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GonneLights
April 9th, 2012, 04:42 PM
Excerpt from a very old story of mine, submitting it to try the waters. I'd love to hear what you all think! In as much detail as you'd like, in any way that you'd like.


The Rogues of Ardoyne



And if it was old it was tired and waning and dripping from castles and calling its name, and if it was old it was trudging and ruling and rasping while dancing a dance from youth, and if it was old it was generous and heart-felt and sovereign and searing and cathartic with fame, and if it was new it was nameless and lame and cold seated suiting up for the malaise of its future. For dream-states and overheads and last crowning battles, for high points and bridges and prevailing harsh winds, for armoury and artillery and bedevilled great magics, for climbs and the elements and cheers and all greatness, for stones and for towers and beings indebted. But if it was cynical it was draped in preternature, chalked up with runa and screaming at night, it was naked, on show, the exhibitionist embarrassed, but laughing so cold dressed up in white spirits.




The dark was eclectic, its soft ruling all-holding, reign over the sky and drip splendour in gutters. And that splendour was clemency, that existing escape, for escapism nepenthe and nepenthean was he - stalwart and grasping at nepenthean straws, clinging nepenthe to night-lusting paradigms - paradigms to forget, to let go of loose change - paradigms to seek knowledge 'fore they wither your heart.


On cold stone he was seated, in night he was made - on cold stone he depleted, exhaust all to be said. Alone by the flood-lights, the stellar cosmic glean. Oh! Elijah! Mix the white of the sky with the amber of city, mix magic with menace, mix oil and starlight, mix the soft with the streaming, the glow with the passive, swell copacetic and slumbering in crisp crepuscular clamour! Snuff embers on soil! Cigarette ends were beauty! Leave plastic bottles in parks! Those potions were the earth! We are the earth and from us extend all! We are the earth and all is the earth! Elijah! Elijah! Join us in dancing!





This blackness was maddening, this blackness was back. This blackness returning to cool down the fires, to cool down the misery that drenched his sweet heart, to cool down the wounds they pierced in his flesh - to cool down the words they placed in his mind. Slick schizo-pretentious preternatural rogue, digging pavements and chalk-dust and jarring off oil lamps, cracking spirit bottles for bottle spirits at their degenerate parties, that gnaw at the stands like those creatures all mining - throwing love to each other like the pickaxe to ore, throwing madness and sparkling like melting down metal, throwing themselves wildly into new forms, as the hammer downs egregiously to form up to war.


War - stabbing and crushing, where was I? Elijah? Where was I? Ammodeia? Where was I? Inti? Where was I? With the kings? Where was I? Ardoyne? When it closed up its walls, where was I? Londonderry? When it pulled up its shutters? Where was I, Newtownards? When it was led back to its gutters? Where was I, Carrickfurgus? When they were rapine and gentile? Where was I, Elijah? Where was I, Ammodeia?


'What happened, Elijah?' Ammodeia spoke.


'They rose up from the east and the west and north - in ships and in turmoil and rapine and gentile. They rose up from the earth, from the sea and the sky - they rose up from the cities and rose up from the gutters - they rose up with revolt, with inspiring revelation, they rose up with no bullshit, they rose up with intention.'





'What happened, Elijah?' Ammondeia spoke.


'We were left cold behind them, we were left from their love. We were outside their copings so copious and callous, we were outside their owning, their ostracising scathe - so derisive is that power that would turn back on its soldiers. So derisive that love that comes holding cities.'


'What happens, Elijah?' Ammondeia spoke.


'We sit in Nepenthe, we sit in the dark. We sit always hoping, we sit for the spark. We sit on the edge of this cityport's docks, lusting and living ever turning in silence. We are the cynics, we are the rogues. We are the beaten, the dying, the dead.'


'What happens, Elijah?' Ammondeia spoke. 'What happens to us, when they catch us, when they know? What happens to us, when we drop our swords? What happens to us, when we shed all our tools? What happens to us when we're naked and fair? Unfair, unfair… What happens, Elijah?'


'We live. We live and we're worthy, we live as we're dead - we live and live on, we only existed. We only existed and we are to exist - thats it! Thats all! Thats all we can do! Exist and survive and not pander to greatness - not appease, not become, but xeper all righteous - for we are as we! As we, as we! Young and old and cynical! Bitter! Bitter! Loving and lusting! Thrusting and wanting and congealing in gutters!'





'I love you, Elijah.' Ammondeia spoke.


'Theres no love, Ammondeia.' Elijah revoked.


And if it was old, it was nearer to death. And if it was old, it was stuck in its ways. And if it was old, it was useless and lethargic, and if it was new it was only for ageing. And if it was cynical - fantastic, the rogue. The future, the manifesting, the eternally wanting. The futile, the thirsting, the eternally bare. The sutured, the beautiful, the ***** and worried, the ecstatic and brilliant rogues of Ardoyne.





----------------


'What really happened, Curus?' spoke the new degenerate rogue Liber, to the new degenerate rogue Curus. 'I was so lost in the confusion of it. I just saw hoofs and feet and flashing metal - and I got out of there, and now all I know is I can't get out of here.'


'Next door, like, to the city, right - the gates are shut, you musta' been here, to know about, like, about all that, all that went down, King Tyas communally bumped off, regicide in its finest, like, all that deceit and publicity. And the city, you've seen it, before all that - its fallen, to-its-knees like, to plague and disrepair and all sorts' wildness. And they locked it up, bolted it shut, kicked up great towers, containment like - for the safety of the outside.'


'Yeah.'


'Lookin' after number one, ey?'


'Heheh, yeah.'


'Well… Thats whats gone down, full-on, mirror it, happened to us. 'Cept they say - they say a lot, by the way, bevy like, don't put your money on it, all that, what they say like - but they say that, out there, in the outside like, in out, like, that the last embers of the revolution, sparks firing, downsizing, are being stamped out.'


'Is it true?'


'You want that?'


'Yeah, maybe.'


'Wouldn't matter if it was. But, I don't think, or, its not my job to think that it is.'





Degenerate Parties, sin-sinful, sin-cresting in glamourous under-city moss-grubbed wooden-shacked creaking bulging loud thumping nostalgia, dancing in euphoria and glinting with revolting rogue rebellious sparking conversation, drifting smoke and spirits alcoholic in streamline. The slickness of night and darkness would cling to the guttural weed-floral walls of the sewers, the beaten forced vagrants burning like the fires that torched their old homes, and they ran down slate underground paths, soles sticking to beautiful puked-up love, girls getting off with the undead, divining necromantic divination to the pulsing futile zeniths of their affection before darting dragging zombie-lovers into Degenerate speak easies, scyttan the road in nervous tittering teenage safety.


Ruppa and Sanna adjoined the party, stood casual against makeshift bar tables scratched with billiards queues and scattered with cards and all beer mats. Ruppa flicked up his cuffs and ironed them betwixt fingers, while Sanna looked on with discerning sneer.


'Hope they serve food around here,' Ruppa's tongue brushed gloss-slick lips, 'Starving.'


'You're always starving, Ruppa. You should get that looked at'


'Oh, yeah, by who?'


'Right enuff…'


And with subtle suggestion and motion and mindfulness, with Sonna's gaze to a barmaid and glass smiles in glass passings they'd be drinking and drinking and jiving and tooting and jeering and jabbing and joking with all, and all that was withered and all that they'd see, for great underground sewers and all that they'd see. And with serious tone, withholding all graveness, with serious tone critic satires all heinous, words spoken in dreading, words spoken in fear;





'They're cracking down harder, Sonna.'


'I know.'


'They're beginning prohibitions. Prohibitions! In Ardoyne! Thats a joke! If you told me, I wouldn't believe it. I'd laugh at you - because its a joke!'


'You had to expect this, old friend. You had to. They burnt the kids out of their homes - the guards burnt the kids out of their homes! They broke down my door and smashed all my paintings and urns, I mean, thats not foreshadowing a Utopia. And they did the same to you.'


'I know.'


'Degeneracy, Ruppa - We're degenerates. We're less than they are. Their helmets shine, ours are kicked into the muck. We're degenerates. Things'll get worse and worse for us.'


Ruppa gave a hefty sigh and drank deeply. 'Whats to become, old friend?'


'Ever heard that expression, 'Fight Fire With Fire?''


And with no time to explain the two old boys were accosted - Liber drink-toting and smiling with beacon. 'And when did you boys get here?' he sneered, punching his mentor boyishly on the arm.


'Liber!' they howled in unison, Ruppa rising to his greeting and thrusting merrily an unneeded bottle of drink into his chest - and they'd revel in indulgent jocund conversation, in spite of the mitigating impending doom. In spite, in spite - gnawing at the stands like those creatures all mining, throwing their love like a pickaxe to ore.





Elijah and Ammondeia were a painting to be painted - Unlovers unloving in panvitalistic virtue; the every day struggles of every day rogues. Every day, every man, every girl ever character, spitting impressions to the grotty wood earth.


'Why don't you love me, Elijah?' she pleaded with ironic knowledge. She was like that, so desirous and believing in fate. 'Why don't you want me? I can give you everything, everything you ever wanted.


'I just don't love you. Believe me - if I could force myself to love you, I would. It'd be much easier on all of us but… I can't.'


She sighed and fell sitting to the floor, looking drearily down. Elijah followed, to his knees, and bent over her. He kissed her fruitfully and her eyes opened wide, to be greeted with slick cheshire grinning.


'Don't worry.' he said. 'It'll be alright, some day. Just enjoy it, for now. Be hot with impermanence - we're brilliant, as lovers, when not in love. Lovers don't need to love each other anymore.'


She looked longingly into his eyes. 'I wish I understood, Elijah. I wish I understood you.'


Elijah het up with laugher, grabbed her by her trembling hands and they ran off into the black shadows of parties, dodging through rooms and jumping at old friends, in scorching recognition and quick crescendoes of subversive hot-blooded shouting. Beautiful party, bumping with love! Beautiful party, beacon to sailors! Sailors of subverse, sailors of cynicism! Sailors with contraband, sailors with love! Sailing through stories and anecdotes an tales! Smuggling hyperbole and storytelling frenzy! Laying mystery in phonic caves! Love it, Elijah! Love Unrequited! Love it, Elijah! Suffer and suffer!





And BAM.


The locked doors blew back to mortifying fury, brushed javelins and pole-arms jeering authority, stamping 'cross wood moaning in sudden shock, anecdotes dropped and smashed on the floor, drunk heads spinning and whirling under guard troubadour wheels! Screaming and shouting and escaping as one! Punching and fighting in a drastic mosh brawl! Get yourself from the sewers, serene in the streets! Scream murder! Murder! Scream injustice, unfair!


'Degenerate scum! End you all one day!'


'Degenerate scum! Decadent and gray!'


'Degenerate scum! Your time has come!'


'Watch your backs, vagrants! Watch where you call home!'


Great paintings were torn, degenerate "art"! Instruments were cracked, degenerate "music"! Books were burnt in alco-flames, degenerate "words"! All kinds of people beaten to the earth, degenerate scum! Degenerate scum! Another guard bust, Bottle Spirits smash against the pavements tonight. The moonlight weeps on the cold cobblestone streets, for the great injustices her degenerates endure. Smash against the pavements tonight, under the boots of the harsh prejudiced guard. But they didn't know, and they wouldn't have cared, that the rogue's last few straws were being crushed underfoot.

Jon M
April 10th, 2012, 11:15 PM
The style gets in the way of the story you are trying to tell. And if the style is purposely flamboyant, then you succeeded with that. But honestly I have my doubts that this style / voice is done for the sake of the narrator; rather, it seems like the writing here has been so overworked by the author and the emphasis misplaced: instead of the story, the 'fictional dream', it is the, at times, nauseatingly poetic style that demands attention.

I suggest dialing it way back.

Bloggsworth
April 10th, 2012, 11:53 PM
Can't see anything about rosy cheeks....

Kevin
April 11th, 2012, 12:22 AM
Maybe there's mistakes, missing this or that, or whatever, but I liked it. Maybe it's derivative(what ain't?), but it seemed original to me.

GonneLights
April 11th, 2012, 09:07 AM
To Jon M - Yeah, I can understand that. That was my style then, it's more economical now, though I still try and retain the same poetic style. If you can believe it, this was actually a lot calmer than most of the things I was writing at the time, ahaha. The intention was to start it off with something extremely metaphorical and written metrically, and slowly over each chapter decrease it until it was more readable; the idea behind that was because the set-up sort of describes homelessness, which seems chaotic at first but when you're actually on the inside of it is just extremely slow and boring. So, I thought it'd be a nice little analogy. And, on top of that, I was submitting it to a particular form with very traditional writers, and I wanted to show them something that really wasn't traditional. But the only people I've met who liked the style were other writers who write in a similar style, LOL, so that could tell volumes about the style it's self, hey.

Bloggsworth - God damn. I can't believe I made that mistake! THAT mistake!

Kevin - other than the glaringly obvious rouges, ahaha, I didn't notice any mistakes? But thanks! I'm very glad you liked it.