Moribund
I might decide to continue this if I get some feedback. anyway, this is my attempt to explain Morpheus in, oh, four hundred odd words. I need a better title.
My feeling is that he was a barber and that he used to have nightmares about cutting people's throats. ~ Laurence Fishburne
~*~
Old nightmares always come back to haunt you.
Old lives are even worse.
Ever had that feeling when you weren't sure if you were awake or still dreaming? The line blurs when you begin dreaming of your own life.
Smudged, faded reds and blues and whites swirled dizzyingly above the door of the barbershop, it's just green now, and white. Hair is strewn over the floor, a mishmash of black and white tiles at random, not truly chequered. The hair is mostly yours. With an average of two customers a week in this part of town, you've got no one else to practise on.
Scissors in your hand. Shiny. Eye-catching. You run your finger along the blades. It's just a dream. It doesn't hurt. Oh, but it's sparkly. Everything else on your tray is dusty.
The tiny bell above the door clanks like stubborn, rusty machinery. The door opening is yet louder. The first customer in days enters, not making eye contact with you. She - yes, she - turns and closes the door firmly, so the faulty lock actually clicks shut, and yet gently, not adding to the broken glass crunching underfoot. She's wearing something vaguely grey and blending with the floor, and this doesn't matter much in your dream. Her hair though, is a sharp raven black, hanging down her back and across her eyes. You can see her face.
She's white.
Dropping your gaze you motion for her to sit down. She does, with the grace of a dancer. The chair doesn't even squeak. Your heart goes out to this shadow.
The whole shop is feeling like a hushed noir, black and white, completely silent. In the chair, the woman - no, just a girl - leans back slowly, hands on the armrests. Her skin is as pale as moonlight, the moonlight streaming through your cracked glass window, the only beauty you can afford.
Her eyes are still closed. Peace.
The scissors wink at you. You know she wants her hair cut - there's not much else a cheap barber like you can do - yet there's something else about her that's far more appealing.
Slowly you trail the edge of your scissors down across her flawless ivory neck.
The effect is instant and satisfactory. Her entire body jerks in the chair, and her knuckles pale as she clenches the armrests of the chair. She can't be more than sixteen or so. An interesting moment to come to that conclusion. Her eyes snap open. It's startling, twin crystal blue orbs widened in astonishment in this monochromic miasma.
Shock. Then the pain seeps in.
You want to hear her voice. She refuses to speak. Now you have to hear her scream.
Is it a dream for her too?
~*~
I might decide to continue this if I get some feedback. anyway, this is my attempt to explain Morpheus in, oh, four hundred odd words. I need a better title.
My feeling is that he was a barber and that he used to have nightmares about cutting people's throats. ~ Laurence Fishburne
~*~
Old nightmares always come back to haunt you.
Old lives are even worse.
Ever had that feeling when you weren't sure if you were awake or still dreaming? The line blurs when you begin dreaming of your own life.
Smudged, faded reds and blues and whites swirled dizzyingly above the door of the barbershop, it's just green now, and white. Hair is strewn over the floor, a mishmash of black and white tiles at random, not truly chequered. The hair is mostly yours. With an average of two customers a week in this part of town, you've got no one else to practise on.
Scissors in your hand. Shiny. Eye-catching. You run your finger along the blades. It's just a dream. It doesn't hurt. Oh, but it's sparkly. Everything else on your tray is dusty.
The tiny bell above the door clanks like stubborn, rusty machinery. The door opening is yet louder. The first customer in days enters, not making eye contact with you. She - yes, she - turns and closes the door firmly, so the faulty lock actually clicks shut, and yet gently, not adding to the broken glass crunching underfoot. She's wearing something vaguely grey and blending with the floor, and this doesn't matter much in your dream. Her hair though, is a sharp raven black, hanging down her back and across her eyes. You can see her face.
She's white.
Dropping your gaze you motion for her to sit down. She does, with the grace of a dancer. The chair doesn't even squeak. Your heart goes out to this shadow.
The whole shop is feeling like a hushed noir, black and white, completely silent. In the chair, the woman - no, just a girl - leans back slowly, hands on the armrests. Her skin is as pale as moonlight, the moonlight streaming through your cracked glass window, the only beauty you can afford.
Her eyes are still closed. Peace.
The scissors wink at you. You know she wants her hair cut - there's not much else a cheap barber like you can do - yet there's something else about her that's far more appealing.
Slowly you trail the edge of your scissors down across her flawless ivory neck.
The effect is instant and satisfactory. Her entire body jerks in the chair, and her knuckles pale as she clenches the armrests of the chair. She can't be more than sixteen or so. An interesting moment to come to that conclusion. Her eyes snap open. It's startling, twin crystal blue orbs widened in astonishment in this monochromic miasma.
Shock. Then the pain seeps in.
You want to hear her voice. She refuses to speak. Now you have to hear her scream.
Is it a dream for her too?
~*~