Thursday, July 26, 2012

Persona Non Grata

Dark time was his safe place.  When his thoughts leapt and swooped unruly, he counted the tickings until the cover of the blackest hours.   Wandering the night was a pleasure he indulged with the very same ardor as that of an alcoholic for his poison.   With the collar of his wool pea coat flipped in typical vagabond style, hands pocketed, eventide became his alone.  For exploring, spying, smelling his prey undercover.   Trespass was his sport of choice.   Within the 10 miles circling his deceptively urban cabin in the bushes, hidden from nonlookers and discounted by onlookers, there was no privacy he had not violated.  No window sat unchecked, no alley unwalked, no doorknob untouched by his probing.  He already knew well that those who dwell in the halls of folklore, the persona non grata, are the only ones who are truly free.  The ones immune to enslavement.  The skulking lords of the enslaved.

It was the exhaust of internal combustion mixed with a touch of carnal wickedness that lured him forth, keeping him long past moonrise, far from encroaching upon the clock of man.  Indeed, from within the shadows of amaurosis, the smell of night is the true secret to its nature. 

This night was no different.  He stepped out onto his porch and inhaled.  Heard the familiar whine from the warped board underneath the doormat.  The shush of frogs lasted but a second before they remembered his ritual, as if to say, “Oh yes.  It is he.  He bothers not.”

Exhaust.
Carnal wilds.
Warped board. 
Frogs remembering.

All seemed to be in order this night, as any other.  But this night would not be as any other.  This night was chosen.  His chosen time.  His chosen body.  From dusk to pitch to dawn and over again, he had sensed his plan into being.  Mapped her route by the clicking of her heels.   Measured her frame by the strength of the wind she stirred passing.   Foretold her sinew by the weight of her voice, the speed of her words and the ones she accented.  She’d be a pistol, as his mother would’ve said.  Slight of build, yet her furor would give him a run for his money.   The sweet-smelling guile of a challenge made his dick hard.   It was time.
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Trifecta lengthy challenge- (hey, I still followed the rules!)
"any style, any subject, that is between 333 and 3,333 words"

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9 comments:

  1. This bloke sounds fucking horrible.

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  2. Ahh another lunatic. Great piece!

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  3. "Shadows of amaurosis". Whistles. I believed this guy. He had contented himself to be evil in banal ways before, but now he's upping it a notch, as many psychopaths ultimately do. Well written.

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  4. Your descriptive words are spellbinding.

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  5. "It was the exhaust of internal combustion mixed with a touch of carnal wickedness that lured him forth," Love that. Even as it makes me cringe. That is some gorgeous psychosis.

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  6. Just wanna point out real quick, to anyone wandering back toward my comments, that my skulking lord of the enslaved in BLIND. Anyone catch that? How I never described the way anything looked? Only the way it sounded or smelled or felt? "Indeed, from within the shadows of amaurosis, the smell of night is the true secret to its nature." Amaurosis is blindness. Maybe I'm lost inside my own head, which would certainly not be the first time, but how fascinating would that be? A blind serial rapist and/or killer and/or fetish freak? How ultimately so much more terrifying to know that someone with such a weakness is now the ultimate threat to your survival?? Yeah, maybe I was too abstract...

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  7. I didn't catch that he was blind, but I love the way you have with words. They just flow with this rhythm, a cadence that just sucks you in. And a blind psychopath? I'm in love with the idea.I'm so glad I stopped in today.

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  8. This is creepy as hell.

    :-)

    Thanks for linking up with Trifecta's lengthy (or less so) challenge. I missed the blind thing, too, promising myself I'd look that word up stat. Thanks for helping us out with it. The blindness makes it all the more haunting. You should look into writing scripts for horror movies. For real.

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