Re: Mini-Grand 5105 (Round 2: Game Planet Dome #421)
09-24-2011, 01:08 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Wojjan.
The lady tiptoes. Feline grace, as they say. Dances around her friends and foes like chess or like war. Brushing against her leg as if coiling around and dragging her under, drowning. She isn't evil, evil just trails her. It happens. Everything happens and this little lady makes it happen. But now she nods, now she dozes, now she falls asleep. What will happen now? Nothing? Everything? The lady decides to read it.
What is in your dreams little lady?
For the first time, the lady's eyes are open wide. When she turns her head, she still sees the same scene. Scraps and scribbles, a torrent of ideas all around her. It flows as richly as wine, but it's wrong, because she's not here to taste it. It is past bedtime for the little lady and she can't savor it and decide it anymore. Everything turns into colors and wires and things and the lady doesn't even notice she's outside again because everything just keeps happening, even outside. Like a gushing eternal stream. The lady knows she drags things along but not this often, not this many.
The little lady stands up, unconscious, pulled straight like a marionette. Her eyes are wide, her mouth is agape, she changes colors like a circus inside her. Her hand isn't a hand, but she scoops the ideas up with it anyways. She shapes that which has no shape. Her eyes are black and stare past the sky, and sometimes red and stare past hell.
A river begins to flow.
It flies.
It breaks.
It's imagination.
And it felt attracted to a young girl nearby.
-----
Dena was scared, and hated it. What was going on? Where was she this time? Why did everyone carry guns? Why did they look at her as if they were animals, as if she was an animal?
She grabbed her necklace and bowed down to pray. Her lips moved, but she made no sound. She muttered mantras, rubies and sapphires and rubies again, she trailed her wristband, a different psalm for every gem. It didn't spawn divination, no Holy Ghost that led her way. It just calmed her down, placebo amongst pacifiers. What religion does. The guns of her assailants disintegrated, the machines that kept them so comatose vanished as well.
The men thanked Dena for what she did, even though she wasn't certain what they meant by that. Still, her words of prayer touched another's soul, and for that she lived. They told what they had experienced, an evil overseer that forced them into battle, treating life and death like heads and tails. Dena was not a priestess, but she measured the moment more pressing than any title one could earn. With holy words she absolved their sins, judging their regret and lack of free action worth the reverence. And as she spoke to her god, she grew calmer still. Her aura widened, like a dome of its own, and more men traded their guns for their will, and sought solace in Dena's sermon. Before long, a following of retired warriors gathered around her, calling her a wonder. A miracle. In her life, she had never been happier.
A young girl tugged at her clothes. Her eyes were tired and bloodshot, but also undulating in colors. Her face, her hands, her nails, her undeceiving smile, all draped in kaleidoscopic bile. Her steps as she followed Dena backing away, she tumbled instead of walking. Only when she fell forward her reflexes begged her to move her feet. She walked as if she was lost in desert, parched and weary and sore and dying.
As her spirit left her, imagination traced her body like a will-o'-wisp. Chance in the vulture's eye.
With Dena's touch, Alicia already recovered, but like an undead. Conte's raw power now laid unguarded in a child's mind.
The lady tiptoes. Feline grace, as they say. Dances around her friends and foes like chess or like war. Brushing against her leg as if coiling around and dragging her under, drowning. She isn't evil, evil just trails her. It happens. Everything happens and this little lady makes it happen. But now she nods, now she dozes, now she falls asleep. What will happen now? Nothing? Everything? The lady decides to read it.
What is in your dreams little lady?
For the first time, the lady's eyes are open wide. When she turns her head, she still sees the same scene. Scraps and scribbles, a torrent of ideas all around her. It flows as richly as wine, but it's wrong, because she's not here to taste it. It is past bedtime for the little lady and she can't savor it and decide it anymore. Everything turns into colors and wires and things and the lady doesn't even notice she's outside again because everything just keeps happening, even outside. Like a gushing eternal stream. The lady knows she drags things along but not this often, not this many.
The little lady stands up, unconscious, pulled straight like a marionette. Her eyes are wide, her mouth is agape, she changes colors like a circus inside her. Her hand isn't a hand, but she scoops the ideas up with it anyways. She shapes that which has no shape. Her eyes are black and stare past the sky, and sometimes red and stare past hell.
A river begins to flow.
It flies.
It breaks.
It's imagination.
And it felt attracted to a young girl nearby.
-----
Dena was scared, and hated it. What was going on? Where was she this time? Why did everyone carry guns? Why did they look at her as if they were animals, as if she was an animal?
She grabbed her necklace and bowed down to pray. Her lips moved, but she made no sound. She muttered mantras, rubies and sapphires and rubies again, she trailed her wristband, a different psalm for every gem. It didn't spawn divination, no Holy Ghost that led her way. It just calmed her down, placebo amongst pacifiers. What religion does. The guns of her assailants disintegrated, the machines that kept them so comatose vanished as well.
The men thanked Dena for what she did, even though she wasn't certain what they meant by that. Still, her words of prayer touched another's soul, and for that she lived. They told what they had experienced, an evil overseer that forced them into battle, treating life and death like heads and tails. Dena was not a priestess, but she measured the moment more pressing than any title one could earn. With holy words she absolved their sins, judging their regret and lack of free action worth the reverence. And as she spoke to her god, she grew calmer still. Her aura widened, like a dome of its own, and more men traded their guns for their will, and sought solace in Dena's sermon. Before long, a following of retired warriors gathered around her, calling her a wonder. A miracle. In her life, she had never been happier.
A young girl tugged at her clothes. Her eyes were tired and bloodshot, but also undulating in colors. Her face, her hands, her nails, her undeceiving smile, all draped in kaleidoscopic bile. Her steps as she followed Dena backing away, she tumbled instead of walking. Only when she fell forward her reflexes begged her to move her feet. She walked as if she was lost in desert, parched and weary and sore and dying.
As her spirit left her, imagination traced her body like a will-o'-wisp. Chance in the vulture's eye.
With Dena's touch, Alicia already recovered, but like an undead. Conte's raw power now laid unguarded in a child's mind.
quidquid Latine dictum sit altum videtur.