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"Then you are... true evil."
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Post by Arlette Noir on May 25, 2023 18:20:48 GMT -5
With wind rippling through caramel fur, he rolls down the morning-lit road. Buildings dashing by like drops in a river, and one wheel bouncing ably across cracks and bumps, and chain clicking as diligently and as rapidly and as eagerly as the miniature talons that spin the pedals about. The little kiwi rolls along on his little, one-wheeled wonder, a sight to behold for all that stand idly by: the monkeys clap while the octopus begrudgingly hands its winnings to the smiling otter, and even the man looks on in amazement. But it's only when the kiwi spies another -- one that had his poor heart beguiled -- standing outside the corner-shop, that he alights and holds his head up high atop his one-wheeled steed, chirping "Look!" with pride and joy. "No hands!"
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Post by Arlette Noir on May 26, 2023 15:51:05 GMT -5
Blue.
If I were to define blue using poetry and pretty flourishes, I would say that it is a colour that represents wisdom as deep as the ocean whose hue it entails. But then, the ocean is not always blue: sometimes it is orange under the evening sky, or verdant with life, or even wine-red as Homer once described.
As an alternative, I could point to the sky. But then, the sky's blue isn't perpetual either. It can be an opaline mesmer in the north, or a sable blanket decorated with speckling stars, or -- as hitherto mentioned -- evening-orange and even bordering upon red. It can be silver, and it can be grey; it can be blemished with clouds both light and dark. The sky is a fashion-conscious creature, changing its style all throughout the day and depending on the seasons. 'Blue' is only one gown it wears, magnificent though it may be.
But what else? I could point to cobalt or lapis, each known for their oceanic splendour; but, in truth, each comes in a variety of dazzling palettes. I could point to a bluebird, but I'd need to find one first. I could even show you a blueberry -- the delicious little balm whose name takes blue as its sake -- but even that is not true-blue, but a deep and fantastical purple.
Yes, in truth, blue is a hard thing to find. And when it's found, it has such a fickleness to it that it will often slip through the fingers in time. But, in truth, it may be that this is precisely what blue is. If I were to define it with earnesty, knowing how elusive it is, knowing how fleeting and ephemerally it graces us and the world, knowing how very rare it is in the natural world, knowing its wisdom and its deep truth, I would give it another name to truly represent all that it is and all that it entails, and that name would be this: inspiration.
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Adventurer
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"Then you are... true evil."
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Post by Arlette Noir on May 27, 2023 14:47:21 GMT -5
I detected her near the promenade on District 920, and my sensors buzzed with signals never documented before. My receptors detected an anomaly. Protocol dictated I investigate.
I transposed on the rail-lines until she came within visual range, when my engine thrummed with increased intensity. My processor ground in an attempt to formulate a hypothesis, but the only word it produced was "Beauty"
Observations: red hair like velvet sheets; eyes like shining opals; skin like sun-bathed sands; a smile that made me wish I could smile, too.
She said "Hello," causing a minor meltdown in my core. My vocal module was unresponsive. Her expression indicated confusion and perturbment, and she turned and walked away.
Initial projections indicated a failure in the investigation. The anomaly remained present, but I was unable to ascertain its origin.
But as she walked away, another signal intercepted my calculations. It rang inside my hollow shell and rang "Empty."
I am the anomaly. With a steel hull, glass sensors, and exoskeletal skull-visage, the signals of hope were only malfunctions.
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Adventurer
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"Then you are... true evil."
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Post by Arlette Noir on May 29, 2023 17:41:58 GMT -5
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Adventurer
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"Then you are... true evil."
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Post by Arlette Noir on May 31, 2023 2:00:50 GMT -5
I was never one for flowers; not since I was young.
I would look at them, of course. They're hard to miss, even from afar. And they're nearly wherever you go. And those partial, as you likely know, are also partial to speak of them. And with the praise they give... It's difficult to not start longing, yourself.
And it's difficult to blame them. Flowers are beautiful, after all. In all hues, and all lustres; in all shapes, short and tall. But these are only superficial things. The scents: sweet, refined... some, admittedly pungent. With such unique personality, it seems there is a flower for everyone. But not me.
Why? Well... It's a difficult thing to explain. Flowers are beautiful, after all; radiant in sunlight and moonlight alike. Glowing so brightly, even moreso when modestly... And that, I tell you, is the problem -- the crux. Flowers are beautiful, and I am not. I am a boor and a layman, without shine, without lustre, and -- I'll admit -- with a prickling scent. To hold a delicate flower in my hand... It would be unbefitting of me. It would be unbefitting of the flower.
It is not to be, and to accept that would be my wisdom.
Are you the same, I wonder? Jaded to flowers, and all their joy? Have you lost your longing, or suppressed it? Pushing it down, down... burying it beneath layers... of dirt. Do not be ashamed. It is a common thing. And when hope is so ephemeral... who could be blamed, for losing it on the path?
Well... let me tell you a secret.
I was walking down a path -- a new path. I was wandering, trying different things; adventuring, as it were. And I found myself in a glade: a glowing glade, bathed in light, and warmth. Flowers were not even a thought on my mind. I was too happy, to simply be there. I didn't consider the flowers -- not until I saw her.
Amethyst petals; modest, even in their vibrancy. Tranquil and sincere, yet resilient, and with a scent both sweet and nostalgic, like the most precious candy. I didn't know what it was called. I don't know much about flowers. And yet, even still, I was transfixed. And so, as silly as it sounds, I sat beside the flower. And as I did, I was calm. And as I did... I was happy.
I thought little of it, at the time. Even as I returned, to sit beside the flower, day after day, sometimes for hours at a time. I admired the flower. I'd arrived in Summer, and she'd arrived in Fall. I saw her sorrow in the treacherous winter, and her bravery against the cold. I saw her diligence, and was inspired, to create and to persevere. But it wasn't until Spring, in the golden sunlight. She was beautiful. But there something more. As I watched, I saw how she hung her crown, even in the sunlight. And I found myself wishing, and wondering, and wanting her to raise her crown. I wanted her to reach for the sun, as I knew that she could. I wanted to be there as she grew and thrived and prospered. And I wanted to help her, to give her warmth in the Winter, and see the Summer together. And that was when I knew I was in love.
Now, this secret has been overlong. But I suppose you might wonder: "What happened?" you might ask. Well... I'll say this.
I was never one for flowers, but she is the flower for me.
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"Then you are... true evil."
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Post by Arlette Noir on Jun 2, 2023 16:17:20 GMT -5
“Are you sure this is Berlin?”
I heard the question, silly though it was, come from behind me as I walked along the cobblestone street, map in hand and bounce in my step. It came from my girlfriend who, to the best of my recollection, had been looking anxiously between the towering edifices and their torchlit windows. And her question prompted me to do the same, and to take note of the gothic architecture and the sound of a distant bell, as well as an old carriage that’d fallen into disrepair and been abandoned on the side of the road. I also believe I saw a rat as large as a pig, and a pig as large as rhinoceros, and a dog as crow as a crow would be if it were a dog. Noting all this, I, of course, turned to my girlfriend and said with complete earnesty,
“Sure it is, honey. Isn’t it just beautiful here?”
I wasn’t aware that Berlin had such fantastical wildlife, or that they still used horse-drawn carriages! Truly, it was an eye-openingly distinct experience. And what luck that we got to witness it all under the light of the harvest moon! Truly, this was a worthwhile trip.
But, for some reason, my girlfriend didn’t seem to think so. Still, she hugged herself and shivered. I’m not sure why she was shivering, given how many fires had been lit along the street, but she seemed utterly unconvinced of the plain fact that we were standing in the prestigious capital of Germany. And even though we followed the map perfectly!
Still, she stayed relatively quiet, or perhaps I simply didn’t hear her over the screams. I wasn’t aware of a festival taking place, but I’m not one to say no to a celebration! The next I heard her, however, was when her eyes opened wide in shock and she pointed down the street.
“There’s somebody lying on the ground!”
Rolling my eyes at her obvious overreaction, I followed her gesture. And, to my surprise, there actually was someone lying there!
“Oh goodness! It looks like someone was enjoying the festivities a little too much, huh sweetie?”
“I think he’s bleeding!”
“No, honey, that’s just wine. You know how they like their wine in Berlin!” Admittedly, I wasn’t sure if wine was beloved or even commonplace in Berlin, but it was a safe assumption upon seeing this man’s clear overindulgence.
“Somebody’s dragging him away!”
So they were, I acknowledged. A particularly willowy man, at that, dressed in very fine clothes that reminded me of old Victorian paintings. What a fashion sense they have in Berlin!
“Of course they are! You wouldn’t leave somebody lying in the street, would you?”
It was then that my girlfriend’s jaw dropped and she pointed with extra fervor and insistence.
“They’re lashing him to a pyre!”
At this point I was annoyed, as my girlfriend’s misconceptions had turned to blatant disrespect for the local culture. Sure, it was unusual that they were tying this poor drunk to a stake and waving torches around, but just because it’s different is no reason to shout and point!
“Honey, it’s just a local tradition. Can’t you see there’s a celebration going on?”
“I don’t think this is Berlin!” she baselessly claimed, to which I had to sigh.
“Here, I’ll prove it for you. Let me ask this kind fellow.”
I saw an objection forming on the tip of her tongue, but I approached the beast of a man nevertheless. Trying to recall the best of what I learned from the German class I took before coming here, I cleared my throat and spoke with as much eloquence and clarity as I could muster,
“Entschuldigung, Berlin, weißt du, wo deine Strapsgürtel sind?”
The humongous man – who’d obviously been drinking a bit of wine himself – turned to me and answered,
“GHGHRHHRRRAAAAAAAAIIOOOOOUGGHH!”
I’ll admit, I didn’t recall this phrase from my German class. But, to ease my girlfriend’s worries, I turned to her with a smile and said,
“You see? We’re in Berlin!”
“He just screamed at you like some kind of crazy animal!”
And to this, I gave a frown.
“Honey, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t insult his accent.”
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