Post by Cid on Dec 1, 2009 3:29:42 GMT -5
Our anchor's aweigh and our sails are all set
Bold Riley, oh, boom-a-lay
The folks we are leaving, we'll never forget
Bold Riley, oh, gone away
~Old sea shanty
---
Deep space makes a man forget the trivialities of day-to-day life. Instead, it's replaced by something thinner and more abstract. Washing your face becomes a deep sea dive, a walk to the bridge becomes a wingless voyage. Space isn't a thing anymore, it's everything. Intangible, yet in everything. Tasteless, yet overwhelmingly decadent. Godless, yet beautifully numinous in nearly every respect. It's a fact no man can get around, not even Captain Wraith. The Almighty has an eye, foot, and hand into everything. An eternity of bliss is hardly won from denying Him.
But what of those who do?
Here lies Captain "The Wraith" Riley, bastard child of Sam, who wanted nothing more than to see his mum again--to hold and caress and tell her all his wee little worries. His eyes open, his heart closed, he's looking past us. He's getting the picture.
---
Reading between the lines, Samuel picked up on an ill bit of humor in Tom Jones, another one of his favored English novels. He laugh aloud because one, no one's around to hear, and two, Henry Fielding had a way with subtle innuendo that's hard to resist. He feels an eerie likeness to Jones, though, as this moment. A misunderstood orphan with potential, cast into a derelict landscape with nothing more than his wits. It was a timeless story, and one that wouldn't end anytime soon.
Sam thought of Sonja. Sweet, fair Sonja. What had fate done to you? Sam put his book down, not bothering with a bookmark. It fluttered from his fingers and wafted someplace else.
Sirena de dios.
It causes him physical pain to remember her at all, let alone her death. She was beautiful in her simplicity and the fact that such a lovely creature was subject to the same laws and forces as everyone else made him question his Good Upbringing. What little remained of it, of course.
She was murdered. That much he knew was subject to the Lord's divine scrutiny--the first and last strike. He'd done his share, and he'd done it with care (HA HA, YER BUGGER). He knew he wasn't any different--wasn't special, not by His measure. She was, though. She certainly was.
Sam wasn't stupid--all grieving bastards felt the same way he did, but he knew something they didn't: He giveth, and He taketh away.
What a monumentally moronic thing to say.
He'd forgotten to eat today. Had it been a day? He didn't recall. The ticking from his grimy wall-mounted clock makes his mustache quiver. He feels like Hook when the gator's patrolling nearby. To drown it out, he starts to sing:
"YAR HAR, FIDDLE DI DEE,
BEING A PIRATE IS ALL RIGHT WITH ME!
DO WHAT YOU WANT 'CAUSE A PIRATE IS FREE.
YOU ARE A PIRATE!"
He thought about it, and wondered if he'd actually said that aloud. Didn't matter. Not now.
He muttered the final verse to the song--Addie had gotten stuck in his head, the witch. She was a looker, but not entirely altogether. A shred of him was glad to have her on his crew, but there was a reason ships of yore didn't allow women on their decks--and not just superstition, either. Tits n' cooch were enough of a reason to turn a man on himself and inside out. He'd see Tijuana eye her a couple times. He knew the witch could handle herself. That wasn't it, no. The last thing he needed was a division in his crew, especially on the eve of something far greater than even he could fathom.
She was quartermaster for a reason--she was good with obtaining and pilfering idiotic amounts of shit. She would be little use to her open and on death's door.
He'd eat now and then sleep.
Bold Riley, oh, boom-a-lay
The folks we are leaving, we'll never forget
Bold Riley, oh, gone away
~Old sea shanty
---
Deep space makes a man forget the trivialities of day-to-day life. Instead, it's replaced by something thinner and more abstract. Washing your face becomes a deep sea dive, a walk to the bridge becomes a wingless voyage. Space isn't a thing anymore, it's everything. Intangible, yet in everything. Tasteless, yet overwhelmingly decadent. Godless, yet beautifully numinous in nearly every respect. It's a fact no man can get around, not even Captain Wraith. The Almighty has an eye, foot, and hand into everything. An eternity of bliss is hardly won from denying Him.
But what of those who do?
Here lies Captain "The Wraith" Riley, bastard child of Sam, who wanted nothing more than to see his mum again--to hold and caress and tell her all his wee little worries. His eyes open, his heart closed, he's looking past us. He's getting the picture.
---
Reading between the lines, Samuel picked up on an ill bit of humor in Tom Jones, another one of his favored English novels. He laugh aloud because one, no one's around to hear, and two, Henry Fielding had a way with subtle innuendo that's hard to resist. He feels an eerie likeness to Jones, though, as this moment. A misunderstood orphan with potential, cast into a derelict landscape with nothing more than his wits. It was a timeless story, and one that wouldn't end anytime soon.
Sam thought of Sonja. Sweet, fair Sonja. What had fate done to you? Sam put his book down, not bothering with a bookmark. It fluttered from his fingers and wafted someplace else.
Sirena de dios.
It causes him physical pain to remember her at all, let alone her death. She was beautiful in her simplicity and the fact that such a lovely creature was subject to the same laws and forces as everyone else made him question his Good Upbringing. What little remained of it, of course.
She was murdered. That much he knew was subject to the Lord's divine scrutiny--the first and last strike. He'd done his share, and he'd done it with care (HA HA, YER BUGGER). He knew he wasn't any different--wasn't special, not by His measure. She was, though. She certainly was.
Sam wasn't stupid--all grieving bastards felt the same way he did, but he knew something they didn't: He giveth, and He taketh away.
What a monumentally moronic thing to say.
He'd forgotten to eat today. Had it been a day? He didn't recall. The ticking from his grimy wall-mounted clock makes his mustache quiver. He feels like Hook when the gator's patrolling nearby. To drown it out, he starts to sing:
"YAR HAR, FIDDLE DI DEE,
BEING A PIRATE IS ALL RIGHT WITH ME!
DO WHAT YOU WANT 'CAUSE A PIRATE IS FREE.
YOU ARE A PIRATE!"
He thought about it, and wondered if he'd actually said that aloud. Didn't matter. Not now.
He muttered the final verse to the song--Addie had gotten stuck in his head, the witch. She was a looker, but not entirely altogether. A shred of him was glad to have her on his crew, but there was a reason ships of yore didn't allow women on their decks--and not just superstition, either. Tits n' cooch were enough of a reason to turn a man on himself and inside out. He'd see Tijuana eye her a couple times. He knew the witch could handle herself. That wasn't it, no. The last thing he needed was a division in his crew, especially on the eve of something far greater than even he could fathom.
She was quartermaster for a reason--she was good with obtaining and pilfering idiotic amounts of shit. She would be little use to her open and on death's door.
He'd eat now and then sleep.