Post by ceruleanwalker on Sept 16, 2014 19:37:13 GMT
Hi everyone, I've been sitting on this story since I went to Niagara falls last year. I kind of ran out of steam on it. I was wondering if anyone thinks this story is worth completing, if so I'd love to bounce ideas around with you.
The Maiden of the Mists.
The call of the falls is the first thing I can remember. In every experience of my life, it has been there. As constant and dependable as the passage of time, chopping seconds from the future, holding them briefly in the freefall of the present and then pouring them into the basin of the past. A guttered tear in the flesh of the world, endlessly being filled and emptied by the race of water and sound. The feral rock, that once ran hot and fierce throughout the veins of the earth, hardened by experience into mountains, now lay upon the river’s shore, humbled to pebbles by the onslaught of the white water.
For as long as men have lived besides its waters, they have owed their lives to its bounty. The river gave them life, and to some, it would take it back just as easily. Many men, women and children have returned their lives to the falls; their broken bodies lay at rest upon the river bed, their spirits dancing inside the mists finally at peace. To some that give their lives back to the falls, it is as sudden and unexpected as destiny’s embrace. To others, it is given freely and by appointment. I have watched them all come, hollow and empty, their hearts having long been lost or shattered into fragments. Silently I have stood and watched them all fly from the rock face and dissolve into the mist. And here I see another.
He stands upon the precipice of the abyss. He is shaking. He must be so scared. I am ashamed to say I do not know his name, but I know his story. It is carved upon his face. Eyes; worn red by the salt of his tears. I wish I could speak to him, ask him his name and tell him mine in turn and try to prevent him from taking this path, but he cannot see me and my words are little more than whispers in the air, drowned by the call of the falls. He would not hear me even if it was possible. His mind is numb; the primal voices of self-preservation that once howled their commands within the caverns of his mind had long since fallen silent. Drink had done its part, turning sorrow to anger, hardening it like a spear and directing it inwards and something had gone ‘click’ inside of him, and that was it. All that was left was the echoes of pain and regret. And then the falls had called him here, its words pouring into his open soul. One step was all that would be needed. Who would miss you? There is nothing left for you here. Come on, one step and the white waters would do the rest. One step would stop the oncoming future, erase the past and end the present; one step would stop the pain. Just, one, step.
So he took it.
The air swirled and buffered around him, running its fingers in his clothes and playing with his hair, pulling him down further from the starry sky and into the tempest of white vapour and the roar of the falls. Despite his fear he laughed as he flew. For years he had dreamed of this, to float on the air and feel the land rush below him. The fall was short. The water was unkind.
Fifteen hundred thousand gallons every second, bearing there fury upon a single mortal form, crushing him in its steely grip, the cold piercing through his flesh like teeth and sinking into the bones. The currents never ceasing their onslaught as his sin broke, his organs ruptured and his bones shattered against the rivers teeth. Eyes open or closed, there was nothing but darkness. The cold numbed the pain; the air in his lungs had long since been squeezed out by the crushing hands of water and stone. The end was now. The reaper had been waiting for him, waiting in the one place that he was always going to end up, at the end of the road. Let it end here, he thought, let it be finished with. And then the currents grew still and there was a light. But not the light he was expecting, it was dim and cold, like moonlight caressing a pond. At its centre was a figure.
It was a woman.
And she was wearing a wedding dress as fine as the mist of the falls. She was not, who he had been expecting. As she came closer he felt the coldness slip away and his mind clear of the alcohol that had muddled his thoughts, leaving fear and confusion in its wake. Who was she, why this happening is and why was he still alive. With one hand she took his, with the other she pulled her veil aside. She was young and beautiful and yet... odd. Her hair was white and fine as vapour; her skin flickered like ripples in water. Her smiling face flickered and faded as a look of sorrow surfaced from beneath her skin.
Despite the water that surrounded them, her voice rang clear through the depths
‘I thought you were him.’
The Maiden of the Mists.
The call of the falls is the first thing I can remember. In every experience of my life, it has been there. As constant and dependable as the passage of time, chopping seconds from the future, holding them briefly in the freefall of the present and then pouring them into the basin of the past. A guttered tear in the flesh of the world, endlessly being filled and emptied by the race of water and sound. The feral rock, that once ran hot and fierce throughout the veins of the earth, hardened by experience into mountains, now lay upon the river’s shore, humbled to pebbles by the onslaught of the white water.
For as long as men have lived besides its waters, they have owed their lives to its bounty. The river gave them life, and to some, it would take it back just as easily. Many men, women and children have returned their lives to the falls; their broken bodies lay at rest upon the river bed, their spirits dancing inside the mists finally at peace. To some that give their lives back to the falls, it is as sudden and unexpected as destiny’s embrace. To others, it is given freely and by appointment. I have watched them all come, hollow and empty, their hearts having long been lost or shattered into fragments. Silently I have stood and watched them all fly from the rock face and dissolve into the mist. And here I see another.
He stands upon the precipice of the abyss. He is shaking. He must be so scared. I am ashamed to say I do not know his name, but I know his story. It is carved upon his face. Eyes; worn red by the salt of his tears. I wish I could speak to him, ask him his name and tell him mine in turn and try to prevent him from taking this path, but he cannot see me and my words are little more than whispers in the air, drowned by the call of the falls. He would not hear me even if it was possible. His mind is numb; the primal voices of self-preservation that once howled their commands within the caverns of his mind had long since fallen silent. Drink had done its part, turning sorrow to anger, hardening it like a spear and directing it inwards and something had gone ‘click’ inside of him, and that was it. All that was left was the echoes of pain and regret. And then the falls had called him here, its words pouring into his open soul. One step was all that would be needed. Who would miss you? There is nothing left for you here. Come on, one step and the white waters would do the rest. One step would stop the oncoming future, erase the past and end the present; one step would stop the pain. Just, one, step.
So he took it.
The air swirled and buffered around him, running its fingers in his clothes and playing with his hair, pulling him down further from the starry sky and into the tempest of white vapour and the roar of the falls. Despite his fear he laughed as he flew. For years he had dreamed of this, to float on the air and feel the land rush below him. The fall was short. The water was unkind.
Fifteen hundred thousand gallons every second, bearing there fury upon a single mortal form, crushing him in its steely grip, the cold piercing through his flesh like teeth and sinking into the bones. The currents never ceasing their onslaught as his sin broke, his organs ruptured and his bones shattered against the rivers teeth. Eyes open or closed, there was nothing but darkness. The cold numbed the pain; the air in his lungs had long since been squeezed out by the crushing hands of water and stone. The end was now. The reaper had been waiting for him, waiting in the one place that he was always going to end up, at the end of the road. Let it end here, he thought, let it be finished with. And then the currents grew still and there was a light. But not the light he was expecting, it was dim and cold, like moonlight caressing a pond. At its centre was a figure.
It was a woman.
And she was wearing a wedding dress as fine as the mist of the falls. She was not, who he had been expecting. As she came closer he felt the coldness slip away and his mind clear of the alcohol that had muddled his thoughts, leaving fear and confusion in its wake. Who was she, why this happening is and why was he still alive. With one hand she took his, with the other she pulled her veil aside. She was young and beautiful and yet... odd. Her hair was white and fine as vapour; her skin flickered like ripples in water. Her smiling face flickered and faded as a look of sorrow surfaced from beneath her skin.
Despite the water that surrounded them, her voice rang clear through the depths
‘I thought you were him.’
so people don't get confused... my author name is the same as my actual name!