Reflections on the motive power of failure
Jun 15, 2017 8:28:25 GMT -5
Judge, The Anarchist, and 1 more like this
Post by Grimm on Jun 15, 2017 8:28:25 GMT -5
And Grimm’s arm hits the mat.
Whitey celebrates in the ring, one hand raised in victory, the other hoisting the Championship belt high above his head!
Grimm lays in the ring, arms stretched out, head turned to the side. Open wounds begin to clot in full vigor, but even so blood streaks his face and his head rests in a crimson puddle mixed with a pay per view’s worth of sweat. His breath is ragged. Shallow. The taste of his lifeblood’s iron and bitter disappointment fills his mouth. The arena has emptied. Celebrations and lamentations fill the backstage hallways, but still Grimm lays there rasping under the phosphorus burn of the lights.
Those lights shine down on a movement below the ring, a wriggling like that of a swarm of no-see-ums striving to rupture from the skin of a meth fiend. One by one, root nodules shred the ring and blanket Grimm in something of a herringbone. They wind around his prone figure, working their way into his mouth and up his nostrils until the taproot calls to them. The system pulls him down, leaving nothing but tatters of canvas and the faint aroma of freshly turned earth. After the events of Living a Legacy, no one will question the condition of the ring. The last of the lights flicker and go out. Nothing remains but the red glow of the EXIT signs and the underlying hum of the dynamo HVAC system.
The roots continue their pull. Grimm drags along shallow bedrock until he moves deep under mountains where abyssal horrors hide unknown and undiscovered. Ancient sea floors crushed under unimaginable pressures. On and on, through beds of shale and siltstone, sandstone and coal. Up through limestone and all its cavernous features, and, finally, bursting forth out of the river alluvium.
Bursting forth, and emerging in Hangtown.
And Grimm’s arm hits the mat.
Whitey celebrates in the ring, one hand raised in victory, the other hoisting the Championship belt high above his head!
Hangtown on a warm summer evening, with the gas lamps burning low and steady, the lights from shop windows scattered across the sidewalks. Wagon wheels slow and grind to a halt on the cobblestones. The townspeople pause in their comings and goings to watch. The roots, with the Lord of Misrule in tow, wind up the great dead oak in the center of town. Roots squeak, the tree groans, and Grimm hangs by the neck from one of the middle branches. A wind from up off the river gives him a nudge and tousles his beard. The branch moans.
Grimm, the Hangtown Horror, sways there in front of God and everyone. Exposed before them all, caked in blood and grime. The tread of his black boots weighed down with clay. His juniper britches stained with mud. His shirt, the brown one bearing the screen-printed image of a tree unsettlingly similar to the one from which he currently hangs, smeared with who-knows-what. But the face…the face gives the impression of a man deep in thought -- caught up in a trance -- as opposed to one suffering the ill-effects of an execution. Those closest to the scene see the movement of eyes darting behind eyelids. For Grimm finds himself deep within the Neither Here Nor There. Where he sees things, and learns. Recounts origins, struggles, and triumphs. Relives split-second decisions, both misguided and wise. Grabs and holds that were strong enough, and those just a little too lax. Career-defining performances. Championships won and lost. Heretofore unnoticed patterns and connections. All things good and bad serving as enlightenment, leading towards a new view of his duty. His Great Work.
Grimm hangs there at the end of the longest day of the year. Blanketed under an insufferable humidity, attended by lightning bugs. But then his eyes snap open.
The best way out is through.
Those glacier eyes, formed from the deepest, oldest ice, provide a brief respite from the stifling heat. Grimm goes down at the parch and rises with the harvest and the killing frost. A seasonal withering and revival – after all, you can’t always win. But Grimm returns with the inevitable…well, rebirth sounds a little dramatic, so let’s say renewal. Anyway, rest in peace and rise in power.
And Grimm’s arm hits the mat.
Whitey celebrates in the ring, one hand raised in victory, the other hoisting the Championship belt high above his head!
Grimm erupts in a coughing fit. Dirt, pebbles, bone shards, mushroom dust, beetle carapaces…it all tumbles out of his mouth, and nose, and tear ducts. The roots shrivel and crack, dropping him to the ground. He stays down until he’s reduced to dry heaves, at which point he stands and leans on the tree until he eventually catches his balance. Grimm struggles to swallow, winces, and gingerly touches his neck. He cricks his head from one side to the other, and then dusts off his hands. Nigh-on desiccated as he is, Grimm shambles off in the direction of The Owl & Eel.
Sometimes a man just needs to wet his whistle before he can fight.
Whitey celebrates in the ring, one hand raised in victory, the other hoisting the Championship belt high above his head!
Grimm lays in the ring, arms stretched out, head turned to the side. Open wounds begin to clot in full vigor, but even so blood streaks his face and his head rests in a crimson puddle mixed with a pay per view’s worth of sweat. His breath is ragged. Shallow. The taste of his lifeblood’s iron and bitter disappointment fills his mouth. The arena has emptied. Celebrations and lamentations fill the backstage hallways, but still Grimm lays there rasping under the phosphorus burn of the lights.
Those lights shine down on a movement below the ring, a wriggling like that of a swarm of no-see-ums striving to rupture from the skin of a meth fiend. One by one, root nodules shred the ring and blanket Grimm in something of a herringbone. They wind around his prone figure, working their way into his mouth and up his nostrils until the taproot calls to them. The system pulls him down, leaving nothing but tatters of canvas and the faint aroma of freshly turned earth. After the events of Living a Legacy, no one will question the condition of the ring. The last of the lights flicker and go out. Nothing remains but the red glow of the EXIT signs and the underlying hum of the dynamo HVAC system.
The roots continue their pull. Grimm drags along shallow bedrock until he moves deep under mountains where abyssal horrors hide unknown and undiscovered. Ancient sea floors crushed under unimaginable pressures. On and on, through beds of shale and siltstone, sandstone and coal. Up through limestone and all its cavernous features, and, finally, bursting forth out of the river alluvium.
Bursting forth, and emerging in Hangtown.
And Grimm’s arm hits the mat.
Whitey celebrates in the ring, one hand raised in victory, the other hoisting the Championship belt high above his head!
Hangtown on a warm summer evening, with the gas lamps burning low and steady, the lights from shop windows scattered across the sidewalks. Wagon wheels slow and grind to a halt on the cobblestones. The townspeople pause in their comings and goings to watch. The roots, with the Lord of Misrule in tow, wind up the great dead oak in the center of town. Roots squeak, the tree groans, and Grimm hangs by the neck from one of the middle branches. A wind from up off the river gives him a nudge and tousles his beard. The branch moans.
Grimm, the Hangtown Horror, sways there in front of God and everyone. Exposed before them all, caked in blood and grime. The tread of his black boots weighed down with clay. His juniper britches stained with mud. His shirt, the brown one bearing the screen-printed image of a tree unsettlingly similar to the one from which he currently hangs, smeared with who-knows-what. But the face…the face gives the impression of a man deep in thought -- caught up in a trance -- as opposed to one suffering the ill-effects of an execution. Those closest to the scene see the movement of eyes darting behind eyelids. For Grimm finds himself deep within the Neither Here Nor There. Where he sees things, and learns. Recounts origins, struggles, and triumphs. Relives split-second decisions, both misguided and wise. Grabs and holds that were strong enough, and those just a little too lax. Career-defining performances. Championships won and lost. Heretofore unnoticed patterns and connections. All things good and bad serving as enlightenment, leading towards a new view of his duty. His Great Work.
Grimm hangs there at the end of the longest day of the year. Blanketed under an insufferable humidity, attended by lightning bugs. But then his eyes snap open.
The best way out is through.
Those glacier eyes, formed from the deepest, oldest ice, provide a brief respite from the stifling heat. Grimm goes down at the parch and rises with the harvest and the killing frost. A seasonal withering and revival – after all, you can’t always win. But Grimm returns with the inevitable…well, rebirth sounds a little dramatic, so let’s say renewal. Anyway, rest in peace and rise in power.
And Grimm’s arm hits the mat.
Whitey celebrates in the ring, one hand raised in victory, the other hoisting the Championship belt high above his head!
Grimm erupts in a coughing fit. Dirt, pebbles, bone shards, mushroom dust, beetle carapaces…it all tumbles out of his mouth, and nose, and tear ducts. The roots shrivel and crack, dropping him to the ground. He stays down until he’s reduced to dry heaves, at which point he stands and leans on the tree until he eventually catches his balance. Grimm struggles to swallow, winces, and gingerly touches his neck. He cricks his head from one side to the other, and then dusts off his hands. Nigh-on desiccated as he is, Grimm shambles off in the direction of The Owl & Eel.
Sometimes a man just needs to wet his whistle before he can fight.
