Discussion in 'THREAD ARCHIVES' started by Curiose, Nov 17, 2011.

  1. I know I already have my LJ page up, but I would like specific works to be reviewed. First up for the chopping block: Cretin.

    “Little Cretin Boy, Little Cretin Boy,
    I see you sitting by the fire,
    I watch you staring at the flames
    O Cretin Boy, what do you long for?”

    The snow had fallen silently, misanthropic and content. Eerily, it disguised everything, shading it with cruel intentions, manipulating every person, creature, item, to its whim. Winter is here, bitterness is everywhere.

    “You long for a heart, you say?
    Something pounding in your chest
    Not the emptiness of your thoughts.
    O Cretin Boy, where shall you find it?”

    Shuffled marks are left everywhere in the newly formed blanket- destroyed, but the new layer of flesh upon the ground is always replaced. Discontented strides throughout the snow, lethargic, and strangely… all that is there to see. The newest wounds have been made, the scuffling movements frantically covered by the clustered clouds whom huddle closer to gossip upon the silly people.

    The streetlamps illuminate specific gaps of road and concrete. From then on, until the next light, the snow was the only thing reflecting amongst the shade of night. Anxiously, the snow fretted to cover up whatever tracks were made, discriminant against the one who made them. Just as how the people locked inside their houses closed their shutters, and turned off their lights.

    “Little Cretin Boy, Little Cretin Boy,
    The night is getting colder now,
    Won’t you go home at all?
    O Cretin Boy, what is home?”

    A candle flickered in the window of one solitary home. The paint was faded, the style was ancient. Windows were cracked, the roof missing tiles. It is here that the tracks dissipate, hidden behind the confines of a metal door. No hushed whispers, no creaking boards… all is silent, and yet that flame burns brightly in the top window overlooking the sullen streets.

    Shadows crawled along the walls, across the painted wooden panels of the floor. Snow slowly piled against the panes, pushing meagerly against it to bid its chill inside. Across the creaking stairs, the shadows clambering across walls. An occasional mouse would slip from its hovel, scrambling away to the nearest patch of darkness upon being noticed. A chandelier’s light was the only thing to emit anything lucid within this home. The only thing to reveal the inner thoughts so cooped up and hidden inside a single jar…

    There was a study. Half empty, save for a hearth, a solitary desk lamp, and a desk. But there was no one to reside.

    The flame continued to flicker, laughing solitarily to itself; staring out that window, out past the myriad of inconsistent flakes of snow.

    “Careful now, you may get burned.
    You’re staring so intently, so needy,
    Mesmerized completely by your loss.
    O Cretin Boy, do not tread away.”

    A figure steps solemnly from a door, shutting it tightly behind him; closing out all the secrets before they could ever get away. Lock and key are tucked away in the breast pocket, close to a slowly beating heart- or what was ever left.

    He shuffled along the dusty floorboards, his back hunched slightly with a hand clutched tightly to his buttoned jacket. The other hand held a candle, nothing but a short stub of what it once was. Its flame waved tiredly past the man, casting his shadow schizophrenically between solidity, and being torn apart. Reaching for a jacket, the stranger put it on, wrapping it tightly around his body, as if letting go of his chest would let him fall apart, tumble to tiny pieces. Slowly, he wandered down the ancient stares, each one groaning on his way down. Once down, he blew out the tiny stub, setting the remains upon a nearby desk. In the darkness, he seemed to stare blankly towards the far window situated in the front of the house, as if calculating whatever horror the weather would create.

    Whatever he had decided, he turned the handle and opened the door. As before, he stared past the illusion the storm had caused. The chill, the constant deterring bites of winter, never seemed to effect him. He took a step, and then another, and a third until he was at the steps that took him off the covered porch to the fresh powder laid down too hurriedly by the anxious snow.

    And he walked. His hand remained to his chest, stoically walking through the unshoveled sidewalks and roadways. As he passed, those on the streets would stop and stare, and turn to hide in their cozy houses. Dawn was approaching slowly, waking with the souls of the many.

    His destination came nearer. Painstakingly, maybe, but his walk never sped. He entered the building, ignoring the expression on the cashier’s face. Once the items were paid for, all he gave was a silent nod, knowing fully well that the other was staring with a look of slight distaste and horror.

    The light grew brighter as he drew himself closer to home, the paper bag of items held tightly in his free arm. With the coming of the sun, the snow shrank away, hiding back to where it belonged in the clouds’ possession. As he reached the snow covered lawn, his hand clutched tighter and he mechanically went up those stairs once more.

    “Little Cretin Boy, Little Cretin Boy,
    Please do not fret for me.
    Life always has its ending, I know.
    O Cretin Boy, I am so sorry.”

    Once more, it was quiet. No creaking of the stairs, no shadows casting their selves against the walls. Everything was stifled- suffocated with stale promise of something happening. And it did.
    A glass shattered in a room, the same room locked away from all to see. However, it was not locked, and creaked open, revealing whatever was in the room.

    There, on the floor was a jar. The glass left its remnants sprawled along the floor threateningly, guarding its precious object even in its failure. It was a clock piece, which slowly ticked, the chain snaked fully around its face. On a desk nearby, resting on the edge, was another jar. Inside, there resting the final beats of a heart. Vainly, it beated, pumping nothing but the stained air.

    On the bed, here was the man. His eyes not fully glazed, but twinkling with remembrance as the half sewn wound in his chest spilled over to stain his shirt and sheets. The silence was finally broken.

    “It’s not your fault, my dear.
    Life was not meant for the wicked.
    I give my heart to you,
    O Darling Girl, keep it safe.”