Thanks to Konzen for catching the spelling mistake! =^^=;;;
Should he have company, there will definitely be no sleeping and he will catch up on it sometime tomorrow, probably in the afternoon when monkeys are too hot to quarrel and monks are too hot to scold. Tonight, however, alone, he peels his boots from his feet, strips to the waist and jumps into bed. It is a hot night.
Surprisingly, this six-footer of a man sleeps very quietly, often on his side, one arm without the confines of the blanket, one arm underneath his head. It is a throwback from childhood days--you learn very quickly to not make any noise, and to expose as little of a frail body as possible to an attacker nevertheless beloved.
A blue vest has been tossed carelessly across the back of a chair. Its fabric is thick and durable, a hardy shelter against the elements for the wearer. It feels like canvas, or a canvas blend, thick and slightly scratchy. Rips and tears are scattered across the surface, and they look like they have been caused by claws and fangs; if you didn't know any better, the garment could belong to an itinerant hunter. He has tried washing out the vest, but its inner lining along the armpits still has traces of old blood from old wounds on it. It still smells of sweat and man, beast and blood and tears, and no amount of washing can remove his essence from it.
A pair of boots lie under the chair, one on its side with its tongue lolling like a dead animal. They are large and rather clunky, like the owner, and made of good, hard-wearing leather. At the moment, however, they are covered in mud, grass, sand and every other type of muck in between. He will give them a going over tomorrow, perhaps. They will just get dirty again, anyway. The world is not at all clean or pure, and rather hard on those who try too hard to stay so. If dirt and filth repelled him, he wouldn't have saved a dying man from a muddy dirt track back when he was fresh into manhood, and he wouldn't be here bathing in blood like the rest of his comrades.
On the chair itself you see a packet of cigarettes, slightly crushed and dampened with sweat from their long sleep in the man's pants pocket. Hi-Lites. He is not stupid enough to smoke in bed--the last time he tried that, his brother had whupped him good for getting ashes in the bedsheets. He had been twelve at the time. Hi-Lites were what Jien smoked, and so the brand is endeared to the sleeper. The act of lighting up and taking a pull at the stick of tobacco is as comforting today as it was when he first started the habit. It's just that sometimes you need a little more comfort to get through the day.
The man stirs in his sleep, his firm hold upon the blanket in one hand never loosening for a second. Well, you thought it was the blanket until it shone royal blue in the faint glow of moonlight.
It is one article on him that is strangely free of damage or dirt. The bandanna is fine-woven cotton of a good quality. They don't make them like these anymore. A bold black kanji character, 'ki', happiness, stands out upon it dead centre and caged in a trigram-like outline. It is thin at some spots now, like the edges where sweat has come into constant contact with the cloth, and at the ends where it has been untied and retied, and there the cotton's weave is fuzzy, soft, almost like silk. You note, with incongruous amusement, that the man's thumb is unconsciously sliding up and down over a like patch.
It is not his to begin with. It was a gift from long ago, from someone who no longer answers to his name, and in turn given to that person by the sleeper's sire. It was meant to be a good luck charm, and when the sleeper was but a child, the bandanna had been passed down as a parting gesture, a keepsake, a tangible memory, before the sleeper's brother had literally faded into the sunset. It is still with him, because he remembers his roots, though those roots spawned more cruel thorns than forgiving blooms.
Good luck charm indeed! Blood and filth has never touched it. It seems to repel such things. It lies entwined around his tightly-bandaged wrists and in his grip. Like the taste of Hi-Lites and the feel of womanflesh and the smell of blood, this is one thing that has not changed for as long as he could remember. It is a piece of cloth woven of stability, the sleeper's anchor to a world that still hates and fears his kind; the sleeper's way of ensuring he will remember who he is exactly when he wakes in the morning. It smells a little of cigarette smoke, a little bit of sweat, but there isn't a trace of blood on it. Perhaps he also smells he fragrances of long ago, of warm milk and perfume and the security of his elder brother.
The sleeper is ensconced in dreams, and holds a piece of such a dream in his hand. He will rest well tonight, and awaken to another day during which he must keep his heart beating, his lungs drawing in air and the blood in his veins flowing in his veins. It wouldn't say much if he died before the others. Contemplative peace is mirrored on his face. All is well with him, for now.
-----
And to the one sole reviewer at this time (that I know of):
KarotsaMused -- Thankee! Your review kinda surprised me because the computer was acting up and I thought I'd post both completed bits of WYWS in the morning. You want more, you got it, and I'm almost done with Sanzo's part. Goku's should follow.
Should he have company, there will definitely be no sleeping and he will catch up on it sometime tomorrow, probably in the afternoon when monkeys are too hot to quarrel and monks are too hot to scold. Tonight, however, alone, he peels his boots from his feet, strips to the waist and jumps into bed. It is a hot night.
Surprisingly, this six-footer of a man sleeps very quietly, often on his side, one arm without the confines of the blanket, one arm underneath his head. It is a throwback from childhood days--you learn very quickly to not make any noise, and to expose as little of a frail body as possible to an attacker nevertheless beloved.
A blue vest has been tossed carelessly across the back of a chair. Its fabric is thick and durable, a hardy shelter against the elements for the wearer. It feels like canvas, or a canvas blend, thick and slightly scratchy. Rips and tears are scattered across the surface, and they look like they have been caused by claws and fangs; if you didn't know any better, the garment could belong to an itinerant hunter. He has tried washing out the vest, but its inner lining along the armpits still has traces of old blood from old wounds on it. It still smells of sweat and man, beast and blood and tears, and no amount of washing can remove his essence from it.
A pair of boots lie under the chair, one on its side with its tongue lolling like a dead animal. They are large and rather clunky, like the owner, and made of good, hard-wearing leather. At the moment, however, they are covered in mud, grass, sand and every other type of muck in between. He will give them a going over tomorrow, perhaps. They will just get dirty again, anyway. The world is not at all clean or pure, and rather hard on those who try too hard to stay so. If dirt and filth repelled him, he wouldn't have saved a dying man from a muddy dirt track back when he was fresh into manhood, and he wouldn't be here bathing in blood like the rest of his comrades.
On the chair itself you see a packet of cigarettes, slightly crushed and dampened with sweat from their long sleep in the man's pants pocket. Hi-Lites. He is not stupid enough to smoke in bed--the last time he tried that, his brother had whupped him good for getting ashes in the bedsheets. He had been twelve at the time. Hi-Lites were what Jien smoked, and so the brand is endeared to the sleeper. The act of lighting up and taking a pull at the stick of tobacco is as comforting today as it was when he first started the habit. It's just that sometimes you need a little more comfort to get through the day.
The man stirs in his sleep, his firm hold upon the blanket in one hand never loosening for a second. Well, you thought it was the blanket until it shone royal blue in the faint glow of moonlight.
It is one article on him that is strangely free of damage or dirt. The bandanna is fine-woven cotton of a good quality. They don't make them like these anymore. A bold black kanji character, 'ki', happiness, stands out upon it dead centre and caged in a trigram-like outline. It is thin at some spots now, like the edges where sweat has come into constant contact with the cloth, and at the ends where it has been untied and retied, and there the cotton's weave is fuzzy, soft, almost like silk. You note, with incongruous amusement, that the man's thumb is unconsciously sliding up and down over a like patch.
It is not his to begin with. It was a gift from long ago, from someone who no longer answers to his name, and in turn given to that person by the sleeper's sire. It was meant to be a good luck charm, and when the sleeper was but a child, the bandanna had been passed down as a parting gesture, a keepsake, a tangible memory, before the sleeper's brother had literally faded into the sunset. It is still with him, because he remembers his roots, though those roots spawned more cruel thorns than forgiving blooms.
Good luck charm indeed! Blood and filth has never touched it. It seems to repel such things. It lies entwined around his tightly-bandaged wrists and in his grip. Like the taste of Hi-Lites and the feel of womanflesh and the smell of blood, this is one thing that has not changed for as long as he could remember. It is a piece of cloth woven of stability, the sleeper's anchor to a world that still hates and fears his kind; the sleeper's way of ensuring he will remember who he is exactly when he wakes in the morning. It smells a little of cigarette smoke, a little bit of sweat, but there isn't a trace of blood on it. Perhaps he also smells he fragrances of long ago, of warm milk and perfume and the security of his elder brother.
The sleeper is ensconced in dreams, and holds a piece of such a dream in his hand. He will rest well tonight, and awaken to another day during which he must keep his heart beating, his lungs drawing in air and the blood in his veins flowing in his veins. It wouldn't say much if he died before the others. Contemplative peace is mirrored on his face. All is well with him, for now.
-----
And to the one sole reviewer at this time (that I know of):
KarotsaMused -- Thankee! Your review kinda surprised me because the computer was acting up and I thought I'd post both completed bits of WYWS in the morning. You want more, you got it, and I'm almost done with Sanzo's part. Goku's should follow.