You are viewing [info]evanesquet's journal

30 June 2011 @ 08:30 pm
before it was over, after it is under.  
The boy who loved fireworks, had an ear for the sound of crackling.  He would chuck aside whatever he was doing, half sprint up the stairs to his bedroom window.  He would peer out, tip-toed, eyes wide open, scanning the distant horizon for any trace of gleam or shine.  Many times he squinted and rubbed his eyes in hope and disbelief; out there somewhere in the dark blue sky of the night, fireworks were being ignited.  Maybe they exploded into a brilliant display of colours behind the mountains; he could not see because they did not soar high enough.  Maybe they speared their way into the clouds before he could see them, bursting into a pyrotechnic display for all the gods to see; none for the mere mortals like him.  

His enthusiastic smile faltered a little each time he realised he was hallucinating, or hearing things.  Only for a moment he let it get to him, smiling once again and hoping tomorrow would be another night to live for.  Yet each time his smile faltered a part of it died, and bit by bit the smile faded till it was all gone.  He no longer ran up the stairs; he took his time.  He merely glances out the window, returning to his daily life when he saw nothing but the dark grey skies.  Not long after, he no longer bothered to look if he heard a thunderous clap or mighty explosion; he was older, he trusted reason more than rhyme; it was a waste of time.

Till the smell of gunpowder fills his nostrils, till the colours of chemical fires illuminate the horizon, till the crackling of projectiles at their death deafen the ears of all who hear, he has closed his windows to the lights of the night.
 
Leave a comment
 
03 February 2011 @ 03:17 am
constitution.  
the birds preen their feathers.

the burn of ice clinging to skin like adhesive tapes to paper, tearing off epidermal bits. the sting, as bright red dots erupt like molten lava that flow viscous through the years of crevice and crease.

construed images whisper soft into ears, igniting extensive networks of relay. arranging grey pieces in systematic fashion; each node snug in the cavity of another.

the drone of engines and repeated melodies, the successive tree every three slabs of concrete pavement, the still air. lids so heavy.

bright. almost everything had a luminous coat. the gloss of leather seats, ivory screws and platinum handlebars. the chirpy faces of commuting. crashing through windows like double-oh-seven, emerging from the glowing amber of rubble unscathed. leaping from roof to roof, launching tiles into the air, always reaching the distance of faith.

the dilemma a familiar silhouette, sitting by a table at the cafe, legs crossed and fingers steepled. exchange of smiles and light chatter. sip of tea and taste of croissants. the birds fly without wings, secret agents pelted by showers of gunfire are never hit. a rocket to the face. the discolouration of skin and a blinding flash.
a violent jerk, clamouring to the exit. alight and walk towards the cafe.

the birds preen their feathers.

Posted via m.livejournal.com.

 
Leave a comment
 
17 October 2010 @ 05:36 pm
vertical mockery.  
alone on the canvas it stands, digitised and upright.
so proud, so arrogant, so unabashed.

it blinks regularly like heartbeats, sneering at the lack of inspiration.
what is canvas without paint? what is braille without indentations? what is text without words?

when you don't know what to say, when you are at a loss for words, when that blinking type cursor seems to belittle you.

it is vertical mockery.

Posted via m.livejournal.com.

 
Leave a comment
 
25 September 2010 @ 02:39 pm
we didnt start the fire.  
the air is still. no one's watching. even if they were, he didn't care. they had no authority. they wouldn't report. at most they'll gripe about it, or stare with accusing eyes.

he sets stacks of them onto the pavement, spreading them out in swirls. he builds a tower like you would with jenga blocks, carefully a layer above a layer.

a city he had erected, of skyscrapers and ground-grazers. he had town halls, mega malls, schools and temples. ants could have lived the city life here.

then he rained upon his town, douses of kerosene. the liquid softened the integrity of his towers, causing them to bend and fold. they crash to the ground with soft thuds, splattering in all directions.

a city that's drenched, has its thirst quenched.

friction and drag, sparks lit a match. the little flame had great desire, a pyromania to start a fire.

it caught on quickly, replicating and merging to form a larger self. you could hear their screams, paper people crackling in the heat. the town of white burned black and crisp, reducing eventually into a heap of brittle fibres.

the wind picked up and carried them in its stream, across the drains and roads and gutters. slowly they rose in the up draft and into people's homes, settling on their sheets and clothes.

his obligation, his guilt, burned like chaff in the pyre. he walked off, leaving his city of paper in ruins.

what nonchalance, what murder. but we didn't start the fire, he did.

Posted via m.livejournal.com.

 
Leave a comment
 
12 August 2010 @ 09:03 pm
of bartered hearts and fibrosis.  
he laid it on the table; the membrane splayed out across, as drips of blood slewed onto the recently varnished wood.

for a brief moment he noticed a slight disapproval in her face; the skin between her eyebrows creased as she frowned, and she resumed her apathetic demeanour. he thought to bring a ziploc the next time, if there ever is one in the distant bleakness ahead.

callously she swiped the lump of flesh off the table, prodding it occasionally as she examined the exterior and interior. he winced accordingly.

scars of fibrous tissue streaked across in random fashion; a sign of wars that raged before. the contractions were sluggish and irregular; the shelf life was considerably spent.

alas she broke the unsettling silence between them, steepled her fingers as a resounding thud echoed throughout the room, a result of her dropping the object of disinterest.

"this is the last favour I am doing for you. this... thing from your chest... it is pathetic! even an old man would despise it. take this and vanish."

from within the deep layers of her coat she produced one that was a brilliant red. it beat with such vigour that the arteries that lined the surface protrude everytime blood flowed through.

a mix of despair and hope; he had a fresh start, but if this fails once more it would spell the end of him. he heaved a sigh, took his heart and left.

Post from mobile portal m.livejournal.com
 
Leave a comment
 
01 August 2010 @ 10:01 pm
failed designs.  
were the threads spun with care, the fabrics woven by skilled craftsmen? or was it by machine, the mass production economical engine? was the idea forced or plain, the dull figment of an artist's imagination? did the dyes mix wrong, was its acceptance to colour half hearted?

they looked better on the shelves, the glass casing that encapsulated them. is it the incandescent lamps, the yellow burn that tinted them old and stained?

wait, there must have been sales. percentage discounts and two-for-ones, rebates and cashbacks. did all that come to nought for them?

were they sent to the salvation army, or packed in cartons and shipped to the unclothed? were they ripped to flaying threads, ready for rebirth?

oh where do failed designs go?

Post from mobile portal m.livejournal.com
 
Leave a comment
 
09 July 2010 @ 05:03 pm
teeth sinking into heart.  
it is night. the clouds are sparse and the stars aplenty, the moon an imperfect ellipse. they reflect the sun's rays to bathe the earth in a sapphire glow.

in the tall grass that swayed gently with the breeze, a heap of wool is unsettling. slowly rising up and rustling the green blades, it reveals four dark furry paws, with crusted maroon bits caked around where the claws extend.

the slimy sheen of mucus on a snout, raised to sniff and catch the whiff of a familiar scent. a low growl, and the eyes dilate to enhance vision. a slow trot amidst the fields of green till it was close to the clearing. from then on its gait altered, small steps in a laissez faire manner as it approached the herd of sheep.

their heads turned slightly to size up the newcomer: the wool on its back was the same as theirs, albeit riddled with dirt and entangled in itself; it was a little leaner than usual, especially at this time of year where grass was abundant. when they concluded it was of no threat - just a deformed inferior breed, the result of mother nature's wretched curse - they resumed nibbling and bleating.

all this while it kept its head lowered, nibbling surreptitiously at the blades of grass. Its eyes scanned each one of them, singling out the plump one with the least wool. locking its eyes on the prize, it crouched and let out a nasty snarl.

they realised their mistake as the feral wolf exploded forth from the woollen covering that disguised it. the clump of beige fluff flew into the air, and before it hit the ground, the plump sheep was down. the wolf reached its meal in one mighty pounce, extending its claws mid-air well in time to lodge them deep into tender flesh.

run to abandon, flee to live a day or two more. in seconds the clearing was all quiet, except for the muffled and strained bleating of the wolf's supper. It was pinned down and had its throat clamped by jaws that snapped tight to deny oxygen. the kick of legs in an utterly useless struggle, the final breath.

straight through the chest, a violent slash and pull to rip apart the rib cage, revealing the ultimate delicacy.

wolf in sheep's skin, teeth sinking into heart.

Post from mobile portal m.livejournal.com
 
Leave a comment
 
18 June 2010 @ 11:07 pm
it's not independence, it's abandonment.  
maybe I didn't make it clear to you. It's not as if I didn't work at all during the past seven months or so after my release from army. I worked, and almost immediately after, such that I didn't really get to enjoy the holidays, or Christmas, or even the new year. I barely remember anything from them, except maybe retching all I ate on new year's eve into the bushes on new year's.

now that it is so close to the start of university, all I ask is for some allowance to tide me till August. I didn't really want to work. No. I only found work out of desperation. I know its my fault for not handling my finances or lack thereof properly. what can I do now? Beg? It certainly didn't work with you. You listened to his historic psychobabble; just because a plate of chicken rice could go at two measly dollars eons ago doesn't mean it still does. It's at least double the price and less food. It's an analogy. don't go nitpicking here. haven't you heard of inflation? was I the only one who was taught this the hard way?

and why do you insist that I be subjected to the same conditions as you when I was your age? must everything be so fair and equal to you? are we mercenary? they say blood is thicker than water, but you sure are diluting the lot. what about all the money she lent you to buy your plastic and to go on your holidays? can't I take a loan too?

Its not that I'm saying you didn't take care of me, or that you don't really care about me. I know you do, but sometimes when it gets frustrating I just don't feel it.

you call it independence, it feels like abandonment.

Post from mobile portal m.livejournal.com
 
 
Current Mood: not like you'd read this anyway.
 
Leave a comment
 
18 June 2010 @ 10:02 am
ruin, kill, eat.  
beneath the blinding skies lay a vast expanse of scorching sand. a man is securely fastened by piercing thorns to a massive cactus, where vultures circle patiently above.

It must get boring; they spread their wings and soar on the up-draft, tilting to a side for an endless merry-go-round; he can barely turn his head, and all he sees ahead of him is a trigonometric curve of sand dunes that fade out in the distance.

the thorns have fused with his heart; a dislodge would prove fatal. he is dehydrated and starving; staying only meant the eventuality of a slow excruciating death.

eats him to stay, kills him to go.
ruins him anyhow.

Post from mobile portal m.livejournal.com
 
 
Current Mood: indecisive
 
Leave a comment
 
08 June 2010 @ 06:21 pm
slippery slope.  

feel the burn, the stinging pain. grit your teeth as you make haste. the blessings and curse of friction; it keeps you from falling; it slows you down.

look ahead, look ahead.

there she sat in the middle, where wild grass grew between the cracks of concrete, the heat and cold its accomplice. long flowing hair, wisps and curls that dance so invitingly in the wind. they call your name in slow, soft whispers.

look ahead, look ahead.

away from the last metal rung. the way up, the way out. inch forward, and inch away.

before it's too late, before it's too late.

past the point of no return, no reverse. all smiles and hopes held high, a nervous wreck, a fluttering stomach. as soles and hearts align side by side, and then the eyes.

look ahead, look ahead!

from her tresses she reveals a blade, and stabs your heart in one and two! a vicious twist and pull, the fountain of blood spits vehemently onto the slope. your eyes follow the trail, the liquid once flowed through your veins and gave you life. now it slides down, down, down.

too late, too late.

and then you see it. at the edge where this slope ends, a river of viscous maroon blood. patches of different shades speak of murder, murder of prior hearts.

foolish, foolish.

you hold onto her hand, she flings yours away. you desperately grasp onto the bits of grass, anything that would keep you from sliding down. the blades break like crisp fibres, toasted by the sun.

away you go, away you go.

first it's your feet, your socks and shoes. soaking up the blood and getting between your toes. you trash about, while you still can. then it's behind your knees, the slosh beating incessantly at the folds and creases of skin. waist deep, and you can barely move your legs. it seems the blood in the depths had coagulated, thick and pasty, dragging you in. and then your head, you smell the stench. you retch. you choke on it and blood of other hearts. lastly, your eyes. as everything turns a shade of red, blurred and blinding, you see her smile, you see as she wipes your blood off the blade with her tresses. just before it all turns dark, a glimpse of another heart that has come to sit.

"look ahead, look ahead." you said.
 

 
 
Current Mood: mischievousmischievous
 
Leave a comment