lord byron (ex_c_wisdom) wrote in architectunlit,
lord byron
ex_c_wisdom
architectunlit

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Untitled short story piece

I wrote this just today. It's expanded off of a dream I had last night.

The boy sat half cross legged with the other dangling idly off of a round pillow cushion, on top of his snow white sofa that spread out like a gaping tongue. He was a shadowy figure with a head of short black hair. It was hard for them to make the rest out. They had agreed to come to his home, in the hopes of uncovering the true nature of his personality. Was he the monster the tabloids made him to be? Certainly not at first glance. Young, handsome, and intelligent he had a rather Bohemian sense about him; that is driving forces were the ideals freedom, truth, beauty and love. Naive it seemed, like anyone of his age is naive.

His body was thin and limber under his loose white shirt and tight black pants. He would routinely roll and light his own cigarettes, momentarily shielding his face from view. The ensueing smoke filling the air about his head, masking him. "What sort of man is driven to this--this insanity!" All eyes stared at the old curmugeon. His steel grey beard shook with every word. He was a respected journalist; was being the operative word here. There were young men and even women who had come by the cars full to have an audience with him. It was always unspoken but quite well known, that he was responsible for their capture.

"Hostages." A brunette woman spoke up. "Do you deny they were your hostages?" Her eyes were down cast. No one had proven anything, really. All they came for was speculation. Rumors to put money in their wallets and to wet the mouths of the curious among the spectators. He supposed he was rather like a side show and this hadn't been his intention, even though intentions are always slaves to the unknown. He couldn't have prevented it, so he had tried to, at least tolerate it.

His thoughts dipped back to yesterday when she had come to visit. Long sandy blonde hair amid ocean blue eyes. She had snuck away to see him, running up his dark driveway in the middle of the afternoon. "Now," he remembered saying. "What shall we do today?" He stopped for a moment to light up. "Let's go swimming." He smiled. His mustache curving upward. "Swimming it is. A fine thing for a summer day."

They didn't know how they came to him. He got up and paced slowly behind the couch. The love was genuine within their hearts, but still their were questions and with them, he gave no answers. He could say nothing in his own defense that would not condem him to their bitter hell. He knew soon they would be gone and with them would go all the questions about wrong and right. Should he have let them in? Should he have lead them on? Should he have killed them?

Then the answers would come from deep within the bowls of their judictial system. Feet would clatter, mouths would chatter and he would meet his fate. Freedom, after all, was not without its consequences; and his were heaviest of all. In his own mind, young as he was, he answered silently, these questions if only just to convince himself of the truth he already knew.

He was shackled, as they had been. Confined as they had been and he would die, just as they had.

(c) 2003 Allison F. V.
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