Saturday, November 05, 2005
rekindling
so i return to yet another attempt to keep the promise to myself that i would finish this short story.
that said, i offer (again) the first excerpt of...
Hell's Wait -or- The Repercussion of an Angel's Infelicitous Affair
"Astounding ingenuity; over a millennium of conceptual continuity from such a contrivance," professed the angel to the prophet and surveyed with a subtle air of genuflection the device which was after all quite praiseworthy. The statuesque creature stood with its back to the prophet, its great wings covered its body from neck to toe even in its rested position; all that was visible to the prophet were its great, scarred arms bent at the elbows with hands rested on its naked hips, and its ivory maned head staring up at the finger like projections of the device as if he had first set eyes upon it this very moment. Not merely just some obscure tangle of mediums placed atop a pile of stones; the machine seemed as if it were born of the spire from which it protruded, reaching heavenward as if the whole structure alone was grasping for God. The prophet had apparently been chosen to witness not that which the Lord had permitted, quite the contrary, for it was the Devil himself that had extended the invitation; not an offer that one could coldly refuse, at the very least not in good conscience. And with uneasy concession, the prophet would be sole audience to a fallen angel’s excommunication. That is of course with exception to the other participants who stood in ornament alongside the machine, crowing the moss covered minaret. The tower looked as if it had grown directly from the rocky spear from which it perched; a palette of earthen browns that stabbed up from the glassy surface of the cerulean waters that completely swallowed the horizon. As far as the eye could wander, there were no other signs of land or life but that which clung to this rock, surrounded completely by the sea except for a ring of jagged obelisks that protruded a few meters from the ebbing surface encircling the pillars base. Aside from the angel and the prophet, was the damned, an angel who was a sullen-looking ashen-skinned creature with rueful wings and face, and a minor saint who sat at a rampart holding the thorned vines that bound the arms and wings of the damned, cinched to the threshold of piercing the skin. In those places where it did puncture the stony gray flesh, the wounds did not offer any blush of color, but simply surrendered to the prickly intruders. Perhaps an unwarranted precaution, for the damned appeared so broken- its normally white pearly brilliance of feathers hugged the sunken shoulders, framing a face as stoned and expressionless as the cold rusted iron of the device- that one might assume that unattended, all it could conjure would be merely to sit at the edge of the tower staring vacantly into the horizon and would only need to be hailed for when the penance was to be handed.
The prophet showed no real interest in the contrivance at all. He paid no mind to the large metal cruciform that welcomed the first mortal eye. He seemed not to notice the perfectly honed points to the part of the device that directly proceeded, or could even imagine the precision of the mathematical formulas contrived to allow each cog to rest so naturally into one another. In fact, he was oblivious to the dwarfing scheme of the whole thing; how all that was the eye to bear, merely just the tip of the iceberg. Instead, he stood silently behind the damned, which stood between him and the holy, with a creeping sense of contempt while the blessed angel made the final preparations, now descending the spiraling stair into the tower, from which the bulk of the machine lay hidden, now reappearing on the top to inspect its visible gear work. As the prophet watched these proceedings, he could not help but grimace at such a peculiar sight; this holy general hunched over greasy sprockets and rusted metal performing tasks more inclined for an engineer; it almost made it look human. He could even hear the grunts whisper up from the towers depths as the angel torques at some hidden limbs of the device. "That should set all things right!" the angel called out from behind a maze of intricate mechanisms as it climbed from the bowels of the structure. When it reappeared, its hulking body and wings were streaked with smudges of soot, starkly contrasted by the milk of its flesh. The prophet squinted at the notice of a cross painted in cauterized blood over the angel’s brow line; he had not noticed this brand earlier on and now fixed on it. "Have I got some muck on my face; albeit great in design, it all is such a messy affair." The angel stopped and rubbed at its nose and cheeks; embarrassed at the ignorance of its attentions, the angel quickly looked for some words to cover, "These wings... helpful in getting around..."
"But surely they are cumbersome for such a vocation," finished the prophet, instead of questioning the purpose for the device, as the angel had anticipated. To which the angel replied, "Surely..." and stepped off the towers edge. The wind billowed under each wing and groaned as it carried the massive creature down the monstrous height of the tower to the cleansing water below, and once returning it continued, "...but they mean home to us; and we must never forget... about home." Its voice seemed to wander for a moment; the words seemed to soften in their tone. Could it be regret that the prophet sensed in the angels voice? Perhaps the brief lull in its words was to hide mourning. "Home?" slipped from the prophets lips and he saw the ends of the cross on the angels forehead curl ever so slightly.
"But never mind all that," interrupted the angel, "is it not an interesting piece of work?" The winged creature swelled its wings to its capacity and quickly snapped the tips to its feet which the prophet noted as peculiar; for that each was without segmented toes. He glanced over to see if the damned angel had feet the same but could not tell; for by now it had rested itself on the opened rampart of the rooftop, dangling its soles to the waters below.
Forcing free any excess moisture, the blessed angel proceeded to caress any ruffled or displaced feathers. "Like any machine of course, autonomous it is not. But once it has been set in motion, there is no need to interfere." The angel looked at his visitor and then glanced down near his feet. Thinking that he himself was barefoot and the angel had found the same oddity in his digits, the prophet glanced down where he saw there a scroll which he had not noticed sooner; his ears slid upward and the corners of his eyebrows sank as his scalp tightened in perplexity. "I do not understand," he knelt over to pick up the rolled papyrus, "what is this for?" Sensing his genuine confusion, the angel plucked a feather from its wing, which caused it to wince, wrinkling the clotted cross as it grit its teeth; a sight the prophet at first discerned as pain, but judging from the smile that spread across the angels lips, he felt premature in his judgment. "Would you not care to document any of this? That is why you have been asked here is it not?" The prophet's arm recoiled at the drop of black blood dripping from the pointed end of the feathers shaft. The angel stepped a bit closer toward the prophet, who answered with a hesitant retreat, nearly tripping over the slack of the restraints on the damned. "Surely you understand your position here? What the Devil intends of your visit?" The prophet could only shake his head before the angel continued, "All in due time then..." it stepped over the thorny chord and offered to take the scroll from the prophet, who, now standing with face completely contorted and twisted in ignorance, was quick to oblige. "As I had mentioned," the angel said as it turned back toward the device retracing its steps and placing the scroll and feather in the side mount, "once the contrivance is set to motion... well, in all actuality sometimes a bit of intervention is needed; divine intervention I suppose you could say. But that should not be necessary." The angel looked back over its shoulder toward the prophet who, noting his proximity to the fallen angel, hurried a few paces from the damned nearer to the saint that bound it. "Then again," added the angel with a wink, "things do seem to work in mysterious ways."
(to continue)
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that said, i offer (again) the first excerpt of...
Hell's Wait -or- The Repercussion of an Angel's Infelicitous Affair
"Astounding ingenuity; over a millennium of conceptual continuity from such a contrivance," professed the angel to the prophet and surveyed with a subtle air of genuflection the device which was after all quite praiseworthy. The statuesque creature stood with its back to the prophet, its great wings covered its body from neck to toe even in its rested position; all that was visible to the prophet were its great, scarred arms bent at the elbows with hands rested on its naked hips, and its ivory maned head staring up at the finger like projections of the device as if he had first set eyes upon it this very moment. Not merely just some obscure tangle of mediums placed atop a pile of stones; the machine seemed as if it were born of the spire from which it protruded, reaching heavenward as if the whole structure alone was grasping for God. The prophet had apparently been chosen to witness not that which the Lord had permitted, quite the contrary, for it was the Devil himself that had extended the invitation; not an offer that one could coldly refuse, at the very least not in good conscience. And with uneasy concession, the prophet would be sole audience to a fallen angel’s excommunication. That is of course with exception to the other participants who stood in ornament alongside the machine, crowing the moss covered minaret. The tower looked as if it had grown directly from the rocky spear from which it perched; a palette of earthen browns that stabbed up from the glassy surface of the cerulean waters that completely swallowed the horizon. As far as the eye could wander, there were no other signs of land or life but that which clung to this rock, surrounded completely by the sea except for a ring of jagged obelisks that protruded a few meters from the ebbing surface encircling the pillars base. Aside from the angel and the prophet, was the damned, an angel who was a sullen-looking ashen-skinned creature with rueful wings and face, and a minor saint who sat at a rampart holding the thorned vines that bound the arms and wings of the damned, cinched to the threshold of piercing the skin. In those places where it did puncture the stony gray flesh, the wounds did not offer any blush of color, but simply surrendered to the prickly intruders. Perhaps an unwarranted precaution, for the damned appeared so broken- its normally white pearly brilliance of feathers hugged the sunken shoulders, framing a face as stoned and expressionless as the cold rusted iron of the device- that one might assume that unattended, all it could conjure would be merely to sit at the edge of the tower staring vacantly into the horizon and would only need to be hailed for when the penance was to be handed.
The prophet showed no real interest in the contrivance at all. He paid no mind to the large metal cruciform that welcomed the first mortal eye. He seemed not to notice the perfectly honed points to the part of the device that directly proceeded, or could even imagine the precision of the mathematical formulas contrived to allow each cog to rest so naturally into one another. In fact, he was oblivious to the dwarfing scheme of the whole thing; how all that was the eye to bear, merely just the tip of the iceberg. Instead, he stood silently behind the damned, which stood between him and the holy, with a creeping sense of contempt while the blessed angel made the final preparations, now descending the spiraling stair into the tower, from which the bulk of the machine lay hidden, now reappearing on the top to inspect its visible gear work. As the prophet watched these proceedings, he could not help but grimace at such a peculiar sight; this holy general hunched over greasy sprockets and rusted metal performing tasks more inclined for an engineer; it almost made it look human. He could even hear the grunts whisper up from the towers depths as the angel torques at some hidden limbs of the device. "That should set all things right!" the angel called out from behind a maze of intricate mechanisms as it climbed from the bowels of the structure. When it reappeared, its hulking body and wings were streaked with smudges of soot, starkly contrasted by the milk of its flesh. The prophet squinted at the notice of a cross painted in cauterized blood over the angel’s brow line; he had not noticed this brand earlier on and now fixed on it. "Have I got some muck on my face; albeit great in design, it all is such a messy affair." The angel stopped and rubbed at its nose and cheeks; embarrassed at the ignorance of its attentions, the angel quickly looked for some words to cover, "These wings... helpful in getting around..."
"But surely they are cumbersome for such a vocation," finished the prophet, instead of questioning the purpose for the device, as the angel had anticipated. To which the angel replied, "Surely..." and stepped off the towers edge. The wind billowed under each wing and groaned as it carried the massive creature down the monstrous height of the tower to the cleansing water below, and once returning it continued, "...but they mean home to us; and we must never forget... about home." Its voice seemed to wander for a moment; the words seemed to soften in their tone. Could it be regret that the prophet sensed in the angels voice? Perhaps the brief lull in its words was to hide mourning. "Home?" slipped from the prophets lips and he saw the ends of the cross on the angels forehead curl ever so slightly.
"But never mind all that," interrupted the angel, "is it not an interesting piece of work?" The winged creature swelled its wings to its capacity and quickly snapped the tips to its feet which the prophet noted as peculiar; for that each was without segmented toes. He glanced over to see if the damned angel had feet the same but could not tell; for by now it had rested itself on the opened rampart of the rooftop, dangling its soles to the waters below.
Forcing free any excess moisture, the blessed angel proceeded to caress any ruffled or displaced feathers. "Like any machine of course, autonomous it is not. But once it has been set in motion, there is no need to interfere." The angel looked at his visitor and then glanced down near his feet. Thinking that he himself was barefoot and the angel had found the same oddity in his digits, the prophet glanced down where he saw there a scroll which he had not noticed sooner; his ears slid upward and the corners of his eyebrows sank as his scalp tightened in perplexity. "I do not understand," he knelt over to pick up the rolled papyrus, "what is this for?" Sensing his genuine confusion, the angel plucked a feather from its wing, which caused it to wince, wrinkling the clotted cross as it grit its teeth; a sight the prophet at first discerned as pain, but judging from the smile that spread across the angels lips, he felt premature in his judgment. "Would you not care to document any of this? That is why you have been asked here is it not?" The prophet's arm recoiled at the drop of black blood dripping from the pointed end of the feathers shaft. The angel stepped a bit closer toward the prophet, who answered with a hesitant retreat, nearly tripping over the slack of the restraints on the damned. "Surely you understand your position here? What the Devil intends of your visit?" The prophet could only shake his head before the angel continued, "All in due time then..." it stepped over the thorny chord and offered to take the scroll from the prophet, who, now standing with face completely contorted and twisted in ignorance, was quick to oblige. "As I had mentioned," the angel said as it turned back toward the device retracing its steps and placing the scroll and feather in the side mount, "once the contrivance is set to motion... well, in all actuality sometimes a bit of intervention is needed; divine intervention I suppose you could say. But that should not be necessary." The angel looked back over its shoulder toward the prophet who, noting his proximity to the fallen angel, hurried a few paces from the damned nearer to the saint that bound it. "Then again," added the angel with a wink, "things do seem to work in mysterious ways."
(to continue)
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