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veiledallegory2012-08-06 10:48 pm
sisyphus) wrote in veiledallegory2012-08-06 10:48 pm
Entry tags:
31 Days: Sending Call: Reversal.
Title: Sending Call: Reversal.
Fandom: 31 Days prompt list.
Warnings: Eh.
Word Count: 744.
Notes: I actually like this scenario.
Prompt: 2 - looking at monsters is a centuries-old ritual.
It's a lie, Alisa thinks, when people say that things don't matter in the end. Like love, she thinks; like pride. And the end is undefinable anyway--each step she takes now is a an ending, each a beginning, and anyway-- Anyway, she's putting it off. There are things to be done, pieces to put into place, steps to finish, and Alisa... Is only playing the part put before her. Like anyone else. Like everyone else.
And there is a method untouched in the motions she moves in, something that people have done for years before. Decades have passed with uncounted others doing what she is attempting, for less reasons and more motivations both. It is a short walk to the pier, two streets and three crossings, but she can feel herself age as she walks through time, weary and weighted--she can feel her own age, and never has she felt so young and unknowing.
She remembers her father speaking of Alisa's mother--of the walk that she had been rumored to take. Alisa wonders a lot, about that story. Did her mother know as much as Alisa has learned? Or had she just been a woman depressed and mind shaking, who stepped into waves and was swallowed by the sea? Was Alisa following in her mother's footsteps as someone who knew what was really there or as one who was too blind to see?
There is nothing that she can still know at this point. There is only the movement, the motion, and the knowledge that this has been done before--tried before. Looking at monsters is a centuries-old ritual; escapist qualities notwithstanding, people have always found fascination in the strange, the irregular. Alisa cannot speak herself any different. She is moving to call the water--she will press into submission an existence what others fear.
A short walk to a long pier, nothing she hasn't done before, and life stands still before a decision already made. Silence kills, silence whispers, silence speaks, and she wonders, not for the first time, if she is only a piece playing a part. She only fulfills the function handed to her--free will and truth being amusing subjects in their feigned complexity--for Alisa knows that once a fate begins, once one seeks out the creatures never meant to be seen, choice becomes a pretty concept, and all roads--all routes, paths, and designs--lead to the sea.
It's no longer something to analyze. It's what she wanted once, and somewhere, she still does.
The waves crash in the distance as if tousled by a storm, but the sky remains still, too still--somewhere people crying in fear--and Alisa gives no hesitation in her approach, no pause in her shoes tapping down against wood--
As if in response, the waves recoil, pull up and back away from the pier; their wild thrashing now calling to anger rather than anything else--offense taken at the thing which dares to disrupt their world and invade their life. Alisa continues, neither fearless or resigned, just committed to a path once taken. Spray assaults her all the way, water crashing against the pier, and there is no notice to any of it, nothing shown until she steps to the very end of the pier, and takes in a breath.
A thick, fleshy tendril, textured by life beneath the waves, breaks the surface and hurls itself toward her, and she remembers somewhere that once Walkers kept guards with them, but that was a very long time ago, and who now, would do such a thing, and at any rate, Alisa hadn't asked. The tentacle winds itself around her, pulling upward, her feet leaving the pier, and she sees for the first time, the creature she has been walking toward all this time. It clutches her in the air without crushing her, and this is the moment, she thinks-- This is where the ritual begins and ends, where you are swallowed by the waves as nothing, or define it: dare life to continue on.
There is a moment, silence and calm as the water continues to crash around her, and then she lowers a hand to touch the muscle wrapped around her, meeting wills in a tangible form. The grip loosens to allow air (the creature shudders; she smiles once), then opens her mouth, takes in air, and begins to sing quiet the storm. Once again. Once more.
Fandom: 31 Days prompt list.
Warnings: Eh.
Word Count: 744.
Notes: I actually like this scenario.
Prompt: 2 - looking at monsters is a centuries-old ritual.
It's a lie, Alisa thinks, when people say that things don't matter in the end. Like love, she thinks; like pride. And the end is undefinable anyway--each step she takes now is a an ending, each a beginning, and anyway-- Anyway, she's putting it off. There are things to be done, pieces to put into place, steps to finish, and Alisa... Is only playing the part put before her. Like anyone else. Like everyone else.
And there is a method untouched in the motions she moves in, something that people have done for years before. Decades have passed with uncounted others doing what she is attempting, for less reasons and more motivations both. It is a short walk to the pier, two streets and three crossings, but she can feel herself age as she walks through time, weary and weighted--she can feel her own age, and never has she felt so young and unknowing.
She remembers her father speaking of Alisa's mother--of the walk that she had been rumored to take. Alisa wonders a lot, about that story. Did her mother know as much as Alisa has learned? Or had she just been a woman depressed and mind shaking, who stepped into waves and was swallowed by the sea? Was Alisa following in her mother's footsteps as someone who knew what was really there or as one who was too blind to see?
There is nothing that she can still know at this point. There is only the movement, the motion, and the knowledge that this has been done before--tried before. Looking at monsters is a centuries-old ritual; escapist qualities notwithstanding, people have always found fascination in the strange, the irregular. Alisa cannot speak herself any different. She is moving to call the water--she will press into submission an existence what others fear.
A short walk to a long pier, nothing she hasn't done before, and life stands still before a decision already made. Silence kills, silence whispers, silence speaks, and she wonders, not for the first time, if she is only a piece playing a part. She only fulfills the function handed to her--free will and truth being amusing subjects in their feigned complexity--for Alisa knows that once a fate begins, once one seeks out the creatures never meant to be seen, choice becomes a pretty concept, and all roads--all routes, paths, and designs--lead to the sea.
It's no longer something to analyze. It's what she wanted once, and somewhere, she still does.
The waves crash in the distance as if tousled by a storm, but the sky remains still, too still--somewhere people crying in fear--and Alisa gives no hesitation in her approach, no pause in her shoes tapping down against wood--
As if in response, the waves recoil, pull up and back away from the pier; their wild thrashing now calling to anger rather than anything else--offense taken at the thing which dares to disrupt their world and invade their life. Alisa continues, neither fearless or resigned, just committed to a path once taken. Spray assaults her all the way, water crashing against the pier, and there is no notice to any of it, nothing shown until she steps to the very end of the pier, and takes in a breath.
A thick, fleshy tendril, textured by life beneath the waves, breaks the surface and hurls itself toward her, and she remembers somewhere that once Walkers kept guards with them, but that was a very long time ago, and who now, would do such a thing, and at any rate, Alisa hadn't asked. The tentacle winds itself around her, pulling upward, her feet leaving the pier, and she sees for the first time, the creature she has been walking toward all this time. It clutches her in the air without crushing her, and this is the moment, she thinks-- This is where the ritual begins and ends, where you are swallowed by the waves as nothing, or define it: dare life to continue on.
There is a moment, silence and calm as the water continues to crash around her, and then she lowers a hand to touch the muscle wrapped around her, meeting wills in a tangible form. The grip loosens to allow air (the creature shudders; she smiles once), then opens her mouth, takes in air, and begins to sing quiet the storm. Once again. Once more.