12 December 2006

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A Story in Blue

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The large clock in the middle of town called out loudly, chastising shamelessly the people still awake. It permeated through the stone and brick walls of the apartment buildings, disrupting a pleasant dream, stirring awake a light sleeper, reminding the lonely person that they truly were alone when midnight came round. It reminded them that, unless they gave up their toxins that whisked them away from their reality, they would not escape the strange city of Mahtog.

They cried and sighed, wailing silently as their bodies ached for the answers they needed. The clean canvas begging to painted over with the perfect model, the perfect colours, the perfect background, the perfect painting. It stares innocently, longingly, at the painters gnawing away at nails bitten to the quick, bloody and raw, but numb at the moment. It happened every night, painted over and over with layers of paint, left to dry, left to be passed by, left to be forgotten.

Midnight reminded them that they were incompetent. The clock reminded midnight to come.

The young man with white hair, notisable even in this city filled with strange people, stared out the window, sadly failing to recover memories of a distant past filled with laughter, smiles, and death. He shut his eyes, leaning against the wall, willing for dawn to appear to usher away midnight and bring peace to his tired, aching head.

The typewriter, heavy and bulky and blue, sat on the desk, waiting for him. The blank paper sat there, at the perfect spot, ready the ink-covered rubber to pound on it, tattoo it with the obscure secrets of a tortured soul. It waits, in the blue darkness, for him to come and press the loud keys and create a masterpiece upon it.

His fingers itched, already typing away at phantom keys. His legs moved him to the chair, body settling into the plush. His fingers adjusted the blank, white page, hovering over the jutting keys. They were hesitant, or it was him. They curled and flexed, falling upon the keys and dancing.

He concentrated on loud clacks of the keys, like a schizophrenic piano with too little sleep. It was strange, familiar, but so horrifically wonderful. They danced for long stretches, pausing a moment, clicking for a little bit, stopping for minutes, type a little, pause, type, stop, then dance again.

Dawn crept upon him, bathing the room in blue. The white paper turned a pale blue, the letters a deep, inky navy. The story came out smoothly, lyrically, in blue. It was an unknown story, running away from him with his artist hands. They whispered hidden memories in strange characters in stranger lands with ever stranger obstacles. Down the rabbit hole, curiouser and curiouser, after the grinning smile into a trap. Jumping over the moon to catch the spoon.

His hands slid off the keys as his eyelids dipped dangerously, dark eyes peaking through pale lashes. His hands shook from exhaustion and trembled with eagreness. A small, sweet voice urged him to continue.

Go on.

So tempting. Go on.

A story written in blue, running off with the spoon and away from the land of blue, where everything was the same and would not, could not change.

Go on.