
The only death,
Is never in reach.



Over and over; John wondered whether or not the whisper will ever stop reciting this passage of poem. It was his. He wrote it not long before he ended up here. It was his bane. The only passage he ever wrote that he hated. He thought it to be unprofessional, amateurish ... just plain bad writing.

That itself was probably the reason as to why the whisper, whether it was coming from inside his head or the unseen figure next to him, kept repeating it to him.

“Shut up,” whispered John. The passage grew louder. “Shut up.”

“Take a breath, make a wish,”

“Shut up.”

“The only death,”

“Shut up,”

“Is never in reach...”

“Shut up!” John screamed, as loud as his voice-box would allow him.

“No fun,” said the whisper in a disappointed type of voice. It stopped nonetheless.

John felt himself wipe both of his eyes with his hands. No matter how many times he tried, his vision would never get any better.

“Why is this happening to me?” he asked. “Why do I have to be stuck here with you?”

“I ask the exact same thing every single day,” replied the whisper, “but, of course, you already know that don’t you?”

John ignored the ridicule behind the words. “I never asked you too,”

“I know,” replied the whisper offhandedly. “That just makes it all the more interesting though, doesn’t it, John?”

He felt himself shake his head. “No,”

“No?” queried the whisper. “Why, don’t you want to find out what happened? Or, better yet, what happens now? You’re a writer John, it’s what you do... looking for that perfect ending. The ending itself, is the story is it not? It sums up all that has happened in how ever many pages into one, glorious paragraph of pure finality. Sweet isn’t it?”


“I don’t care for you,” said John. “I never did.”

“I know,” the whisper replied. “But that does not mean I do not care for you.”

*


Stars the size of grains of sand: grains of sand the size of stars.

Nothing like that mattered when you were trapped in a bubble of hopeless agony.

But was the agony he was feeling a sense of longing for something, or was it due to an injury?

He had no injury; he had nothing to long for.

He was alone.

But in his mind, he was never alone.

So what was he really?

Did he even exist?

Were the hands, feet and hair that he would look at and touch really there, or was it a hologram, or even just a hollow figment of his imagination?
Perhaps they were all of these things.



*


“How many years have past and yet still you think?” enquired the whisper.

“It’s what keeps me going,” replied John.

“Yet, you have nothing to live for?” said the whisper. “Isn’t that a little bit contradictory?”

“Not in the least,” lied John.

John could feel the smile behind the whisper smirk at him. “Such a poor little boy you are.”

“You’re just sad that you didn’t get to experience the gift of life.”



John looked down. A faint outline had started to appear where his hands should have been. Five fingers, a palm, a wrist ... and that’s where it stopped.

The other figure looked hopelessly around. “It’s starting,” it whispered grimly. “The end of the beginning is finally starting.”

“No,” the other replied. “That is only what he wants us to believe.”

“Spare me your scepticism,” replied John. “Are you just afraid, but don’t want to admit it?”

“I am fear,”

“And cliché,”

“You’re just delusional.”

“I’m just a realist.”

“You’re a fool.”

*

John laughed. “It’s happening.”

“No it’s not,”

“Yes! I can hear it. Finally!”

“You only hear what you want to hear.”

“You only believe -,”

“Stop it!” spat the whisper. “I’ve had enough! You do not know anything of what is happening! Do you even know who I am yet? Or have you been so damn ignorant that you have overlooked everything that you have come to learn in being trapped here? You’re a fool John, and I am also a fool for sticking with you this long!”

“Then why stay?” asked John.

“I cannot leave and you know that!”

“Yes, and it’s fascinating that you know that as well.”

“So...” whispered the whisper as realization fell through the air like water through a sieve, “you finally understand do you? You finally acknowledge it?”

“Yes,” replied John. “I am you, just as much as you are me. But when I leave here, we will be separate.”

The whisper laughed. “You are half correct my brother. But in thinking you are leaving is an error in which there is no afterthought. You cannot leave. The dead cannot live again.”

The End.

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