Post by thepolygotnerd on Feb 18, 2008 13:14:05 GMT -5
I'd like some thoughts on this short thing, that I feel could be the beginning of something, if you'd be so kind ^^.
People sometimes say that they’re on a long road to nowhere. They are, of course, speaking metaphorically. Every road leads somewhere, if you stay on it long enough. Except one.
It sat in the perpetual night of Nothingness, under a brilliant vermillion sky, fading into existence from the soft sand of sleep, climbing a small mound, and then promptly fading out of existence again on the other side. On top of this hill, the single high point in the vast vacuous wasteland that surrounded it, was a lonely little house, accompanied only by a sole sodium streetlamp, and a small silver sign.
It read:
“Number One,
Nowhere”
Suddenly, a light appeared in the downstairs window of the lonely little house, and a dumpy dark figure ran right up to the glass. It pressed its gnarled nose eagerly against it, beady black eyes hungrily staring through this single porthole to the outside world. The creature stayed there for a few minutes or more, and then fled frantically from the room. The small red door to the right of the window began to shake wildly, the rattle of the latch ringing out across the silent sands of the wilderness. Then it stopped.
The dumpy dark figure returned to the window, and resignedly took one last glance. It pulled out the single chair, and sat at the small table by its side. Two crooked, clawed hands, contorted with age, reached out for the wooden bowl that was the room’s only other furnishing, and pulled it towards their owner, the liquid inside sloshing languidly, in a way that real water never could. The fingers slowly made their way over the familiar font that was engraved around the vessel’s rim. There was a small sigh.
Then, as though admitting defeat, the figure bent its head over the bowl, and began to watch.
That was its job.
People sometimes say that they’re on a long road to nowhere. They are, of course, speaking metaphorically. Every road leads somewhere, if you stay on it long enough. Except one.
It sat in the perpetual night of Nothingness, under a brilliant vermillion sky, fading into existence from the soft sand of sleep, climbing a small mound, and then promptly fading out of existence again on the other side. On top of this hill, the single high point in the vast vacuous wasteland that surrounded it, was a lonely little house, accompanied only by a sole sodium streetlamp, and a small silver sign.
It read:
“Number One,
Nowhere”
Suddenly, a light appeared in the downstairs window of the lonely little house, and a dumpy dark figure ran right up to the glass. It pressed its gnarled nose eagerly against it, beady black eyes hungrily staring through this single porthole to the outside world. The creature stayed there for a few minutes or more, and then fled frantically from the room. The small red door to the right of the window began to shake wildly, the rattle of the latch ringing out across the silent sands of the wilderness. Then it stopped.
The dumpy dark figure returned to the window, and resignedly took one last glance. It pulled out the single chair, and sat at the small table by its side. Two crooked, clawed hands, contorted with age, reached out for the wooden bowl that was the room’s only other furnishing, and pulled it towards their owner, the liquid inside sloshing languidly, in a way that real water never could. The fingers slowly made their way over the familiar font that was engraved around the vessel’s rim. There was a small sigh.
Then, as though admitting defeat, the figure bent its head over the bowl, and began to watch.
That was its job.