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The Harlequin

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The Harlequin

Postby Max » Fri Jun 30, 2017 2:16 am

The Harlequin - part one (Just playing some word games, hope you are interested.)

The possum looked down the scope of the brass configuration, standing by the window. The grey stone shone with dew and moss; the night sky was blasted with fireworks - they were celebrating the king’s birthday.
The prince himself, was sitting within the cloisters of that very room. The prince was The Harlequin, his appearance had been ruined whilst performing an experiment with the possum - whom was the court wizard. The possum, Geriakqurik, felt quite responsible; but he did not let that get in the way of his experiments, or his friendship with the fox prince - The Harlequin.
The fox and the possum were of the same size, and they were lovers. They had grown in knowledge under the old professor of magic - and he had passed away, and it had always been a race since then to the most distinct knowledge; but now the prince was The Harlequin. That rubbed off on his manner, and he was a steely presence.
The wars had been thick upon the lands, the surging of the armies had been replete. Often, the fox prince would glide hisself onto the kite platform of the castle’s west wing, and would lay hisself to rest upon Geriakqurik’s own feather bed - whilst he was within the archives, or the map room.
Geriakqurik was The Harlequin’s own general of affairs, and chief of stealth matters. The one problem with the fox prince - was that he would disappear when he took off his mask; he was an invisible. He had substance to himself when this would occur, and he would also apply force in battle - but, he had long left any other duty than the spying upon enemy forces. When his mask was removed - he would disappear, and his clothes would surely fall from his bodice.
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Re: The Harlequin

Postby Max » Sat Jul 22, 2017 6:23 am

The king would be retiscent in his throne room, the one used for ablutions. He called it "his little place," and he was quite alone in it. The walk to the gardens was done with a brisk spine - and he went to great lengths to appear taller than the other noblemen. He was with a crust of bread in his hand - for he was aquiescent. He was with cheese however as well, because he was in his lands.
The garden was punctuated by the herbs, that tarnished the meal at the toll of the bell. It was cared for by servants and noblemen alike - because it was so quaint to be in the garden. The children played with the dogs there; and the chickens drew a tear to the eye, as they dined on worm and grub instead of the left overs destined for the pigs. Over, under a tree, was a swing - and in it sat the harlequin; and he was never seen with a countenance. His mask was white, and spiralled yellow with finery. He dressed like a jester, and had motley and a belled hat. He looked up, to his father; and his mask leant to one side. Surely he was the fox he became.
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Re: The Harlequin

Postby Max » Fri Jul 28, 2017 4:38 am

The harlequin was alive with his visage. He swooped off the swing, and rattled this way and that. "Father, King - here for your ilk, or are you arrived to defend the kingdom, with your valued pawn piece." The harlequin, for a moment removed his mask, and then he was gone - mask, clothes and all. Then he replaced it, seemingly for it was not within the lions spectrum; but he was back before one knew it.
His father, the lion king, bespoke. "You know I do not condone violence, my dear fox son."
The harlequin settled down - and he wondered, with a light finger to his face.
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Re: The Harlequin

Postby Max » Sun Jul 30, 2017 9:28 am

The open theatre was drowned in reds and gold trim. It was dark without, and the felt in the air was palpable. Trusting the call of the torchlight, the man continued on - heedless of the ghoul at his back. The darkness was kindly to his poor hands, and the soft sock at his foot was tempered quietly with the mottled walk.
It was closed, the theatre. The man however could not resist one last look at the old stage. It was as quiet as a mouse - the dark mass was covered with streamer, and the popcorn under foot was sprinkled upon the black tarpaulin of the staging area, fenced with dulled spotlight.
When he got to the stair, he climbed - and made his seat on his trousers. The sound, however - complete quiet. The chattering mice. Echoing, the night’s play.
John was his name. He was the ticket master, at the ticket booth. His dress was bow tied white, collared shirt - and red trousers. His moustache was blond, and as a caterpillar on a leaf. His hair - greasy, with pomade. The torchlight swung back and forth.
Never knowing what to do, he was at a loss for words as well as thought. That night had been booming with applause and crowd favour, as the music had been loud and exciting. When the audience had dispersed, the crew had tarried back and forth, appearing through doors, and whispering shoulder taps. John had the key. John knew when it were time to leave. John was the last in the theatre.
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Re: The Harlequin

Postby Max » Tue Aug 22, 2017 12:35 am

Woodgreen
- The Ghost Cat -

There was a little mouse, upon the orange gritty tiles. It was rough of fur, and wet of saliva. It was with a hard head, and a wretched squeak. It was being tapped, by a white paw, with flecks of black in it - obviously the sharp claws and paws of Zoe, the Siamese. There was a pop and crack of the fire, not a few feet away - and then there were the crunch of a mousey cranium, between the jowls of the cruel old cat. But, the mouse was not dead yet - it was warm, boisterous, and plainly a good meal for a cranky old cat; but it still suffered on.
There was little blood - the poor mouse, was bleeding from its tail. The bowls of the little squeaker were churned, its ears were stuck back to its head, tightly glued with cat dribble - as its feet spun cartwheels as it attempted to escape its dream or nightmare.
The warmth of the fire burnt the old cats fur down to its gooseflesh, but its focus were just as sharp as its claws. The fire sizzled on, and the storm and black hurricane blew outside, in the dark and dooming night. There, from just behind the grate, walked the black cat - still barely a kitten, with eyes of yellow; and a glare at its betters.
There were a battle of wits; as out stalked the black cat Timber, out of the hazy warmth, to torment Zoe - whom was closer to the old woman, in irk of its very existence. In the distance of a cat, was the old hag, and the click of spindles - as she wove a colourful spread. The spectacles of her nose hid the diving eyes, as the quiet of a librarian appraised her two menace - the warmth of her was revealing, as the two beats of her lair were once again cats, in the warmth of the cottage.
Crouching over the orange tile and rug, the black cat sat. His sleek black form was as an eel, as he sat, to the fore of the cat, between the fire and the woman. A purr were beginning, as it sat to realise. The rug was scratched - at the very edge of the tassel. Its misting breath, and waving tail, played on its innocence. Its dark gleam, sparking of thoughts and desires.
Its eyes were darting to the cat and its prey, its eyes laughed in fright, at the chase - at the decadent meal. It felt, inside, a jealousy. It knew, to the tip of its tail, the existence of his claws.
On the floor, were a collection of things known to both cat and hag. There were a worn sock - stinky, like cheese in a litter box gone wrong. In the reflection of the spit of blood, were seen a lampshade of light, hanging tasseled from the ceiling. Over the gritty tile, were stretched a Persian rug - red, and gone brown with the stitching. There were never a thing not aught, in the lounge; never an aught not known - in the decline of the woman's years. She had gone a bit daft with the old Siamese, and had wrenched out of fate itself, another ball of fire, to deal with the smaller creatures of the hut; the cockroaches, the spiders - as they all dealt with the fleas.
But the kitten were unsatisfied - as dwelling itself had became a solitary game. The windows were as ice itself, and its foggy countenance revealed no ink. Its dining were like the warmth of an excise of the bowels. When it died upon the litter, it were as if it latched to the very edge of the earth itself.
Where there were padding of paws, there were the becoming of the motes of dust; turned vicious and black upon kitten flesh. The day blurred with the night, and it hadn’t the wisdom to recline upon the bed - it stepped the halls. Where there were the old Siamese cat Zoe: where there no Timber the black kitten.
But, the lazy days of the hag were a calamity to shadow. When misting the sink, she learned that there the kitten was - bad luck, he had learned. Where there were singeing and folding of cloth, there were the pouncing kitten. When a door was a creak, there were his head - ready for an accident. No crook, nor cranny, were invaded - shadow was cast in secret. He had a picture of his duty, but he hadn’t discovered loyalty. Not yet, but he learned that Timber meant for the fire.
But, the folding of the day were within the simile. The cat chewed the creature within its death throes. The old cat Zoe spoke.
…more for later…
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Re: The Harlequin

Postby Max » Mon Sep 04, 2017 5:49 am

Sarah rose from her seat, a choir girl, of beauty and grace. Whatever happened to the dusty pages, the short space of time in turning the leaves, the writing was scrawled like a set of dominoes - falling in symmetrical pattern, leaving behind articles of meaning. The tone of the spoken word was annotated, roles were specific to gender and rank - they played with their part. She traced the ink with her eyes.
Breakfast was sour in her throat. Noses were runny, with chews of complimentary mint. Their words were not clear - each rhythmic tongue was learned, through repetition, and attendance. It did not come naturally to The Lord. A drip of her hair was hanging about her nose. It tickled her face, and specks of dust shifted from cheek to fore - the powder, from her mother’s dresser.
The strands moved like chimes in the winds, making scratches at the old paper of the prayer book. Her breath, rising and falling, was like the tome of time - dancing, upon the bell tower, with the clock striking to the beat of the hour. Men and women, standing before god, were like bleeding crosses, voices high - directly facing the gigantic crusifix to the back of the pulpit.
Wood before her, was shiny - carving tools had cut out ornately filigreed alcoves. To the back of the pew in front of them, and to the back of their own - magic had shone with crafty brilliance. To the shoes she wore, for the occasion; rarely worn - clicking together, with nervousness, at the toes. To the dress worn, one of her mother’s, lower than needed be. To her knees, she knelt to pray.
Forgetting herself, Sarah held onto her ribbons. The hum of music trembled in her skin. Over the voices, was heard the strum of guitar, and the key of organ - amplified, with electricity from the modern age. Stealing eyes surveyed the church, soft nodding at the pulpit reminded her of her place in society. Her eyes closed, then the muttering began - unintelligible syllables, the licking of lips, the pause for thought.
Light through the stained glass windows lit up the ark with dark colour. High arching ceiling wove with architectural mastery. Dust shone through the air, like halls of time.
The procession of the cavalcade was moving, the promise of safety was gripped between her teeth, braced with metal to keep her gums from tiring. Mutters and whispers filled the room, and echoed about like butterflies across a springing field.
The countenance of the folk were wrinkled and hanging; the demographic was sonorous men, and whispering women - minds prone to the word of The Lord. The stolen floor was as vacant as a doctor’s practice. It was as clean as a whistle. Peering eyes looked about, the devil were in the detail. God himself was skeptical of the cynical.
Reminiscing about sweet Jesus, were the old women, with their bags and silk. Old men laughed as barrels, in his presence, with their tweed straight and trousers ironed. Sarah felt as if she crawled out of a crib, and landed in a library.
Now, they were drinking the blood. Now, their soft faces were eating the flesh. They were weeping along beside him, in the gardens of Gethsemane. Solid in repentance, were the gatherers of this feast. Repetitious, was the plea for solace. They knew they stood on solid rock, with their sins forgiven, and their minds as one.
Quietly they shifted, and stepped. Their movement, to the sway of music. Their head, combed and greased. They swivelled their eyes like the most lambert of ewe. The wool covered the wolf within, till the pattering of rain upon the eaves were the only thought of running blood.
They ate up the word, like the belief of peace. Truth be told, the children were a handful - but their eager fingers and deep pockets laid waste to the stone covens. An opiate to the masses, one wise man once said of it - but held within a quatrain, were the number of the beast. They cried over Ned Kelly’s darkened countenance.
Old sat, like sardines - their priest burbled spam. Their pupils, dialated. They were of the presence of the Nicene creed.
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Re: The Harlequin

Postby Max » Mon Sep 04, 2017 5:50 am

The day was curling into the night, by the fire. The little miss was sitting upon the mat, with a doll set. There was a blue doll, a red doll, and a yellow doll - the tracks were black, and blue. To lull her sentiments, the little girl was biting on some fatty meat.
There was a tremor to her mind - where was her family? The continual frustration for the girl, was her search for them. When she thought of herself, she didn't think of a silent figure. When she looked into the mirror, she thought she would be able to see some reflection - but there was nothing. She wasn't there. She hated the news, the channel about the war, and she was a little black girl in India - and she wondered where her mother and father were.
They had disappeared a decade ago, on her birthday. She had continued to run the household, but there was the old haunt - they were dead. She was sure they loved each other too much. It was a war between two things for her - loneliness and safety. As much as she cried and begged, she could not explain to the people about that they were gone from this world. She survived, but there was no family - she was alone.
Sometimes a man came to the house, and he asked for the money for the groceries. She gave him trinkets from about the house. There was a wild cat who came about, he licked up all the milk, and ate the cheese and meat. Then there was the camera crew - they liked to interview her about her lovely days. She would read the papers about horrors that had happened each week, and her editorials always made them cry. She told them she was special, they told her she was too beautiful for the criminals. There had been a fence built around the town, and more and more only beautiful people were allowed at the site to talk to her. Her name was Canna.
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