koilungfish (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
koilungfish) wrote2007-05-27 01:24 pm
koilungfish) wrote2007-05-27 01:24 pm
Entry tags:
Ficbit in a hurry
22/5/07 - 1104 words on The Lunatic Cabaret
23/5/07 - Ill
24/5/07 - 1274 words on The Lunatic Cabaret
25/5/07 - Ill
26/5/07 - 1473 words on unnamed fantasy story
27/5/07 - The Mad Dancers Keep Going
The mad dancers keep on going because they have no choice to stop. The strings keep pulling, pulling, dragging them on because nobody will let go of the strings. The mad dancers keep moving, dancing, stretching, breaking, yanked and cranked and hauled head over heel across the slippery-polished stage. The audience clap hands of bone and sparkling rings, glitter glitter in the dim, the starched collars faded thin and the bright eyes all sunken in. The corsages faded, withered, died on the breast and now are brittle cores of petal. The top hats lost their gloss, shrank, cracked and split their velvet. Their tops sit up like kettle-lids, their bands unravel and their stitches loosen. Brims slip down over bare-bone brows, rakish blinks of stiff card and softless velvet.
The band keep playing because the dance goes on, lungless chests puffing through lipless teeth, skinless drums thumping hollowly under headless beaters. The conductor stands up because the strings will not let him fall down, the violinists scrape at cracked necks with unstrung bows and the cellist misses her head. The floor is littered with a pattering of dead skin, a sheath of snake-sloughed shreds. Hairs float in the unbreathed air, gossamer and gauzy, tangling around faces that shed them years ago, coiling about the ankles and the wrists of the dancers.
The empire of the spiders that rules the galleries and the lighting gantries and the folds of the curtains spreads out its last white banners, surrendering to the desiccation and the emigration of the flies. Cankerous spider-queens send forth starving broods who climb the walls and search the floors They hunt amongst the bones of the audience, too enrapt to brush them away. They descend from the ceiling to do battle in mid-air for cannibal trophies. They spin out new curtains since the old ones have fallen, great moldering heaps of ancient velvet pouring down the edges of the stage. They scuttle across the stage, crushed beneath the pointed toes of the dancers, darkening the ground with their living ichor. The spider-queens hear the news: no more, no more, no more food anywhere.
The stuffed birds on the hats and the snakeskin ties, the alligator handbags and the ocelot coats, the stolen fox and the wrapped mink, all belabor the boards and the bones with their laughter. Their sardonic cry goes out in the silence of the spiders; look here! See the dead things, all so pretty! See the dead things move as if they were alive! See the dead things go on, and on, and on, even after we have died! The fur falls from the parched skin, the snakeskin crumbles, the birds disintegrate and take wing once more as dust. The fur flies with the hair and the cobwebs and the dust that the flesh has become. The air stirs only with its load of remains, heavy, sullen, unstrung. Only the kick and the twirl of the dancers can move it, so sluggish.
The dancers have worn out their shoes, down to the bone, and worn down their toes to the sole. Their bones are crumbling with age and with wear, and their stumble and stagger and some soon must crawl, but never slacken the strings, never let up the pace. The dance will not stop, the music keeps going, the audience clap with what's left of their hands.
The show must go on.
23/5/07 - Ill
24/5/07 - 1274 words on The Lunatic Cabaret
25/5/07 - Ill
26/5/07 - 1473 words on unnamed fantasy story
27/5/07 - The Mad Dancers Keep Going
The mad dancers keep on going because they have no choice to stop. The strings keep pulling, pulling, dragging them on because nobody will let go of the strings. The mad dancers keep moving, dancing, stretching, breaking, yanked and cranked and hauled head over heel across the slippery-polished stage. The audience clap hands of bone and sparkling rings, glitter glitter in the dim, the starched collars faded thin and the bright eyes all sunken in. The corsages faded, withered, died on the breast and now are brittle cores of petal. The top hats lost their gloss, shrank, cracked and split their velvet. Their tops sit up like kettle-lids, their bands unravel and their stitches loosen. Brims slip down over bare-bone brows, rakish blinks of stiff card and softless velvet.
The band keep playing because the dance goes on, lungless chests puffing through lipless teeth, skinless drums thumping hollowly under headless beaters. The conductor stands up because the strings will not let him fall down, the violinists scrape at cracked necks with unstrung bows and the cellist misses her head. The floor is littered with a pattering of dead skin, a sheath of snake-sloughed shreds. Hairs float in the unbreathed air, gossamer and gauzy, tangling around faces that shed them years ago, coiling about the ankles and the wrists of the dancers.
The empire of the spiders that rules the galleries and the lighting gantries and the folds of the curtains spreads out its last white banners, surrendering to the desiccation and the emigration of the flies. Cankerous spider-queens send forth starving broods who climb the walls and search the floors They hunt amongst the bones of the audience, too enrapt to brush them away. They descend from the ceiling to do battle in mid-air for cannibal trophies. They spin out new curtains since the old ones have fallen, great moldering heaps of ancient velvet pouring down the edges of the stage. They scuttle across the stage, crushed beneath the pointed toes of the dancers, darkening the ground with their living ichor. The spider-queens hear the news: no more, no more, no more food anywhere.
The stuffed birds on the hats and the snakeskin ties, the alligator handbags and the ocelot coats, the stolen fox and the wrapped mink, all belabor the boards and the bones with their laughter. Their sardonic cry goes out in the silence of the spiders; look here! See the dead things, all so pretty! See the dead things move as if they were alive! See the dead things go on, and on, and on, even after we have died! The fur falls from the parched skin, the snakeskin crumbles, the birds disintegrate and take wing once more as dust. The fur flies with the hair and the cobwebs and the dust that the flesh has become. The air stirs only with its load of remains, heavy, sullen, unstrung. Only the kick and the twirl of the dancers can move it, so sluggish.
The dancers have worn out their shoes, down to the bone, and worn down their toes to the sole. Their bones are crumbling with age and with wear, and their stumble and stagger and some soon must crawl, but never slacken the strings, never let up the pace. The dance will not stop, the music keeps going, the audience clap with what's left of their hands.
The show must go on.