Re: Mini-Grand 5106 [Round 3: Thundertower]
10-11-2011, 05:31 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by XX.
she is faster than you, faster than anything
she is faster than lightning
a ghost runs in the storm, pale as death and swifter than the wind. in the hall she is running up the walls and across the ceiling, she runs so swift so silent no one sees her coming, no one hears her calling calling calling for a ghost, for a time no more
she is winter’s ghost
there are mice here, she can hear them, so high off the ground they might be birds flitting between the cold tunnels with their little bird voices and their little bird calls. she hates them for being alive. on the ceiling she is running over the steel, a swift white ghost in the halls of thunder
a bird’s twittering, beneath her.
her fangs are faster than lightning, faster than sound, she bites into the bird and feels it flutter its life away under her feet. there is red in the cold grey hall and if she could scream she would, for her cats and her winter and the god she was. she is nothing, she is nothing, she is less than nothing, a ghost of a ghost. there is nothing for her now. her forests have burned, her cats are dead with their kittens and she is silence in a world where everything is thunder. there are no ghosts left but her, running with the lightning and remembering, remembering
let the world die. she is already dead.
she runs like thunder through the halls, killing the birds where she finds them with a twitch of her fangs. they are so fragile, she thinks, little birds, little birds, your bones are hollow and your flesh is weak. why don’t you fly away, birds? why can’t you fly? she kills them in tens. blood is on her mouth, on her face, a red ghost for murder in the hall of lightning and sound. she doesn’t know why. she doesn’t know at all. she searches their faces for the chill of winter and finds only the embrace of Death holding them tight
she stands in the hall over the body of a bird.
it was all for nothing.
“Oh, child,” a small voice sighs. “Never give up hope.”
a red spider is on her, on her head just before her eyes. she nearly can’t see it, it blends so well with the blood from the birds and the cats that were her children, red red crimson on a field of burning white. it is so tiny she barely knows it’s there.
“I don’t expect you know me, little sister, and I apologize for the intrusion, but I know you. Oh yes, I know you. They thought you were me, those poor souls in the village, didn’t they?”
the ghost doesn’t know this spider. she dips her head, tries to make it fall, but the spider will not move. it taps one of her eyes.
“None of that, now. I am not your enemy, little one, I did not come here to punish you for what happened to them. It is not your fault that their village was destroyed, that their children were killed, though certainly your coming spelled their end. You loved them in those last few hours, just the same. Didn’t you?”
“My cats,” the ghost said. “My kittens. I saw their blood in the trees. I watched them drown screaming for me.”
“As did I,” the red spider says. there is something strange about it, so small that she should not see it but its voice is all she hears. “You are one of my kin, they could not be blamed for knowing it was not I that came to them. Perhaps one day the few that survived will tell the tale of what became of their ancestors to their children, and we will see them blossom anew… but that is talk of a future time. I am concerned for the present. You were the last hope of my people, little sister. I intend to help you.”
the ghost is silent, not knowing what the spider wants, all red amidst the blood. red is all she sees. “Bring them back.”
“Not even I can do that, child. I cannot breach the sacred lands of the dead. But I can do something else..”
there is a sound like the thunder she runs from, like a rumble in the earth that is not here. the clouds break for an instant, what the ghost sees, what she knows is sound and sound and a vision of a forest so tall the trees pierce the clouds. their leaves are lightning and over them come crawling spiders the size of men with bloody red eyes and skins and they are relentless as a storm, coming on and there is no end to the swarm of legs that burn the trees to ash
“Don’t be afraid, little sister,” the tiny one says. “They are our kin.”
in the hall of the dead bird there are spiders clinging to the wall, the ceiling, a hundred or more with long black fangs and they watch this ghost with crimson eyes
“Avenge my children.” says the god. “Kill the river.”
she is faster than you, faster than anything
she is faster than lightning
a ghost runs in the storm, pale as death and swifter than the wind. in the hall she is running up the walls and across the ceiling, she runs so swift so silent no one sees her coming, no one hears her calling calling calling for a ghost, for a time no more
she is winter’s ghost
there are mice here, she can hear them, so high off the ground they might be birds flitting between the cold tunnels with their little bird voices and their little bird calls. she hates them for being alive. on the ceiling she is running over the steel, a swift white ghost in the halls of thunder
a bird’s twittering, beneath her.
her fangs are faster than lightning, faster than sound, she bites into the bird and feels it flutter its life away under her feet. there is red in the cold grey hall and if she could scream she would, for her cats and her winter and the god she was. she is nothing, she is nothing, she is less than nothing, a ghost of a ghost. there is nothing for her now. her forests have burned, her cats are dead with their kittens and she is silence in a world where everything is thunder. there are no ghosts left but her, running with the lightning and remembering, remembering
let the world die. she is already dead.
she runs like thunder through the halls, killing the birds where she finds them with a twitch of her fangs. they are so fragile, she thinks, little birds, little birds, your bones are hollow and your flesh is weak. why don’t you fly away, birds? why can’t you fly? she kills them in tens. blood is on her mouth, on her face, a red ghost for murder in the hall of lightning and sound. she doesn’t know why. she doesn’t know at all. she searches their faces for the chill of winter and finds only the embrace of Death holding them tight
she stands in the hall over the body of a bird.
it was all for nothing.
“Oh, child,” a small voice sighs. “Never give up hope.”
a red spider is on her, on her head just before her eyes. she nearly can’t see it, it blends so well with the blood from the birds and the cats that were her children, red red crimson on a field of burning white. it is so tiny she barely knows it’s there.
“I don’t expect you know me, little sister, and I apologize for the intrusion, but I know you. Oh yes, I know you. They thought you were me, those poor souls in the village, didn’t they?”
the ghost doesn’t know this spider. she dips her head, tries to make it fall, but the spider will not move. it taps one of her eyes.
“None of that, now. I am not your enemy, little one, I did not come here to punish you for what happened to them. It is not your fault that their village was destroyed, that their children were killed, though certainly your coming spelled their end. You loved them in those last few hours, just the same. Didn’t you?”
“My cats,” the ghost said. “My kittens. I saw their blood in the trees. I watched them drown screaming for me.”
“As did I,” the red spider says. there is something strange about it, so small that she should not see it but its voice is all she hears. “You are one of my kin, they could not be blamed for knowing it was not I that came to them. Perhaps one day the few that survived will tell the tale of what became of their ancestors to their children, and we will see them blossom anew… but that is talk of a future time. I am concerned for the present. You were the last hope of my people, little sister. I intend to help you.”
the ghost is silent, not knowing what the spider wants, all red amidst the blood. red is all she sees. “Bring them back.”
“Not even I can do that, child. I cannot breach the sacred lands of the dead. But I can do something else..”
there is a sound like the thunder she runs from, like a rumble in the earth that is not here. the clouds break for an instant, what the ghost sees, what she knows is sound and sound and a vision of a forest so tall the trees pierce the clouds. their leaves are lightning and over them come crawling spiders the size of men with bloody red eyes and skins and they are relentless as a storm, coming on and there is no end to the swarm of legs that burn the trees to ash
“Don’t be afraid, little sister,” the tiny one says. “They are our kin.”
in the hall of the dead bird there are spiders clinging to the wall, the ceiling, a hundred or more with long black fangs and they watch this ghost with crimson eyes
“Avenge my children.” says the god. “Kill the river.”