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The Poet

“The last hit…”
Wheels ground harshly against one another, then meshed and began to turn, slowly, but soon gained speed as the oil flowed between cogs that hadn’t seen use in ages. The faded cobalt eyes opened slowly in their deepened, strangely dark sockets. An unused tongue moved sluggishly behind a cage of teeth, stuck firm in locked jaws, which now were opening slowly as old mechanical hinges do after years of collecting rust. The fingers, long, thin and graceful, moved with exaggerated slowness as they reached to the spare lap to retrieve an ancient pen, the ink almost dried up, and immediately drew the plastic cylinder up to the cracked lips and shining white teeth beyond, abandoning the cap between them and bringing the pen back down. The other hand reached slowly for a green book, a burnt-down cigarette still hanging lightly between bony fingers. The book’s velvet cover glinted beautifully in the failing light, with a strange grass-colored fire.
The sound of the beach was stimulating. A breeze wafted salty air toward the decrepit stairs leading over the dunes on which the Poet sat, ruffling his longish, unruly black hair over his eyes. The dying, red light lit his gaunt face in crazy half tones and his clothes that fit tightly over his spare frame. He took the last drag from his cigarette.
Sighing exhalation.
He flicked the spent cigarette into the dirt, then opened the book to its first creamy page. He thought of the girl with the green eyes… she had eyes just the color of this book… or at least that’s how he felt. Those eyes had always been green when he saw them glance at the little leather book he’d filled up so long ago. This new, lovely little book had been her parting gift to him. She couldn’t stand the way he treated her so sparingly, while he fondled and caressed the little leather book… if she could have, she would have assumed the shape of it so that she could fit into the pocket of his favorite jeans. As far as he was concerned, she could have done anything, but she would never hold so much of his heart as his writing did. With that, she could not abide.
The Poet gazed at his old, worn-out, duct-taped black converse and then finally moved his pen hand to the page, the unwritten words trembling on his chapped lips. His cobalt eyes snapped back and forth as he finished lines, careful of the drying ink as he moved to the next line. His body seemed to tremble with the movements of the pen. His legs gripped harder at the old, gray wood, hooking his ankles around the backs of the planks supporting the rail. The Poet’s back arched as he lowered his head, and his ancient, faded olive messenger bag fell unnoticed as it slipped to the splintery boards of the stairs. He breathed, and he wrote: his existence limited simply to the pen and the page. Green eyes burned the back of his neck with their avaricious gaze.
The monologue continued with its short, choppy sentences and sparing phrases that spoke such volumes of what was deeply buried in the Poet’s soul. He sighed as the pen began to dry up of ink. He shook it violently, and then continued as the flow became abundant again. The hollows of his cheeks went from a deep red to a bruise-colored purple as he scratched at the creamy paper, tattooing its perfect surface with elegantly spun words. His masterpiece unfolded slowly, beginning on the next page, but not before the ink was completely dried and gently sponged with the edge of the Poet’s old, too-tight T-shirt.
His pen moved with quick jots and then suddenly ceased its movement. The hand trembled with the pen-tip only millimeters above the paper, as if the pen, itself, were making sure that every line was perfected. The Poet ceased breathing and simply stared down at the four finished pages, the judicious cobalt eyes scanning each and every character on the page. His body trembled visibly from head to toe, and if one looked close enough, the pulse could be seen to be thudding heavily at the tendons of the Poet’s neck and the subtle jump of his shirt.
He breathed softly, dropping the pen-cap from his mouth to his hand and snapping it back onto the now almost fully dried up pen.
The Poet slid the pen into the cover of the book and set it down.
A title.
He pondered.
What for a title?
His cracked lips formed the word slowly, as though trying it on. He rolled the word on his tongue, as one would taste a fine wine.
He pulled the pen from the spine of the book and opened it, writing very carefully and slowly in script. The ink broke and then ended abruptly.
“Farewell,” he repeated quietly.
The Poet blew gently on the wet ink until it seeped deep into the thick, off-white page of the open, emerald-green book. He gazed at it for a moment or two before snapping the book shut and sliding off of the railing. He made to slide the book into his left back pocket, but something made him halt in doing so. Maybe it was those glimmering green eyes that looked so hopeful, just behind his neck. He brought the book back around, and knelt heavily, scooping up the old, faded olive denim that had served him so lovingly and faithfully. His bag was limp in his hand, except for where the little leather book lay hidden. He opened it slowly, and carefully set his pen and the green book inside, folding the flap over the opening of the pouch and snapping the clasp on the front deftly.
He gazed down at the rolling turquoise waves that lapped gently at the creamy white sand. It looked inviting and warm, but ominous clouds hung on the horizon like rotten fruit that still clings to the vine. The Poet lowered his strange, faded cobalt eyes. It was not yet time… but he must first do his second task.
He sauntered off down the steps, pausing to remove his shoes and gray socks with the holes in the toes, so that he could proceed down into the sand. The stuff was smooth and warm beneath his callused feet. Years of walking about barefoot had taught him to enjoy these sorts of situations. He smiled lightly… but it looked hideous in the lowering light. His face and body seemed to be nothing but bone and thin skin as he knelt and began to lift away handfuls of sand, piling them neatly about a foot from the hole. He dug about three feet down, stopping to rest every now and then and picking the embedded sand and sharp pieces of shell out from under his nails. Finally satisfied, he opened the bag, pulling out a large plastic bag. He snapped the bag shut again and put it in the bag, sealing it as tightly as he possibly could, then lowered it into the hole, careful not to jostle the contents. He sealed the hole and rose, wondering if anyone would ever find the bag… and the message inside.
He turned in the now almost pitch dark, back to the dunes, and then there, selected a nice sized clump of dune grass and a large piece of drift wood. He collected the odd items, and with much panting, guttural grunts, and curses—and possibly a large portion of the strength in his frail frame—he dragged the items to the still damp place where he had buried his treasures. He marked the spot carefully, by placing the clump of grass in the ground, then setting the driftwood down in front of it, facing the now churning, angry sea. If the wind tore out the grass, the wood would remain to mark the spot, and he was quite sure that the waves wouldn’t be able to reach this high up onto the shore. He smiled, rose and then once again, made his way back to the stairs.
It wasn’t a long walk to the pier: it probably only took five or so minutes to reach the locked gate. The Poet climbed somewhat clumsily and most definitely painfully—he had left his shoes in the plastic bag along with his old messenger bag and poetry books—against the howling, scrabbling wind, over the rusty chain-link fence, for he was unable to fit himself through the gap in the middle, nor could he pry the ancient, rusty lock open. He finally reached the top, then with all the strength he could muster, propelled himself over the top, and immediately lost his grip, sending him sprawling over the edge with one leg still gripping for dear life the top of the fence. As can be expected, his knee finally gave, and he plunged forward with an amazing yelp of terror that was torn from his lips by the roaring tempest. There was a sudden lurch as his pants’ cuff was caught on the top of the fence, and a loud rip as the denim immediately gave, leaving part of the hem clinging madly to the pronged top of the fence. He fell with his hands desperately clasping his vulnerable face, and landed quite painfully on it, his back bowing backward as the rest of him came tumbling down.
He lay there for a moment, allowing the cold, molesting wind to pass over him, and through him, it seemed. His arm throbbed dully as a huge gash spilled great gouts of blood over the wooden planks, and small minor cuts over his ankle and cheeks bled slowly, cascading tiny rivers of red over his pale skin.  The Poet breathed, but it felt more like drowning as the howling rain pelted him. Soaked to the bone and shivering, the Poet rose, and gripping the rails, made his way slowly to the far end of the pier. Metal and concrete groaned beneath his bare feet and speeding raindrops stung in his wounds. His gaunt, lanky body bent, he made his way, clasping his bleeding arm and lowering his head. His hair whipped his face and stung his eyes, blinding him, so his progress was slow, as he felt his way along the rail by dragging his hip against it.
Finally, the end of the pier came into sight.
Huge waves broke over the edge of the pier. It shook minutely beneath his feet, the creaking of bolts in pylons and the roar of the storm was deafening. Forgetting the pain of his wounds, the dull throb of his straining muscles, he strode forward, gripping the rough concrete railing for support. The Poet stood, his hip pressed tight into the corner of the railing, facing the mighty salt spray of the waves, and into the maelstrom, he roared, the hot tears flowing down his cheeks becoming cold and stagnant as they mixed with ocean and rain. His cries were ripped from his mouth, and over him, washed the great white caps of powerful waves.
Tired by this, he fell back, landing hard on his spare rump. He was wet, cold, and now panting and gasping for air as wind, rain, and wave buffeted him. Green eyes burned like a glowing iron on the back of his neck. They were desperate… they wanted him back.
“No.” Silent in the great roar.
“No!” Louder yet, but still barely audible.
“You can’t have me anymore!”
He could feel the hot surge of strength running through his lithe frame. He rose, and slowly, as if time had suddenly begun to run slow, he climbed the top of the rail, and threw himself forward. He plunged downward for what felt like an eternity, then finally, hit the water. It felt like concrete beneath him. But as soon as he went in, the water closed over him, burying him in a translucent grave. The water was still beneath the waves… but only for a moment. There was a sudden, tremendous force as a wave broke around the pylons supporting the pier. A vortex formed around the concrete pillar, pulling him down and against the barnacle-encrusted surface. He cried out in agony as his vulnerable back was shredded to strips like paper when put through the shredder. As suddenly as he had jumped in, he was sure he didn’t want to die, but it was so apparent, and so hideously clear now, that he had no chance at all to make it to the surface. He let the last bit of air escape from his lungs. The pain was subsiding… and his limbs were starting to go numb from cold. This was the end of a story. The end of a sad, and tortured Poet.
Her green eyes, like watery gems, gazed down at him… She had lost. However, he felt that he hadn’t won either. No. They’d both lost. He opened his stinging eyes to see the surface seemingly miles above him. It was calm down here. Calm and quiet.
The Poet closed his faded cobalt eyes.
We are introduced to the Poet, a fictional character who feels he's at the end of the line.
You are witness to his final letter and his final moments. If you're not a fan of the depressing, find yourself a safer artist. I'm not going to baby anyone.
The simple fact is, some people loose that zeal to live. They've grown tired of their stagnant tank. The Poet, as a refrence to a part of me that was purged only recently against my own will. He looses interest in living, then seeks the answer to his problem, only to realize that this was not what he wanted, and, alas, it was already too late.
Enjoy, my friends.
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peoplejustneedtodie Featured By Owner Aug 28, 2005  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Ohhh! I'm so happy you told me about this! I love reading stuff like this...

You're a REALLY talented writer! My gosh!! This drew me in immediately... I love the way you detailed it. You made a very vivid picture in my head. (That's saying a lot... because that's hard to do for me... O.O ) And the story, period. And how you only let us know what we NEEDED to know. I like that... it gets annoying when writers, if possible, explain too much...

I like it... very depressing... *favs* :D
xXBrokenskiNXx Featured By Owner Sep 1, 2005
haha thanks so much!!! XD
rastill Featured By Owner Aug 26, 2005   Digital Artist
Very emotional, excellent vivid discriptions. I really felt drawn into the story and wrapped into the poets life and demise. I wish I known a little more of what laid his soul so bare as I felt I was being taken for a ride and only allowed to gaze out the front window. Well done
xXBrokenskiNXx Featured By Owner Aug 27, 2005
thanks so much. I promise that that'll be remidied when we catch up with him later. (concider that a bit of inside information!) so, ah... thanks for the comment! :)
rastill Featured By Owner Aug 27, 2005   Digital Artist
ooh, very nice.
wickedkaos311 Featured By Owner Aug 26, 2005
Oh my, I adore this. I absolutely love the way it's worded, and the details. Not to mention the story itself. I don't know if it's odd or not but I didn't find it depressing. Maybe because I know that feeling, I'm not really sure. I love this, every bit of it. I simply must fav. it because I've yet to read a piece of literature that captivated me as this one has. Beautiful job, absolutely amazing.
xXBrokenskiNXx Featured By Owner Aug 26, 2005
thanks so much! arg... i promise all the rest of them will be just as good! :) <3
Watermelon-Raff Featured By Owner Aug 26, 2005
Very intersting. Certainly well-worded. Very depressing, in the sense that you made your goals apparent, and stuck to them. Kind of an abrupt end, thought. Not a big problem with it, just an observation. The writing style didn't allow me to leave, even for a second, which is really great. Certainly a thing an author would want (and, in most cases, need) to keep a reader interested. I long for more of this, yet can find the patience to wait... that is, if the next one is as good as this. ;)
xXBrokenskiNXx Featured By Owner Aug 26, 2005
haha! oh and i promise that it will be! thanks alot, love! :)
Watermelon-Raff Featured By Owner Aug 27, 2005
Damn rights, keep it comin', and I'll keep a-feedin'.
xXBrokenskiNXx Featured By Owner Sep 1, 2005
hehe. new one is up! :) (i don't like it as much though... :( )
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Submitted on
August 25, 2005
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Mature Content


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