"Bring more amsec," said Tabood, flipping coin before his buggered strumpets, fard like clowns. Heels of hire clicked as dutiful castanets. He sat his chair like a debauched king, a play of light dancing between legs flesh and paid, between mechanicals diabolically tainted by minds made rich in the perverted commerce, and gulped the sweet fruit to drown what could not be drowned.
"Sir, we have the coordinates."
"Set course and notify command. Open channel."
"Yes sir."
_______
Back on Kulmyk:
Like an airborne snake, the whip uncurled, uncoiled, releasing energy like a devil's finger, furrowing the living flesh as blood tasted dank air; and the pale stone wall appeared as crimson speckled egg, cold in sweat, unspeaking, sentient as the unborn. Tom ground his teeth in the echo of snapping pizzle.
"Shame of the matter . . ." Whip cracked above his head, as if a token of mercy. " . . . Tabood has spoken, without the first lick of leather. Imagine that."
Tom's face tightened as if words were knobs, each a twist to stretch skin over bone as a drummer might in tune.
"We have the coordinates. And, we have you. So, you might ask yourself, what is the measure of your pride?"
Tom spit blood upon the blurry floor. His mind swimming in pain both sharp and dull, his back aflame as his chest throbbed, seeking release where no release would be quartered.
"All men break Tom. You will break too. Not because you can offer us anything we don't already have. Do you understand?"
Tom defecated his reply, the floor a mixture foul of sight as of smell, his breathing labored as a horse chained before the carnifex, nostrils steaming in the dark cold.
"The question, Tom, is do you want to suffer, break and die; or do you want to break and die quickly. You see, you will break. You know that Tom. You know all men break. All men Tom. And you will break too."
"Fuck you."
"Tom, you know, I really didn't want to do this and I can't say I will take any pleasure from it either, but I don't have all day. You ain't the only business needing attention."
The door opened and Tom's jaded eyes, once crusted slits, became wide. "Enough!"
The door closed and the young boy removed. "Thank you Tom. Now tell me what you know and we'll avoid anymore unpleasantness. For the record Tom. For the children. The children must know the truth."
Tom spoke. Then he spoke no more as the walls turned their red eyes closed.
8 comments:
"...and gulped the sweet fruit to drown what could not be drowned."
That is so awesomely constructed. I love it.
--snow
Thank you my dear Snow. If I had a list like yours, I would have at the very top, added Snow to my list of friends. :-)
Rawk on sister Snow and keep those chilis warm and giggling like pots on boil with smiles and delight in the warm winter light of the new year. :-)
Standing ovation.
I read this word by word, more so that I remember doing another chapter. One by one they revealed such a tragic and abrasive scene, stalling became not only necessary but desirable. The chapter is alarmingly impressive. And every time I write something like that, every time I think it reading a chapter before I even begin to comment, I think about how curious it is that your writing has that element of surprise in something that is so familiar now. The language, the structure, it's so juicy, juicy is the word that comes to mind. This scene is alive, the sound of the whip cracking, the smell of the floor, the spray across the walls, the man broken by the sight of the boy. The language, oh gosh, I have to mention it again, every word echoes, has repercussions. As much as I have ever been, I am in total and complete, speechless awe and wonder tonight at the great, great skill and perception you have as a writer.
speckled, snapping, flesh, debauched, lick, cracked, break, defecated, clicked, there's such a distinct rhythm to this piece, if you don't consciously do this, you have within your great bucket of talent a very large dollop of ear. :-D I know what I mean.
Sweetest, I don't consciously try to write with rhythm. Most of my writing is done early in the day, usually before I am fully awake, before my mind has engaged the day, before the second cup of coffee. Having said that, as I'm writing I do feel the words and do work to pick words that flow to the point, that sound as if they fit. I suppose the main reason I sometimes doubt the writing is as good as you is that I see all the choices made, all the alt versions rejected, all the places I struggled to find the right word. Sometimes I regret the way a certain sentence is phrased or sometimes that I didn't add more detail to a certain passage.
Here are two examples: This sentence (Heels of hire clicked as dutiful castanets) was rewritten three different times. I'm still not sure I wouldn't write it a fourth time--still not happy with how it fits between the sentence before and the one after. Likewise, I think the word "like" works better than "as" but for the sake of the paragraph and the other "likes" before and after, I left it as "as." In fact, "dutiful" was added in the third version and if I were to edit this piece, I would probably take it back out, although it does convey useful information, namely, his whores for hire are just going through the motions like most whores do--not to disparage the profession with such a large brush. :-D The original sentence, and maybe I should have left well enough alone read thus: Heels clicked like castanets. Oh well, so it goes. You see, I get so caught up in the edit, in the choices, I find it hard sometimes to step back and see the chapter as a whole.
The second example is of the boy, obviously Tom Jr, his son. In my mind, his son is behind a two way mirror, which is to say, Tom can see him but the boy cannot see his dad. The threat, therefore, the leverage, becomes the rising of the two way. The way I have it written implies the son sees his father, which I didn't want to happen--I wanted Tom to have that choice and to choose to protect his son from the sight, the memory of seeing his dad that way. Then again, I flirted with two things here. One, after Tom speaks, the mirror is raised anyway, and the son bears witness. And two, Tom is told that the rape of Cait was no accident--again, right before he is killed.
So you see, I don't dispute what I hear you say, I just struggle to see it the way you do. As I have said many times, I wish I could see my writing from the point of view of a reader, without all the sausage making baggage.
Again, let me not be remiss in saying, your comments thrill me to no end, and, as always, I am deeply appreciative. :-)
I usually buck like a horse at certain words, shy away from certain scenes. This particular chapter held me like a rabbit in the headlights of a car and there was no escape nor did I wish for any.
Bravo! Superb writing!
Thank you Miladysa. I think this is the first time the F word has been used in the story, as opposed to "frail," which is used quite often. I thought of having Tom say "frail you" but because he is Kulmyk and not Hynerian and because of the seriousness of his situation, I thought I had to write what I thought he would say.
Thanks for your very, very kind words. Always appreciated. :-)
There are SO many good words in this chapter, Mr. Tree.
And I'm not even talking about the obvious one.
But, I think Ms. Storm is so correct in everything she says...so much that when I read this I had images of coming in here and listing all of the great words that moved me when reading it, but saw that she had already done that!
I also feel that rhythm. So many of the words move my body this way and that but my body of course isn't really moving...your words just make it feel as though it is.
I think the only way my body moves when reading you is that it inches closer to my computer screen without me even realizing it and not because I cannot see, but because your prose draws me in as though I'm attached to some invisible beam.
It's quite an amazing feeling you induce.
Strumpet, that has to be the nicest comment I've received this year. :-D
In all seriousness, your comment makes me smile, the kind of comment that makes blogging worth the time and effort, that makes me want to proclaim: I am Poppet and I fucking Blog! :-D
You know, I'm going to hang on to that phrase for the rest of my blogging days. :-)
Thanks for the very kind words. As I mentioned to Autumn, it is hard as the writer to really know if what you have written is good shite or just shite.
Sending more chicken soup. Do you accept hand delivery? :-P
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