Saturday's Storyteller: "If cold were a color, it'd match his eyes."
by Belinda Roddie
If cold were a color, it'd match his eyes. As it would the harsh black drapery he drew about his face, obscuring it from my view. From the tip of his top hat to the bottom of his shoes, everything he wore was black - except for his eyes.
His carriage was drawn by two horses. They were big, ugly things, with brazen nostrils and pointed teeth wheeling spit in all directions like water from spokes. They snorted and screamed and whipped about their matted manes like swamp spilling around their ears. And through it all, the driver kept beckoning me to climb aboard, and sit beside him.
I didn't want to. Lord knows I didn't. I had been through enough already. The desert sands. The carnival of monsters. My love dissolving into blue dust as I kissed her for the last time. The Clockworkers had made the day difficult for me, distorting my past into terrible configurations of my fears, furies, and miseries. I was not ready for another horrible moment.
But as I watched the curved gesticulation - the slight squeak of his knuckle as it swiveled, the wisps of wind slightly hitting his finger as he moved it - I thought maybe perhaps he was here to take me away. That the deed was done, the present was fixed, and the future could move forward as planned. Perhaps, at long last, he was to give me a ride out of the past.
I let my hat and cane lie in the grass where I had last left them, the brown waters of the river rising to lick at their rims and dirty them with mud. The birds that had flown down to whisper messages to me were long gone - in its place were the never-ending thunder of amphibians. The warning croak before a tunnel of rain swirled about the dead town on the horizon. Drawing my tattered coat about me, I noticed that the garment was changing color again, from black to a harsh, harsh gray - its turns of red, brown, blue, and green were not enough for it. Nor was silver something to adorn it. Just the color of fog, as I lifted myself up beside the silent carriage driver and winced as he cracked his whip.
The horses threw themselves forward, their hooves like golden rings burning the cobblestone, and sent the carriage reeling as they hurtled back toward town. As we passed the dilapidated buildings - had they been dilapidated before? When I had seen them last, they were pristine, even bronzed from the sun - the past was peeling away like fading paint on walls. The colors were madly dwindling, the night sky itself appearing to be more black than navy blue. Even the cobblestones, as the horses ground their feet into them, seemed to merely break apart into clumps of granite and turn quickly into dust.
The carriage was moving faster, and I was fearing for my life. The only thing that seemed to stay pristine was the clocktower - the damn clocktower! The Clockworkers moving quickly to destroy me with time. If they could not have their way with the past, they would deal me with me in the present, and remove me from any future. I clung to whatever I could on the carriage seat and sent my pleading gaze to the unrelenting driver.
"Please!" I choked out. "Calm your horses!"
But he did not listen. He did not turn his head. He did not even seem to hear me. Not a blink, not a visible shake of the body, to signify that he had heard me speak. He cracked the whip again. The town quickly disappeared behind us. The horses kept their charge.
It was then that I saw the fire. Green fire, scraping against the carriage wheels as if the grass itself was burning up into fine powder. It had become so dark that only the flames seemed to light up the carriage, but nothing else. Not even the path before us. I watched in horror as the fire seemed to spread, licking its tongue against the bottom of our vehicle but not seeming to scorch it. It was only a matter of time before it made its way to the horses - to set their hair alight.
They did not burn, but they surely felt pain, for they shrieked and bucked their heads and sent the carriage rocking in a horrible fit. I seized the driver's shoulder with a frightful arm, tearing at the fabric that hid his face from me.
The scarf dropped almost harmlessly amidst the swirls of green demise. And to my horror, I realized that the face of the driver was the same as the face belonging to me.
Smiling a cold, cold smile, the driver dropped the whip. And raising hands as if in defeat, the body suddenly turned into the same black mist that had enclosed it in cloth.
I cried out in terror. The horses, fiery and furious, ripped themselves from the carriage. And as the vehicle careened over the edge of the hillside, splintering without control, I clutched my hands to my chest and remembered my love's eyes.
This week's prompt was provided by Daniel Bulone.
If cold were a color, it'd match his eyes. As it would the harsh black drapery he drew about his face, obscuring it from my view. From the tip of his top hat to the bottom of his shoes, everything he wore was black - except for his eyes.
His carriage was drawn by two horses. They were big, ugly things, with brazen nostrils and pointed teeth wheeling spit in all directions like water from spokes. They snorted and screamed and whipped about their matted manes like swamp spilling around their ears. And through it all, the driver kept beckoning me to climb aboard, and sit beside him.
I didn't want to. Lord knows I didn't. I had been through enough already. The desert sands. The carnival of monsters. My love dissolving into blue dust as I kissed her for the last time. The Clockworkers had made the day difficult for me, distorting my past into terrible configurations of my fears, furies, and miseries. I was not ready for another horrible moment.
But as I watched the curved gesticulation - the slight squeak of his knuckle as it swiveled, the wisps of wind slightly hitting his finger as he moved it - I thought maybe perhaps he was here to take me away. That the deed was done, the present was fixed, and the future could move forward as planned. Perhaps, at long last, he was to give me a ride out of the past.
I let my hat and cane lie in the grass where I had last left them, the brown waters of the river rising to lick at their rims and dirty them with mud. The birds that had flown down to whisper messages to me were long gone - in its place were the never-ending thunder of amphibians. The warning croak before a tunnel of rain swirled about the dead town on the horizon. Drawing my tattered coat about me, I noticed that the garment was changing color again, from black to a harsh, harsh gray - its turns of red, brown, blue, and green were not enough for it. Nor was silver something to adorn it. Just the color of fog, as I lifted myself up beside the silent carriage driver and winced as he cracked his whip.
The horses threw themselves forward, their hooves like golden rings burning the cobblestone, and sent the carriage reeling as they hurtled back toward town. As we passed the dilapidated buildings - had they been dilapidated before? When I had seen them last, they were pristine, even bronzed from the sun - the past was peeling away like fading paint on walls. The colors were madly dwindling, the night sky itself appearing to be more black than navy blue. Even the cobblestones, as the horses ground their feet into them, seemed to merely break apart into clumps of granite and turn quickly into dust.
The carriage was moving faster, and I was fearing for my life. The only thing that seemed to stay pristine was the clocktower - the damn clocktower! The Clockworkers moving quickly to destroy me with time. If they could not have their way with the past, they would deal me with me in the present, and remove me from any future. I clung to whatever I could on the carriage seat and sent my pleading gaze to the unrelenting driver.
"Please!" I choked out. "Calm your horses!"
But he did not listen. He did not turn his head. He did not even seem to hear me. Not a blink, not a visible shake of the body, to signify that he had heard me speak. He cracked the whip again. The town quickly disappeared behind us. The horses kept their charge.
It was then that I saw the fire. Green fire, scraping against the carriage wheels as if the grass itself was burning up into fine powder. It had become so dark that only the flames seemed to light up the carriage, but nothing else. Not even the path before us. I watched in horror as the fire seemed to spread, licking its tongue against the bottom of our vehicle but not seeming to scorch it. It was only a matter of time before it made its way to the horses - to set their hair alight.
They did not burn, but they surely felt pain, for they shrieked and bucked their heads and sent the carriage rocking in a horrible fit. I seized the driver's shoulder with a frightful arm, tearing at the fabric that hid his face from me.
The scarf dropped almost harmlessly amidst the swirls of green demise. And to my horror, I realized that the face of the driver was the same as the face belonging to me.
Smiling a cold, cold smile, the driver dropped the whip. And raising hands as if in defeat, the body suddenly turned into the same black mist that had enclosed it in cloth.
I cried out in terror. The horses, fiery and furious, ripped themselves from the carriage. And as the vehicle careened over the edge of the hillside, splintering without control, I clutched my hands to my chest and remembered my love's eyes.
This week's prompt was provided by Daniel Bulone.
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