Author's notes: Quite literally, H.U.V.A. Network's song, 'Something Heavens' somehow inspired me to write this. It was way out of nowhere, but I'm glad it happened. I don't own anything related to Kingdom Hearts, or random lines from Kansas. Other than that, just trying out a new style.
commencer
I.
The sands of time never faltered. The grains never bent, never broke, never strayed from their wayward paths. In a life that had allowed him to believe; he had, and he believed that time eventually became the sand. Grainy and rough through the leather of worn gloves, he felt in a lackadaisical manner. A golden eye opened, raging fires of the forge, shone its fading light upon the empty days. As for why he awoke upon the ground, dusted in the eternal sands- he did not know. However, the answer meant little to him.
A strange calmness surrounded him, covered him like a blanket. Even his muscles were serene, despite the obvious hours of lingering upon the sand-lustful sidewalk. An Old Man blinked once and sat himself up, a coating of sand sifting from a weary- calm- body, and memoirs of a long, leather jacket. Two steps up, tranquility in viewing his surroundings. The city-
The City; she thrived around him in broken pieces and lackluster ruin. Skyscrapers reached so far into the heavens that she surely tore them down. Most were grey with the offset shine of shattered windows- gutted and hollow, a myriad of steel beams and insulation. Cars littered empty, echoing streets, dawning with the gifts of time. Concoctions of rust and sand- there was no foliage; no longer, no more. The lacking did not take away from the City's beauty. She was bathed in apocalyptic fire and decay- and this was how it was supposed to be, inked upon pages that man was not meant to lay sight upon. The sidewalks were cracked and blanketed with stray grains of sand. Wind crept through the City like a creeping tiger; and it was unalive.
Peaceful.
II.
Boot-clad footsteps were the only signs of true-life; a brush of movement against an infinite still. He treaded through the City without a destination, knowing exactly where he was going. Breathing sandy air into phantasmal lungs, his coat the heaviest aspect of Forgotten City. And upon his tread, he nearly glided past a mostly in-tact shoppe window; personal reflection catching a lithe gaze. Pausing, an Old Man could only survey himself. Tall and coat-clad, frayed leather like a vice, hair pulled back into a ponytail that defied the laws of neatness. A scar, long and jagged- not contorted through unconventional expression. Worn leather of an eyepatch, that hid a hollow, sewn-emptyness. Surveying the image with calm endeavor, he shrugged. The reflection shrugged with him. The City was calm and empty. Reaching for a pair of scissors through the glass, the device was brought to his head: and off went the ponytail. The hair fluttered to the ground. A snipped eyepatch followed.
Unkept grey-striped hair, frayed in lazy direction. A rough scar over an eyelid, laced shut. Nodding to a New Man, he continued upon his trek.
III.
Forgotten City's edge was both far and near. A New Man walked to the edge to survey what lay Beyond. What met a golden gaze was a stillness of desert dunes, and the setting, quiet sun. The sand was still calm. The wind was calm. The sky was calm. Within the sand and the calm was a small house. He strained his eye to see and trode through the pastoral sand to get to it. The sun beat down upon him, yet he did not find it unbearable. It was neutral. All was neutral. The small structure lay a few miles beyond Forgotten City- but he had all the time in the world, the universe. Perhaps he had so much time that he could become it.
IV.
The house was rickety at best, frayed at the edges. The paint had long since faded, along with the foliage; the wood was splitting. It was one story, fit for one person. Only a few rooms, and the remains of an outdoor porch. Memories of a fence surrounded it. An aura loomed about, like the lingering smoke from a well-practiced tobaccooist, of something that his mind couldn't quite grasp. A forgotten song lost through the sunsets and moonrises. The windows of the little rickety house were muddled, though more in tact than anything he had previously come across. Much like Forgotten City- the Forgotten World- it was vacant.
Expressionless, he started building.
V.
Days melted into nights, and nights into days. The infinite calm was enough to keep from counting the setting suns. His little rickety house became a little fresh house. The holes that lived in the roof were patched up- save for one, letting sand-envy skylight fall vertically upon a single spot: upon one ancient desk that boasted as much strength as time had allowed it. A New Man had rebuilt his porch and filled the little fresh house with homemade furniture. There were curtains over the windows, sewn sloppily from hands without experience. The front door could close now. Its wooden skin had been sanded and patched over, then painted over with a silky light green. He was content, his head told him.
VI.
entra'acte
The gratified sand kept track of time, or rather the illusion of it, so he did not have to.
Everything ends:
nothing lasts forever but the earth and the sky.
VII.
Upon one homemade porch sunset, a New Man realized that he was not content. He his lifted his shirt to remember why, and touched the hollow, dark hole where his heart should have been. The hole was an ebon, writhing mass that snaked out through his skin like forlorn tendrils. Black marks upon his flesh. Branches, like veins, of ebon plague crept through his skin. They were pulsating, almost, as if something like blood thrived within them. It never hurt, but if he concentrated hard enough, he could reach inside, maybe feel his organs. The halcyon sand may have found its way inside of his empty body if the hole was not continually covered. It never hurt, but it made him discontent- a hollow lonliness. And upon a homemade porch sunrise, he looked at Forgotten City. The casual ruins of her skyscrapers loomed in the distance, reaching for a something heaven. She had many tools, he realized slowly. Like clockwork, an idea churning. He looked at Forgotten City, and began his trek back into her arms.
VIII.
She was exactly the same.
Nothing had moved since his last visit, and that was not a surprise. The stillness was infinite- strongwilled, something that could not be shattered. Cars still slept in the street, dusted lightly in the tranquil sand. Shop windows were still broken every now and then, lining the streets, looking almost correct in such a state. His footsteps from before were still present in some places; undisturbed. And idly, he wandered through the streets, careful to let the City stay still. Weaving through shoppes and apartments, he collected the tools.
A soldering gun. Scrap metal. Old toys.
A New Man came across a jewelry story.
There were pocket watches in the windows.
IX.
He built into the night. The moonrise he missed for the first time in forever-long, and she lamented by shining her light through that little hole in his room. The muscles in his shirtless back flexed with every movement. Frayed, striped hair swayed with every breath that phantom lungs took. The schematics were internal; he never had to think twice. The moonlight guided him. It shone down upon the iron-strong desk and working Man. It shone down and outweighed the candles. It shone down and it illuminated his Purpose.
All was calm.
X.
Not quite a forever-long, though perhaps a few forever-days; and it was complete. Perfect. Solitary. Undoing. Polished copper, molded and soldered together with care and precision; boasting of remnants of a marksman. It was sculpted into that illustrious muscle- a heart, complete with a small piping of an aorta. Inside churned a complexity of clockwork, gears and cogs, springs and copper wires, all set upon synchrony. The only disruption to the perfect, metal casing was a small, metallic key that jutted from the side. He turned it a few notches, then set it upon the ancient desk.
It shuttered and sputtered, the gears kicking into motion;
and it began to beat.
He put it in his chest.
XI.
He smiled and then slept. The heart was wound up and ticking. This was the life that he missed.
XII.
Sunsets turned to sunrises, and sunrises turned to sunsets. Moonrises turned to moonsets, and moonsets turned to moonrises. Actions melted into one another until they again became a single blur. The tranquil sand was familiar. Everything was still. Upon one still forever-day, a New Man sat upon his homemade porch attached to a little fresh house, homemade heart beating within him, homemade cigarette burning from his lips. The sky- an everlasting aqua- caught his gaze. There were no clouds above, only an endless sky-ocean. A few miles ahead of him lay Forgotten City, her lackluster decay set against the something heaven's backdrop. The endless sand surrounded him in a dull beige. Nothing moved. Idly, he traced the faded, blackened lines on his bare chest with a long finger, the pumping of his heart vibrating in his ears.
His smile, contentedness, faded.
XIII.
three suns;
An Old Man's lackluster eye lingered upon the empty, empty silhouette of a forgotten city, its skyscrapers looming toward a forgotten sky.
Everything was still.
fin