'The outsider'

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
Part 2.

Submitted: March 11, 2012

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Submitted: March 11, 2012

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THE OUTSIDER

A brown boxed cuckoo clock had just struck ten past six in a once silent, wooden room. A pair of time ridden hands pointed as straight as arrows, givingway to a chirp and, loudly, a drawn out cry. The clock had never sat entirely straight, though fixed with a paranoid state of being, and cried out to bereleased. It was nailed solidly onto battered wooden sheets, 3 inches thick, blocking out a destructive gale, swirling through branches gracefully butripping trees from their roots. My flat palm shoved it back in its cage, cutting its cries, allowing silence to gently fall upon the house once more.Four young children, aligned in height order, looked on unknowingly into their futures.

Lucy stood prominent, her blonde pigtails and overalls battered like a scattered jigsaw puzzle that she had failed to understand. She always upheld anadolescent smile, shaped by the winds, that asserted her dominance as an elder amongst her younger siblings. She was learning my moves slowly, I wascertain, her twitches and facial lines suggesting rightly. These attributes would develop as this world began to depart her, though in this moment herinnocence shined brightly, as light particles transcend through glass windows.
Billy and Joel stood beside with their arms simultaneously crossed. They were the middle children, upholding a quieter dominance and saving an outwardrage for a secret existence, as one does, burried behind the towers of adolescence. One step behind Lucy, they remained obedient whilst on someoccasions cracking their knuckles in dark corners of the night.
The youngest, Thomas, stood awkwardly, never quite knowing what to do with his hands when amongst close family and guests. He will undoubtedly bethe first to change his name to Hannigan or something with an unusual sound. He is my newest puppet, like a pod in a cracked beanstick.
These appendages would align, I was certain, once the creases had been ironed out of yet another blanket that I had laid out for myself.
The night was owned by a Tuesday. Hands cracked, I held my womans bones as two pairs of eyes stared through fire flames. I gathered the branches,building a pyramid and giving way to creation as I collected broken pieces of perfection. Our eyes were as a glazed as forming teardrop as we glancedinto the hot air, sensing the gale that loomed outside.Her perfection was of comparative beauty, harnessing hands of silk, allowing my imperfection to be met with utter purity. Her thick chessnut hairgraciously circled her neck as my eyes spoke the truth, with my words remaining powerless. The barriacades of our love were known to my sea captain,with her love burning as strong as an undying flame in a cold and frosty storm.
It was truly the saddest contradiction I have ever known.
It was on this night that I broke down my door to bare the gale that swirled outside. Although timid, I conceded that it projected a quality that wasknown by those who chose to embrace it. I had perched and watched as the amber sun began its descent, briskly blowing a breeze toward the fallingleaves, transcending quietly into an unsettled winter. Onward as clockwork turns these hands, rolling mountain ranges were at peace with the changingskies. As one foot moved motionless infront of the other, I left everything behind, propeling myself into a world that engulfed my battered cuckoo clockand everything that I had hidden away.
As I stepped further, glancing at a diminishing existance, I felt a rope of anxiety loosen, freeing each foot and allowing it to glide effortlessly. I took to thecobbled stone street and balanced myself on the gutter, a heavy head bowing down to a worn pathway. Footsteps of those before me carressed thestone, softly parting natures mold. The ropes of my own doing had fallen away from my frail body, cascading down my legs and landing limp on the cold,damp, dreary floor.
I was where I could envisage the sun setting. It lured among the willow trees that lined the street, lingering mid sky-line, brushing my skin with its warmglow. They pushed through leaves and tangled branches, alluminating my blown out shocks and shadowing them in equal time. Even the sun wasmerciless in strokes of enlightenment. As it began its descent, the faces of those who surrounded me dwindled, halfcast as their minds circled. Their truthswere projected through networks of courtship, with my own remaining hidden.
I turned toward a glass window, cutting all the thoughts I wanted to share, and stared. A man solely stood, his eyes were worn and weary. He stood ataround six foot and was quite slender, though not physically unhealthy. His wavey, chessnut hair was met with the remaining rays of sunlight, highlightinghis blonde strands as they strayed in the wind. Himself, remembering his woman and the chessnut hair that bound them. On appearance, two loversintwined; in reality, a warrented search for love. He was wrapped in a navy blue dufflecoat, buttoned tightly; his hands hidden inside. I lothed the unionspassing me by on the cobled stone street, brushing it off my shoulders, rendering it as emphatic bliss. To love is to love oneself, and these pairs wereworried souls. The words spiraled and exited graciously, removing each letter as boldly as it had emerged.
I turned my back to the window, straightening my coat and softly guiding my fingers through my hair. A sensation erupted, despering itself throughout mybody as bold as lightening on a barren field; a lands cries heard only by the beholder. I cut its cries once more, praying for a tide to sweep me away.Through wallowing willowed canapies I reached an old Cricketers Arms, stepping into a smaller alleyway where it lay, exiting the main street. For a pathless traveled, my shoes formed a union with the dry, cracked dirt, as they had done at each meeting. It was slender and cramped in appearance, with anoak framed door closed firmly.
As I stood under the canapy that lined the front courtyard, the hastcast sun gave way to a dark, deep night sky, rendered with streaks of purple and blue.The winds had ushered in a moment of clarity; a natural cycle with a central being. I stept out from under the canapy, pushing open a time ridden door,reading the words 'Craidd y bisgedi', watching my eyes flicker as they had often done.
Under a blanket of darkness, words began to circle as I entered. My sunken mind was tested through loud, erupting cries of laughter, the sound ofbreaking glass, and coteries in unison - the eery feeling of a day in the life of a drunkard. This devil, too, played the advoate for my love of ale, motioningme to the bar tender and our mistress. I passed the first table, equipted only with two benches and an accompaning chessnut chair. The second, arounded highrise table with all but three stools, slanted and cracked. The beer soaked floor lay below, liquid sinking deep in the cracked wooden boards.The third, my table - a vacant dwelling with mismatched chessnut and gold studded chairs. I met with Leslie at the bar and we greeted each otherformally:
'Evening, young man.'
'Evening, Leslie.'
'On route for another self search?'
'I need not search,' I said. 'Tonight is the night. I'm not giving into no cuckoo clock.'
'Very well,' he replied. 'Just the half pint then?'
'Always.'
I slurped the foam from my ale, guiding the coaster from the varnished bench. Returning to my dwelling, Leslie's words rang fervently in my mind, asstraight as an arrows path to freedom. I always expressed unbrided optimism, though he knew too well that I had reached an end; an erect being withan inner loathing that awoke within these walls. The swirling gale that loomed, I feared, would continue to prevail.
The grand piano struck a chord, expressing the beginning of night and abrupt end of day. A men sat enigmatically, turning his head toward my stare, andnodded, harnessing clouded eyes bound to a premonition. The room fell silent, reduced only to muffled frivolity, as I was sucked toward his figure. His armrose, bearing a gold plated watch, armed with two intricate hands glowing in harmony with the aluminated, warm lighting. I shifted foresight for anundenialble sense of wonderment; his index finger pointing at his wrist. It had just turned nine o'clock.
My eyes shifted, guided through his words, towards two men at the second round table. They sat on the edge of their seats, their heads magneticallydrawn inward. A greased haired man first caught my eye; his open, dark eyes, skin and short hair contrasted with a white attire. A red cape was drapedover his shoulder, attesting a taxed routine. He spoke intently, with passion and deliverance, as his companion listened open eared:
'...and so I collapsed,' he said sotfly, as if finishing a story. 'In mind, albiet never in body, for I must uphold the image.'
'And he came toward you at a great speed?' the second main replied, his thin, jet black moustache quivering.
'In speed, no. Prompted only by the picador, he perched close, sensing my broken heart, ruptured as it reached an end.'
The man paused for several seconds, rendering his companion susceptible to his scent.
'And so it was, that we were as one. No longer will this red cloth contravene the beauty of our existence.'
The man gulped a mouthful of beer, as if freeing the ropes of anxiety, onward to caress natures beauty. The second man rebutted:
'Though I assure you, this thought will be put to rest. I talk of a delicacy, that even though consumed once a year shall not intrude upon our status. Weare, in all sense of the word, victorious.'
The second man sat atop a suited cloud, attached to an empty briefcase.
'And how true is our skin?' the first man answered. 'For it is known only to those who see it, in the fashion upon which we express it. We know too well thatwe have reached an end. On toward myself, I deserve truth.'
The empiness of the night was met with the warmth of the bar lights, rolling me into an unembellished valley. I drifted, focusing inward. It was at thismoment that I detected no fault, no margin of error or vacancy for confusion; on toward myself I was known. Sitting atop a chessnut chair I stared,meeting Leslie's gaze. He stood out from behind the bar, dissolving the wall that separated us. Time flickered like a flame in darkness, alluminatingapparent truths. He clenched my palm and lifted me upward, tilting my head toward a sign. It read:
'Craidd y bisgedi'.
I stepped below the courtyard canapy, embracing the frost that lightly dressed the falling leaves. Following the cobble stone street I stepped briskly underthe willowed canapies, lookingupward as the moon looked down upon me.


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