Post by CAIAPHAS MORIARTY on Apr 11, 2010 22:00:50 GMT -5
IBAM FORTE VIA SACRA SICUT MEUS EST MOS
NESCIO QUID MEDITANS NUGARUM TOTUS IN ILLIS
The young author was considerably well-known (not as well-regarded) for his pieces. What he wrote, he dared not to enact. What he did, he dared not to publish. Those delectable slivers of unadulterated text oozed the slightest touch of sensuality, the minute flick of an amoral thrill, the overwhelming compulsion of sin itself. His writing was infuriating, inspiring, enthralling. They weren't books. He had no patience for that systematic consumption of literature. They were of the sort of pamphlet that you might see telling you to put exactly one cup of flour—no more, no less—into that mixing bowl with all of the other messy ingredients. However, to follow his manuscript to the infinitesimal detail would be to glut the maw of death.
He hated the act of putting pen to paper.
The black pen left stains over the paper as he scribbled the next verses of the short composition designed to be the header of his newest work. Each line written was smudged into the one following, smearing skin and interwoven fibers alike. Nothing that came out of writing by hand ever resembled the final product placed on the shelves of a few select stores. What was consumed—to be consumed—was of a far higher caliber, cultivated via the patient, delicate movement of keys. Devoted readers admired his artistry and his florid use of atypical concepts; fussy critics admonished the man for causing his fellow youths to err. A coin soared into the air before landing with a loud clink onto the cold stones beneath his feet. A blackened piece of parchment found itself discarded nearby, only to be angrily kicked aside as it dared to proceed towards the fallen coin.
The teen's figure was perched on a stack of boxes, gazing lazily down at the waste he had so carelessly abandoned. The head faced the boy as he watched it lazily come to a stop. He giggled for a few seconds before unsheathing a clean scrap and scribbling one line next to the word that read "heads". His mouth abruptly turned down into a frown as he saw a woman laughing loudly with her friends, tears nearly falling from her cheeks at some incorrigible joke. Ah, how he hated the female geniality and joviality... "Hm...Atalanta? No...perhaps...Niobe. She'd be in second place for Leuconoe. Oh, if only I didn't already find a perfect Leuconoe..." He lifted his hands to gently cup the air that, from his view, surrounded the laughing woman’s face. How obnoxious her laughter was, boisterous, cantankerous. There had to be a suitable end for her, but he could not find it. Skipping lightly down from his roost, he collected the paper, dusted it off, and proceeded to retrieve the coin. "The last thing I would want to do is commit a crime like littering, yep."