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ngdawg · 08-04-2005, 03:05 PM

Simon woke up and rubbed his eyes, looking around. All around him was dead brown grass, and at his feet a rock held down a piece of paper. The dusty road led over the hill, and the sun began to hurt his eyes. He sat up to peer at the paper, dust falling as he did so.
-*-
The ink was still wet, the cursive type flowed across the page like the wisps of a long forgotten wind. The flourishes of some secret hand caught his attention, but so much as the declamatory prophetic voice of what he read:
'You will travel the road, and you will travel yourself. You will travel to me..until then, you cannot know who you are'
And thus Simon, ignorant of his heritage, his purpose, even his appearance, stumbled forth into the haze that hovered sublimely before the horizon. He stumbled forth into his own life, not knowing where it might take him, or what he would find. Someone would have the answers.
-*-
Reflecting on the twisted path that lead him here, Simon traced the imprint of time back in his mind. There were a few people who could have changed the course of events, Brigette the most likely of them.If only he had walked out of that Cafe three years ago, and thrown that white rose into the steel mesh jaws of a city garbage can, it was the rose that started him down this trail...the Rose.
-*-
Simon cleared his thoughts and began walking the path that he knew would bring him to no other than himeslf. But who was "he"? He had wandered through life asking himself this same question with no memorable answers. He kicked a small pebble across the path and watched it bound into the knee high grass. As the pebble wound its way through the menagerie of twisted blades, such did Simon'd thoughts wind thier own path through his mind .. seraching for the kernel that he had planted to long ago that led to this barren valley. And in all truth it had begun long before Brigette, but she was the turning point.. the crucible, that tipped the balance of sanity.
-*-
To understand where he was headed, Simon needed to reflect on where he'd been. It was an innocuous enough meeting. The public library was having a showing of some local artists. He was taking his time looking at the small bronze statue, studying its rough lines, coming to his own conclusions outside of its name, Dark Kiss. Doesn't look dark or like a kiss, he thought. As he leaned forward to read the artist's name, she walked up behind him and, to get his attention, cleared her throat.
"Do you like it?" she whispered. "I know the sculptor personally". And at that, she giggled slightly and put out her hand. "Brigitte Monson, in case you can't read the plaque. I'm the artist of this piece. One of 5, but I only brought this one to the show".
He took her hand. It was soft and tiny, but a sculptor's hand nonetheless.
"Simon Pritchard. One of five, you say? Are they all this....abstract? I don't see why......"
She interrupted and while he first thought, how rude, he found himself listening intently. Her blue eyes seemed to shine as she explained, " All are based on our basic senses, but more in how they are used as opposed to what they are. So this", she motioned to the statue, " would be the sense of touch."
As she spoke, a server approached with a tray of wine. They each took a glass and wandered over to some sofas in a corner. She continued to tell him about how she saw the senses used in relation to love, hate, despair. He realized he was much more interested than he thought he would be. Or was it the sound of her voice, the shine in her eyes? No matter, he let her talk.

08-04-2005, 03:05 PM	#5 (permalink)
ngdawg peekaboo Location: on the back, bitch	Simon woke up and rubbed his eyes, looking around. All around him was dead brown grass, and at his feet a rock held down a piece of paper. The dusty road led over the hill, and the sun began to hurt his eyes. He sat up to peer at the paper, dust falling as he did so. -- The ink was still wet, the cursive type flowed across the page like the wisps of a long forgotten wind. The flourishes of some secret hand caught his attention, but so much as the declamatory prophetic voice of what he read: 'You will travel the road, and you will travel yourself. You will travel to me..until then, you cannot know who you are' And thus Simon, ignorant of his heritage, his purpose, even his appearance, stumbled forth into the haze that hovered sublimely before the horizon. He stumbled forth into his own life, not knowing where it might take him, or what he would find. Someone would have the answers. -- Reflecting on the twisted path that lead him here, Simon traced the imprint of time back in his mind. There were a few people who could have changed the course of events, Brigette the most likely of them.If only he had walked out of that Cafe three years ago, and thrown that white rose into the steel mesh jaws of a city garbage can, it was the rose that started him down this trail...the Rose. -- Simon cleared his thoughts and began walking the path that he knew would bring him to no other than himeslf. But who was "he"? He had wandered through life asking himself this same question with no memorable answers. He kicked a small pebble across the path and watched it bound into the knee high grass. As the pebble wound its way through the menagerie of twisted blades, such did Simon'd thoughts wind thier own path through his mind .. seraching for the kernel that he had planted to long ago that led to this barren valley. And in all truth it had begun long before Brigette, but she was the turning point.. the crucible, that tipped the balance of sanity. -- To understand where he was headed, Simon needed to reflect on where he'd been. It was an innocuous enough meeting. The public library was having a showing of some local artists. He was taking his time looking at the small bronze statue, studying its rough lines, coming to his own conclusions outside of its name, Dark Kiss. Doesn't look dark or like a kiss, he thought. As he leaned forward to read the artist's name, she walked up behind him and, to get his attention, cleared her throat. "Do you like it?" she whispered. "I know the sculptor personally". And at that, she giggled slightly and put out her hand. "Brigitte Monson, in case you can't read the plaque. I'm the artist of this piece. One of 5, but I only brought this one to the show". He took her hand. It was soft and tiny, but a sculptor's hand nonetheless. "Simon Pritchard. One of five, you say? Are they all this....abstract? I don't see why......" She interrupted and while he first thought, how rude, he found himself listening intently. Her blue eyes seemed to shine as she explained, " All are based on our basic senses, but more in how they are used as opposed to what they are. So this", she motioned to the statue, " would be the sense of touch." As she spoke, a server approached with a tray of wine. They each took a glass and wandered over to some sofas in a corner. She continued to tell him about how she saw the senses used in relation to love, hate, despair. He realized he was much more interested than he thought he would be. Or was it the sound of her voice, the shine in her eyes? No matter, he let her talk. __________________ Don't blame me. I didn't vote for either of'em.