Beyond - Legends Soledad - New Post June 27

EJM: Thank you! I'm so pleased you liked it, and that you thought it was that affecting. It means a lot to hear that.

Rachel: Thanks so much. I wondered how people would react to a story like this, so it's really gratifying to see that you enjoyed it.

JWY: *grins* I just PMed you about the name thing. God, I am such a plagarist. First the Dune-gacked dream sequence and now this... Anyway, thanks for your comments. The writing style was something that I wasn't sure would go over well, since it's rather non-traditional. I'm glad to hear it resonated with you. Thanks, as always.

 

I never saw sad men who looked
With such wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
We prisoners call the sky,
And at every careless cloud that passed
In happy freedom by.

His knees hurt. Everything else hurt as well, but his knees most of all. He had tried sitting, but his wrists were bound over his head at such a height that when he tried to sit, his calves would touch the ground, but his thighs and tailbone would hang a few inches in the air. This had caused a groaning feeling of threatening separation in his wrists, so he had desisted quickly. Thus, he was forced to kneel.

Whenever he had read novels about captured heroes, they always said that pain helped keep your mind off of fear, and then the hero, with an enormous force of will, was able to push the pain away and think of a method of escape. So he had tried to push the pain away, to push the fear away, but he mustn?t have done it correctly, because that dizzy, nauseous feeling that haunted the pit of his stomach did not go away. Perhaps it was because he wasn?t a hero.

He twisted his wrists against the soft bonds and wondered how long it had been, hours? days? months? since he had been captured. He supposed it didn?t matter, but it distracted him, if only momentarily, to wonder and try to count the days, discern the passage of time. It was always fruitless in the end, and he returned to twisting his wrists aimlessly, shifting on his knees, taking deep breaths to dispel the aching in his head.

Every once in a while (it was impossible to tell if it occurred on a regular sort of schedule or not), the bindings would go slack, unravel, and curl up into little balls in the corners. All of the prisoners would be relinquished for a few minutes? an hour? a day? but it felt only like seconds before the burning liquid, clumpy and interspersed with hard little beads that opened new cuts on his feet, would seep onto the floor and everyone would run back to their places against the wall, holding up their arms or flattening their shoulders or necks, preparing for the thick, slimy ropes to creep over them again.

The liquid would recede back into the floor once everyone was bound again. A few times people had resisted the implied command, ignored the pain for as long as possible, avoided returning to the wall, pretended they didn?t feel the burning. Then the tawny liquid had risen up, like a self-contained wave, and consumed the person in a smothering, scorching ball of thickness. So everyone knew what happened to those who were defiant.

He had also read in novels that prisoners developed a kind of camaraderie with one another, became brothers-in-arms, and sometimes banded together to revolt against their captors. He had spent the first few hours (days? months?) that he was here scanning the room, evaluating every eyebrow twitch, every sigh, every word out of the mouth of the others in the chamber, trying to decide who he should approach about becoming his second in command.

There had been another man who looked a few years older than him, whose green eyes had been bright even through the dirt and sweat and blood caked on his face. When he talked, his voice was low but resonant, and people nearby turned involuntarily to listen. His hair was cut short, very short, but it looked dark and rich even through all the dirt and sweat and blood that was caked on it. And his features were sharp, dark, photogenic, which would make both of them look striking when they stood together.

Like two doomed ships that pass in storm
We had crossed each other?s way:
But we made no sign, we said no word,
We had no word to say:
For we did not meet in the holy night,
But in the shameful day.

When the ropes had released him for the first time, he had fallen, his face thumping hard on the ground. His arms were sore, too sore to move, so he lay there for a moment, nose aching, cheek pressed against the ground, letting the blood stab back into his shoulders and wrists. He had lain there and thought about what he would say to the green-eyed man, wh

 

Disturbingly beautiful LM. I absolutely loved ths one.

Truely,
The Luna

 

Hmm... dark and moving, and extremely well written... I'm not really sure what to say to that...

- The Imperial Ewok

 

Wow. That's really moving. This entire series is incredibly affecting. You seem to have a talent for creating characters whose weakness is just so compelling. It's just so real and engaging. Excellent.

 

Luna: Thank you.

Thrawn: I'm so pleased you liked it! Thanks.

Utuu: Awww... You suck up.

 

Just because I'm sucking up doesn't mean that what I'm saying isn't true. 'Cause, what with you know, it being absolutely correct and all.

 

Another updated thread! Unfair! *grumbles* Listen to this: say a reader, Araax, whose name has been changed to protect the innocent, reads roughly ten to twenty threads. Araax, being a lurker by nature, only responds to about ten of them, and tries to keep up with the updates by checking these threads (most of which are updated once every few weeks) every few days. Then, Araax goes on vacation for two weeks. Suddenly, there is a mad rush to update all the threads that this reader reads, causing an undue amount of stress when the poor person returns, because she is forced to do an incredible amount of catch-up work. Ah, stress, the goddess of late-night work.

Now, on to your stories. The second vignette was wonderful in its poignancy. The way you avoided using any direct quotes was an interesting method, one that I've never used but enjoyed reading. I've always loved reading about the people who are never going to make it anywhere except onto a letter home and a casualty list, because it makes war that much more real. Lt. Col. Anders was even more of a pointless casualty because he was killed in training, without, it seems, ever having fought against the enemy he was training to face. Add to that the fact that he was an artist, and you've symbolized perfectly the concept that war only destroys beauty and creativity. I loved this line: When someone?s eyes would glow, their mouth crinkle a little as they laughed, their cheeks lift and the light would fall on their face, and he felt his chest tighten and he had to get it down on paper, that moment, before he lost it forever. But he never could capture it, could he?

The third vignette was just downright startling. All of your scenes are fierce reminders of what people do when pushed to extremes no one should have to endure, and this last one was almost reminiscent of Lord of the Flies in the sheer animal brutality of some of the people. And I have to empathize with your main character, though he is never named (because he is ever named?). He's in such a hopeless situation, but at least he can find beauty in the stars while everyone else can find only the misery and pain and discord. As with your last vignette, this one flows wonderfully when read aloud?if you haven't tried that yet, give it a shot. Some of the phrases (And he always turned his head away, because that was simply the order of things.) read like poetry. Excellent job on both vignettes! I can't wait to read more.

 

Araax: Hmmm... I wonder who that is? I'm so glad you liked the second vignette; that one is my favorite, I think.

But he never could capture it, could he? And that, in my opinion, is the ultimate tragedy, more so even than his death. Because I think he was dead, or at least dying, long before his body ceased to function.

The third vignette was just downright startling. I will admit that I purposefully resorted to shock value in some part during this vignette. I still like the second the best, but the third has some worth, because I think it shows the misconceptions that are a huge part of the hero-worship in the SW universe. He is nameless, precisely because he is everyone, everyman. When pushed to the extremes, he becomes brutal, an animal, concerned only with his own survival, and perhaps rightfully so. Yet I think there is still some part of him able to transcend the surrouding brutality and appreciate beauty, the mystery of the universe, although he probably doesn't understand why it affects him so.

Anyway, thank you for your comments, I always value them greatly.