Irascible [Solo/Closed/Mature]
Jan 17, 2014 13:27:31 GMT
Post by defectiveImmediately on Jan 17, 2014 13:27:31 GMT
The cigarette butt rolled. And rolled. And rolled. Through black ash and grey silt, across monochrome cliffs and plateaus, down gentle slopes and inclines, bouncing still with the momentum and velocity of the double-fingered flick which had sent it on its way. With every separate, isolated time it slammed against the stone with the force of its original owner's mammoth, sausage-thick fingers, it loosed another burst of sharp embers which quickly disintegrated and evaporated into nothingness in the atmosphere, like airplane flares or a fusillade of white phosphorus launched from the head of a gunpowder-laden shrieking firework.
It hit the edge of the cliff, and on the verge, bounced once more, before its pitiful jumps ceased, and it simply began to roll, scorching a trail of orange-crimson embers in the light of the bubbling, deep, scarlet seas below, velocity slowing as it collected ash and dust with every passing minute, finally reaching the edge, the smouldering cylinder sitting there and beginning to teeter, before finally dropping. Down, it fell; down, bouncing from rock to rock, crag to boulder, outcrop to ledge, plummeting now with a force that the boxer's flick could only dream of, as gravity took it further and further down.
A gentle plop and it landed in the ocean. A small, rich, crimson geyser spurted upwards, and beneath the cresting and breaking red waves of the Sea of Blood, it sunk, slowly, through the thin, viscous, liquid, far from reminiscent of the organic, human humour; perhaps it was some liquidised data that had been embroiled, constantly-swirling, within this reservoir for so long that the decay had just clung to it, and started to with all its age and force turn it stagnant and rotten? That would surely explain the thick stench of sulphur upon the air.
Through the waves, the cigarette but slowly sunk. If the force had not caused the geyser to dwarf it, sonically, there would have been audible at close proximity a gentle hiss as the final burnings of the end of Daichi Kumo's Marlboro met its depressing fate within the grand, deep, swirling, pool of viscous crimson, this ocean of liquid life, this lake of burning fluid. As the currents and waves beneath the surface, cresting and forever lapsing up and down as it is, began to ceaselessly assault its physical form, it gnawed and tore at it, ripping it to fragmented, moist, bloody shreds, beneath the waves.
One tug pulled the paper loose of the filter; from the moment it had been submerged, the loose, burnt-out tobacco had started drifting away, fading into ashen particulates soon completely absorbed by the crimson viscosity beneath the waves, and before long, the blade-like lances of invisible, tapered, sheer liquid force carved through the tainted sponge of the filter, ripping it to veritable and inconsequential shreds before the waves, a full statement of just how lethal these seas could be.
"Would you care to remind me, again, why we're here?"
It hit the edge of the cliff, and on the verge, bounced once more, before its pitiful jumps ceased, and it simply began to roll, scorching a trail of orange-crimson embers in the light of the bubbling, deep, scarlet seas below, velocity slowing as it collected ash and dust with every passing minute, finally reaching the edge, the smouldering cylinder sitting there and beginning to teeter, before finally dropping. Down, it fell; down, bouncing from rock to rock, crag to boulder, outcrop to ledge, plummeting now with a force that the boxer's flick could only dream of, as gravity took it further and further down.
A gentle plop and it landed in the ocean. A small, rich, crimson geyser spurted upwards, and beneath the cresting and breaking red waves of the Sea of Blood, it sunk, slowly, through the thin, viscous, liquid, far from reminiscent of the organic, human humour; perhaps it was some liquidised data that had been embroiled, constantly-swirling, within this reservoir for so long that the decay had just clung to it, and started to with all its age and force turn it stagnant and rotten? That would surely explain the thick stench of sulphur upon the air.
Through the waves, the cigarette but slowly sunk. If the force had not caused the geyser to dwarf it, sonically, there would have been audible at close proximity a gentle hiss as the final burnings of the end of Daichi Kumo's Marlboro met its depressing fate within the grand, deep, swirling, pool of viscous crimson, this ocean of liquid life, this lake of burning fluid. As the currents and waves beneath the surface, cresting and forever lapsing up and down as it is, began to ceaselessly assault its physical form, it gnawed and tore at it, ripping it to fragmented, moist, bloody shreds, beneath the waves.
One tug pulled the paper loose of the filter; from the moment it had been submerged, the loose, burnt-out tobacco had started drifting away, fading into ashen particulates soon completely absorbed by the crimson viscosity beneath the waves, and before long, the blade-like lances of invisible, tapered, sheer liquid force carved through the tainted sponge of the filter, ripping it to veritable and inconsequential shreds before the waves, a full statement of just how lethal these seas could be.
"Would you care to remind me, again, why we're here?"
