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prose - Litus by =Twelfth:iconTwelfth:

Categories Traditional Art > Mixed Media > Conceptual

©2009-2010 =Twelfth
:icontwelfth:

Artist's Comments


         He walked to the shoreline, feeling his way through the dark with clumsy hands until the sand became progressively more wet, and soon he felt the ocean lapping at his toes. Though barely discernible against the darkness, he could feel the lines of blood run in paths down his shoulders and arms. The iron taste in his mouth hadn’t gone away no matter how many times he tried spitting it out. It was everywhere, a thick haze, and he was getting dizzier as he walked.

         He had stumbled passed the places he remembered as black cliffs and bleached white sand. A harsh wind pulled over the sea and swept his hair back before continuing on and blurring the clouds of smoke and flakes of ash. A different sort of pain welled in his chest and throat, an almost suffocating pressure building. But with his eyes burned, Ulysses could no longer cry, and instead the black lines of carbon lined his cheeks in callous imitation.

         The smoke from the fires above twisted from the wind and muddied the evening sky and there were eerie shadows over the land, and if his eyes had been unmarred then he still would have been nearly blinded by the falling ash and sparks of remaining fire. The embers still glowed, and there were people arriving to gaze solemnly and tearfully at the carnage, but Ulysses could not see this. There were people who would hunt him, with the spears and swords they had all once lifted in unity. They would stare at him and wonder what had possessed him to go mad, they would grimace and glare, but Ulysses would not see this.

         The tide was coming in and he could feel the water rising past his ankles as he stood, dazed. He sunk to his knees, and slowly the rest of him laid down in the sand. The water lapped at his face, burning into his ruined eyes but he could barely feel it anymore. The water grew higher. Ulysses felt the pain from the cuts first on his legs, then on his torso, then on his arms, then on his shoulders, then on his neck. They stung badly, the salt working as a sieve to clear the blood and dirt away. His cheek pressed to the sand, and the cool water came up again, filling his mouth with brine. The cloudy fog of blood loss enveloped him along with the water, cooling the heat of war.

         As both ocean and sleep comfortingly engulfed him, Ulysses realised he would not be getting up again.










    The main deal is the writing, but dA won't let me submit it as "Literature" unless the preview image resizes to like the negative numbers, and I want them both to be there, so poo poo to that.

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July 11, 2009
656 KB
656 KB
400×3075

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