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Tourniquet | The Skeezix Dilemma Part II (The Improbable Testimony Of The Pipsisewah)
[I. The Suffering]
Skeezix bloated in petulance from the night's debauch
Wields his mutated feline frame down from his arboreal watch
Space 109 is always occupied by the countless faces who tried and tried
Bruises from an unseen source as chronic abuser runs his course
There is no remorse
Sinewy limbs reach through the bars to collect the carcasses of souls
Given over the deeds of infamy, Skeezix took his toll
The ungainly truncated form of the docile Pipsisewah
Subtle in demeanor yet with powers that beggar description
They call him by different names
Some call him Gilgamesh, the man who has never tasted death
The size of the room is half as large cause you walked around it twice
And you walk again with both eyes shut cause your fears became your vice
[II. The Battle]
Tormentor underestimating the power of the Pipsisewah
Confrontation on the grandest scale the outcome already known
The child whose humble prayer set the battle of ages
Torment no more
[III. The Victory]
We call him Jehovah who's always near
And you can win the battle when you pray without fear
The weak are victorious when the strong reaches down
And the ones who bring sadness will bow to the Crown
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Those are the lyrics this story is based off. Now for the story itself.
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"The weak are victorious when the strong reaches down, and the ones who bring sadness, will bow to the Crown.."
The grey sky looked dark and somehow defeated, like a general's eyes after he has lost too many troops. Treetops reflected the hopeles steely skies dully, and branches of oak, ash, and beech sighed like mourners in the sharp, fluctuating wind.
The trees were lined up at the edge of a small field, in which the blue green grass looked like a choppy sea as it blew this way and that. There was nothing across from the woods but an old, half-crumbled wall of dark grey green stone with a half smashed gate of steel bars, with fleur-de-lis on the tops, creaking and swinging in the mournful wind.
The wall looked as if it had once been proud, with armed men marching through its stern gates, and sharp-eyed sentries on the walltops and in the grim, squat towers (now half-gone from wars and decay) that were placed every two or three hundred feet along the wall. Now, however, it was a humble ruin, as desolate and bare as the wind sounded-a mere sigh of its former battle-cries.
Abruptly, a little boy, clad in a white t-shirt and ragged grey jeans burst from the trees, running through the two-foot high grass in zigzag fashion. He darted towards the swinging gates as a sinewy, feline scarecrow figure lunged from the forest behind him with an enormous hiss and a rasping yowl.
The boy was at least eight or nine, with wide blue eyes, fair tousled hair, a snub nose and a square chin. His round, sullen-looking little face was tight and pale, as if he were afraid of something, and he never looked back at the gangly shadow that tore after him with hisses and spit flying from its dark jowls. Wherever the spittle fell, the grass turned brown and withered, as if there were a selective drought.
The child, now ten-odd yards from the gates, began to slow, his pathetic body tired already from the long chase. The Skeezix, the shadowy, gaunt figure that chased the child, gave a roar of triumph!-too soon. The child reached the gates, half sobbing, half gasping a prayer:
"Please, Jehova, Who's always near, I pray, save me- *gasp* I fear not..." The child stumbled through the gates as the Skeezix reacehd for him futilely. The Skeezix flung back its head and bellowed in rage, its lean back arched in anger and despair.
From within the gates burst forth a warrior, clad in shining steel armor, like a knight's. He was tall and powerful, with a kind, stern sort of face, lined with life and age: high cheekbones, square chin, brown compassionate eyes, and a hawklike nose. He had short brown hair spattered with grey, cut somwehat raggedly, and was carrying a sword and shield, both at least three quarters his size. He bellowed,
"Jehova jireh! (The Lord will provide!)"
Warrior Gilgamesh looked up at the towering, scarwny Skeezix with a grim smile and murmuerd, hefting his sword,
"Hello beastie."
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Riiight...so...uh, to quote, "I hope you hate it."
-Telcontar_Jack
EDIT: I fixed some spelling errors...and I forgot to add the word count. 505 words.
