Post by Grimm on Apr 20, 2006 16:08:44 GMT -5
“Welcome to the home by the sea.”
Despite the voices being mingled together into an indiscernible murmur, there was one lone whisper he could hear clearly coming out of the dark. He picked up bits and pieces of the others. Conversations with friends no longer there. Tales of experiences and adventure long past. The shadows were trapped here, forced to relive their lives through words only. Oh how they wanted to leave.
“Welcome to the home by the sea.”
He sat in the only piece of furniture to be found throughout the entire house. A wooden chair, one leg shorter than the rest, wobbling back and forth with the slightest movement. Cracked white paint, peeling, flaking onto the floor. Sand blowing under doors and window panes made off-kilter after years of settling. Like the house of the foolish man built upon the sand in Matthew, this house would also eventually fall under the unrelenting buffeting of wind and waves. But for now it still stood, however precariously perched on pilings it might be. Sunlight filtered through salt-caked windows wreaked havoc on the eyes, playing tricks, making light and shadow shift unnaturally. Only those who entered and heard the voices knew just how unnatural it was.
Dark shapes moved up the walls, across the ceiling, through the floors. Some climbed through the windows and walked on two legs. Beings without form wandered without purpose through the house. They did not acknowledge the man of substance sitting in their midst. His eyes darted left and right, searching, trying to pinpoint the one voice he could understand.
“Welcome to the home by the sea.”
He shouldn’t be seeing them. He shouldn’t be hearing their tales of woe and want, and how they so wished they could leave. He wasn’t sure how much he believed in ghosts, if at all, but he knew for certain that he shouldn’t be seeing this many congregated in one place. Trapped. He wondered if this would be his fate. Would he eventually be nothing more than a wisp, a flicker of light? Would his stories fill this house ‘til kingdom come? The man in the chair shuddered at the thought. Stories of…what? Traveling from city to city, arena to arena, living out of a suitcase because he chose to assault people for money. When you put it that way, he deserved to be caught between worlds.
So that would be his legacy. Not that he was a loving husband, or a positive influence on those he came into contact with. No, he would be remembered for the fact that he knocked people’s teeth out once a week. Not exactly what he would have preferred, but it was too late to change that now. These stories that clogged the air…would his include reminisces on matches? What would he remember from the night he joined Benjamin Banks against Mikey Wryght and Non Compos Mentis? Maybe they would all run together in a blur of hands and feet, with only the highlights being lucid. The nights he won titles or was particularly cruel to an opponent. Maybe this match would be memorable for some reason. Perhaps Mr. Showtime and Non Compos Mentis would be left a quivering heap in the middle of the ring. Beaten beyond recognition, their spirits broken, their will to fight erased. Phinehas Grimm knew he was capable of such atrocities, but he wasn’t so sure about Banks. He was a competent enough wrestler, but Grimm had not witnessed that dark spot inside that would allow him to cross the line from dominating wrestler to tormenter. Some may go as far as to say that wouldn’t be necessary, at least on this night. Mikey Wryght, bless his heart, had been through enough. His face maimed, his title hopes dashed yet again, his mind at the breaking point. And Grimm had no quarrel with Non Compos Mentis. As best he could recall they had not so much as passed one another in the halls of the arena. But they were the opponents. And so they must be annihilated.
“Welcome to the home by the sea.”
The house swayed after a strong gust of wind. Dovetail joints creaked. More grains of sand found their way through cracks in the floorboards. Grimm leaned back in the gimpy chair and took a deep breath. Smelling mold, must, the sand and the salt. Watching the forms swarm everywhere. Welcome to the home by the sea, indeed. He was already trapped.
Despite the voices being mingled together into an indiscernible murmur, there was one lone whisper he could hear clearly coming out of the dark. He picked up bits and pieces of the others. Conversations with friends no longer there. Tales of experiences and adventure long past. The shadows were trapped here, forced to relive their lives through words only. Oh how they wanted to leave.
“Welcome to the home by the sea.”
He sat in the only piece of furniture to be found throughout the entire house. A wooden chair, one leg shorter than the rest, wobbling back and forth with the slightest movement. Cracked white paint, peeling, flaking onto the floor. Sand blowing under doors and window panes made off-kilter after years of settling. Like the house of the foolish man built upon the sand in Matthew, this house would also eventually fall under the unrelenting buffeting of wind and waves. But for now it still stood, however precariously perched on pilings it might be. Sunlight filtered through salt-caked windows wreaked havoc on the eyes, playing tricks, making light and shadow shift unnaturally. Only those who entered and heard the voices knew just how unnatural it was.
Dark shapes moved up the walls, across the ceiling, through the floors. Some climbed through the windows and walked on two legs. Beings without form wandered without purpose through the house. They did not acknowledge the man of substance sitting in their midst. His eyes darted left and right, searching, trying to pinpoint the one voice he could understand.
“Welcome to the home by the sea.”
He shouldn’t be seeing them. He shouldn’t be hearing their tales of woe and want, and how they so wished they could leave. He wasn’t sure how much he believed in ghosts, if at all, but he knew for certain that he shouldn’t be seeing this many congregated in one place. Trapped. He wondered if this would be his fate. Would he eventually be nothing more than a wisp, a flicker of light? Would his stories fill this house ‘til kingdom come? The man in the chair shuddered at the thought. Stories of…what? Traveling from city to city, arena to arena, living out of a suitcase because he chose to assault people for money. When you put it that way, he deserved to be caught between worlds.
So that would be his legacy. Not that he was a loving husband, or a positive influence on those he came into contact with. No, he would be remembered for the fact that he knocked people’s teeth out once a week. Not exactly what he would have preferred, but it was too late to change that now. These stories that clogged the air…would his include reminisces on matches? What would he remember from the night he joined Benjamin Banks against Mikey Wryght and Non Compos Mentis? Maybe they would all run together in a blur of hands and feet, with only the highlights being lucid. The nights he won titles or was particularly cruel to an opponent. Maybe this match would be memorable for some reason. Perhaps Mr. Showtime and Non Compos Mentis would be left a quivering heap in the middle of the ring. Beaten beyond recognition, their spirits broken, their will to fight erased. Phinehas Grimm knew he was capable of such atrocities, but he wasn’t so sure about Banks. He was a competent enough wrestler, but Grimm had not witnessed that dark spot inside that would allow him to cross the line from dominating wrestler to tormenter. Some may go as far as to say that wouldn’t be necessary, at least on this night. Mikey Wryght, bless his heart, had been through enough. His face maimed, his title hopes dashed yet again, his mind at the breaking point. And Grimm had no quarrel with Non Compos Mentis. As best he could recall they had not so much as passed one another in the halls of the arena. But they were the opponents. And so they must be annihilated.
“Welcome to the home by the sea.”
The house swayed after a strong gust of wind. Dovetail joints creaked. More grains of sand found their way through cracks in the floorboards. Grimm leaned back in the gimpy chair and took a deep breath. Smelling mold, must, the sand and the salt. Watching the forms swarm everywhere. Welcome to the home by the sea, indeed. He was already trapped.
