From: redurthornei@aol.com (Red ur Thorne I)
Date: 12 Sep 1999 15:06:27 EDT
...it's a matter of trust,
It's a matter of not letting
what we've built up
crumble to dust...
*Depeche Mode
She had spent days in the company of dust, paint and canvas in the attic of the Gallery. Each stroke of her brush a physical symbol of one of her emotions.
The portrait before her would never be displayed downstairs; it was too personal, too painful and demonstrated a side of herself that she had long thought buried.
In her weeks of self imposed isolation she had the time to sort through some events she had glossed over in order to move forward with her life. Now she realized she couldn't do that without resolution, at least within her mind.
Red paused to examine her work. She had been plying her trade for longer than most and if the exorbitant prices some were willing to pay for her work was any indication of skill, she could be considered an expert.
Her foresty green eyes watered down by stinging tears could see a distorted view of what was the result of hasty words spoke to her in the Arena.
As a single tear crested the barrier of thick lashes and tumbled down her cheek, a hand rose allowing a finger to halt and arrest the motion of it.
She nearly laughed as she looked in disbelief at the salty brook that rested now on her fingertip. "Ah, would that yew were here now, Danor. I ken yew would have naught to say but that even I ken the art of tears."
The hand rose and brushed it's passenger across the image captured on the canvas. The man that stared back at her through eyes as blue as the summer sky seemed to smile at that. He stood before three other young men, who were just before an older couple. The details of the faces were done with a patience few would suspect Red possessed.
The last strokes of her brush were complete, the portrait done and ready for whatever it's future held.
"Were that I part of this painting.", her tone laden with a grief that no words ever did justice in expressing, "At home once more upon the cliffs."
Her head bowed down, her chin nearly touching her chest. None could ever come to understand, although Rix had been close as was Random.
Her left hand dug into her pocket to retrieve a small, stone fox figurine. She looked from it to the portrait before her, "Someday I will go home, I ken. Someday never seems soon enough."
With a heavy sigh, she replaced the fox to it's den, her pocket. Brushing off the stray dust and dirt from her clothes she moved toward the door. "We time to go and ready myself for the Tourney tomorrow. By then I should have found my smile again. Or the ghost of it that remains."
((Some of the words, like yew, are indicators that her accent--yes she had one once-- is more noticable. Ken=know. And this post is obviously not really meant for responses. No one would be in the attic, at best someone might see her exit the Art Gallery. ))
Even She Knows the Art
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From: redurthornei@aol.com (Red ur Thorne I)
Date: 14 Sep 1999 16:29:16 EDT
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain--and back in rain.
I have out walked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
*Robert Frost
She had pulled off one of the greatest feats of her life, she had smiled for nearly the entire evening.
Red sighed heavily as she walked out into the evening air; a drizzle lent the air a damp scent and graced her with it's light kisses. The lamps that lined the streets sputtered fitfully, as though angered that any force, natural or otherwise, would dare threaten to extinguish their fires.
"They are much like me.", she whispered as she started toward her home.
She felt herself slipping back into a role she wasn't comfortable with the first timed she wore it, or perhaps it was that she had been too comfortable.
Few people wondered how she acquired such precision with her dartgun, perhaps they all assumed it was through practice with the toy she carried. She rarely carried the nine millimeter that she owned and she had long since left her recurved bow at home.
The patter of the rain seemed to beat a counterpart to her footfalls. The man that approached her that morning must have somehow known that now was a fulcrum in her life; how many pivotal moments would she have before sweet death's slumber shut her eyes for good?
He offered her sums she had become accustomed to back when she was at the height of her profession, but she had sworn off her previous life in lieu of one that wouldn't give her nightmares more often than not.
Red didn't bother to brush back the hair that obstinately clung to her lashes, giving the rain an easy path to invade her eyes, her thoughts a thousand miles and centuries away.
"I'll think on it tomorrow. Tonight, I coddle my wounds.", her words spoken softly enough to be drowned by the rains that appeared to be strengthening.
(Part I of II)
Date: 14 Sep 1999 16:29:16 EDT
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain--and back in rain.
I have out walked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
*Robert Frost
She had pulled off one of the greatest feats of her life, she had smiled for nearly the entire evening.
Red sighed heavily as she walked out into the evening air; a drizzle lent the air a damp scent and graced her with it's light kisses. The lamps that lined the streets sputtered fitfully, as though angered that any force, natural or otherwise, would dare threaten to extinguish their fires.
"They are much like me.", she whispered as she started toward her home.
She felt herself slipping back into a role she wasn't comfortable with the first timed she wore it, or perhaps it was that she had been too comfortable.
Few people wondered how she acquired such precision with her dartgun, perhaps they all assumed it was through practice with the toy she carried. She rarely carried the nine millimeter that she owned and she had long since left her recurved bow at home.
The patter of the rain seemed to beat a counterpart to her footfalls. The man that approached her that morning must have somehow known that now was a fulcrum in her life; how many pivotal moments would she have before sweet death's slumber shut her eyes for good?
He offered her sums she had become accustomed to back when she was at the height of her profession, but she had sworn off her previous life in lieu of one that wouldn't give her nightmares more often than not.
Red didn't bother to brush back the hair that obstinately clung to her lashes, giving the rain an easy path to invade her eyes, her thoughts a thousand miles and centuries away.
"I'll think on it tomorrow. Tonight, I coddle my wounds.", her words spoken softly enough to be drowned by the rains that appeared to be strengthening.
(Part I of II)
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From: redurthornei@aol.com (Red ur Thorne I)
Date: 14 Sep 1999 16:51:53 EDT
When she finally got back to her small loft, peeled off clothes that had pasted themselves to her body like glue and flopped down on her bed she had too much time to think.
Everything was happening too fast for her, things were not supposed to change at blinding speed. One thing stood out in her mind, glaring at her with disapproval and descention.
"I did not mean for him to take the comment like that!", she half pleaded, half growled. "Should it be on my conscience that he is so sensitive? Who would have thought, he is a man after all."
She fumed on her bed for a few long seconds before the heat fled from such words. She liked him, strickly as a friend of course, her heart was not worth the space it consumed in her chest, let alone as a gift to another.
"I should do something to make it up to him I suppose.", she let out a huge sigh, something she'd been doing far too often of late.
With a snap of her fingers and a bright smile she leapt from her bed,"I ken!".
She found a clean parchment and a quill, setting down words with the greatest of care. Using her considerable skill of caligraphy to make the letters appear more like art than words, but keeping it simple enough to be read easily. She spent long hours designing a dragon whose tail wrapped around the edges of the parchment in an intricate pattern of knotwork before she finally set it down to dry.
The next morning she sent a boy off with the letter to deliver it, paying him extra to read it to the one it was addressed.
To my height impaired friend,
I have enclosed a poem that I hold close to my heart. By the time the year is out, you will possess the ability to enjoy more than just the artwork on this parchment, no matter who takes home the rings.
TygerTyger burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger Tyger burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
*William Blake
Sincerely,
Red
Date: 14 Sep 1999 16:51:53 EDT
When she finally got back to her small loft, peeled off clothes that had pasted themselves to her body like glue and flopped down on her bed she had too much time to think.
Everything was happening too fast for her, things were not supposed to change at blinding speed. One thing stood out in her mind, glaring at her with disapproval and descention.
"I did not mean for him to take the comment like that!", she half pleaded, half growled. "Should it be on my conscience that he is so sensitive? Who would have thought, he is a man after all."
She fumed on her bed for a few long seconds before the heat fled from such words. She liked him, strickly as a friend of course, her heart was not worth the space it consumed in her chest, let alone as a gift to another.
"I should do something to make it up to him I suppose.", she let out a huge sigh, something she'd been doing far too often of late.
With a snap of her fingers and a bright smile she leapt from her bed,"I ken!".
She found a clean parchment and a quill, setting down words with the greatest of care. Using her considerable skill of caligraphy to make the letters appear more like art than words, but keeping it simple enough to be read easily. She spent long hours designing a dragon whose tail wrapped around the edges of the parchment in an intricate pattern of knotwork before she finally set it down to dry.
The next morning she sent a boy off with the letter to deliver it, paying him extra to read it to the one it was addressed.
To my height impaired friend,
I have enclosed a poem that I hold close to my heart. By the time the year is out, you will possess the ability to enjoy more than just the artwork on this parchment, no matter who takes home the rings.
TygerTyger burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger Tyger burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
*William Blake
Sincerely,
Red
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From: shivblade@aol.com (SHIV BLADE)
Date: 15 Sep 1999 02:21:48 EDT
He received the letter from Christopher that afternoon. Laying on his back in the small dwelling he was staring at the ceiling as he listened to every word. His free hand twirled the knife, as he kicked his foot which draped over his leg. He was resting after the long work out that morning. It had been a hard work out as he pushed himself to the limits. Deep inside there was a reason. Deep inside he needed to vent. So
much had been going on in the last few days. Casey had been away. She was avoiding him for some strange reason. The first part of the workout was using all that energy. The second half, well that was the other problem.
Women, the cause of both his problems. He worked harder than ever on that second part of his work out. Each punch, each kick delivered with speed and power. He let it all out. He let out the pain he was dealt the night before. A pain that shouldn't have struck him so deep. So what if all she said was some stupid comment about his reading. Why did it hurt him so much? Why did it carve into him so deep? He knew it was only a joke, but from her, it was
more. Perhaps it was him trying to be better for her. To be someone special. Yet, how special could an illiterate kid be? He was embarrassed, mad, sad, and angry all at once. So, it was during his work out that he let it all go. Because in his work out, he was alone, where none could hurt him.
Christopher finished the poem, and Avery just smiled. Christopher stared at him, a dull look to his eyes.
"What.. what about me?"
"What about you Christopher?" Avery kept twirling the knife looking off to the ceiling, as the thought never struck him.
"Well, if you learn to read... what.. what will I do?" The young frail boy was sincere in his comment. Avery was the best thing that could have ever happened to him. Losing him would be the worst.
"Bah!! Christopher you know full well I would never let you go. You mean more to me than that. Besides, I need you, and always will." He gave him a soft nod, as he sat up.
Yet, underneath Avery was confused. He had been for a while now. This new woman was spectacular. A great friend. What was to happen in the future? Would he ever learn the past that she kept so hidden? I guess for now it didn't matter. He was going to learn to read. He would one day be able to read these very words of the poem she wrote. This paper would mean more than just the beautiful drawing upon it.
Worst come to worst, he would be spending a lot of time with her. That to him, didn't seem so bad. Nope, not bad at all.
The last thing he told Christopher after all was said and done, was to deliver some flowers to the woman, his teacher. Christopher ran off to do it, and once again Avery was left with his thoughts.
Yes... red flowers for a girl named Red.
Date: 15 Sep 1999 02:21:48 EDT
He received the letter from Christopher that afternoon. Laying on his back in the small dwelling he was staring at the ceiling as he listened to every word. His free hand twirled the knife, as he kicked his foot which draped over his leg. He was resting after the long work out that morning. It had been a hard work out as he pushed himself to the limits. Deep inside there was a reason. Deep inside he needed to vent. So
much had been going on in the last few days. Casey had been away. She was avoiding him for some strange reason. The first part of the workout was using all that energy. The second half, well that was the other problem.
Women, the cause of both his problems. He worked harder than ever on that second part of his work out. Each punch, each kick delivered with speed and power. He let it all out. He let out the pain he was dealt the night before. A pain that shouldn't have struck him so deep. So what if all she said was some stupid comment about his reading. Why did it hurt him so much? Why did it carve into him so deep? He knew it was only a joke, but from her, it was
more. Perhaps it was him trying to be better for her. To be someone special. Yet, how special could an illiterate kid be? He was embarrassed, mad, sad, and angry all at once. So, it was during his work out that he let it all go. Because in his work out, he was alone, where none could hurt him.
Christopher finished the poem, and Avery just smiled. Christopher stared at him, a dull look to his eyes.
"What.. what about me?"
"What about you Christopher?" Avery kept twirling the knife looking off to the ceiling, as the thought never struck him.
"Well, if you learn to read... what.. what will I do?" The young frail boy was sincere in his comment. Avery was the best thing that could have ever happened to him. Losing him would be the worst.
"Bah!! Christopher you know full well I would never let you go. You mean more to me than that. Besides, I need you, and always will." He gave him a soft nod, as he sat up.
Yet, underneath Avery was confused. He had been for a while now. This new woman was spectacular. A great friend. What was to happen in the future? Would he ever learn the past that she kept so hidden? I guess for now it didn't matter. He was going to learn to read. He would one day be able to read these very words of the poem she wrote. This paper would mean more than just the beautiful drawing upon it.
Worst come to worst, he would be spending a lot of time with her. That to him, didn't seem so bad. Nope, not bad at all.
The last thing he told Christopher after all was said and done, was to deliver some flowers to the woman, his teacher. Christopher ran off to do it, and once again Avery was left with his thoughts.
Yes... red flowers for a girl named Red.