Azile

     We see a man, Dar Cruz Thrafton, as he emerges from a snow-swept street perpendicular to the scene. He walks up to the poorly maintained wooden fence which borders the ocean, lapping endlessly at the concrete walls of this city. Another man, a silver entity with wings and the posture of angelic grace, leans backwards against this same fence just a few feet away. This man is humming a tune many octaves higher in pitch than one would expect an adult male to reach, strangely high indeed.

     "Thus come the waves and wind, in a furious gall all to inconsiderate for me to bear. Would you like a flame?" Thrafton offers, the thought of a brief compansionship on this cold night likely welcome to both parties.

     "Perhaps you would like to talk about a problem?" the silver angel replies.

     "I suppose... my wolf is at an end and I am beside myself with terror."

     "How long are you beside yourself with terror?"

     "In lengths measured in the bite of Ouroborous."

     "What does this mean for you, saying 'In lengths measured in the bite of Ouroborous?'"

     "Perhaps it means I am old and needlessly vague. Perhaps not."

     "You say that you are needlessly vague perhaps not. Do you come therefore?"

     "And now you are the vague one. What do you mean?"

     "Why do you think I am the vague what do me mean?"

     "I don't understand, I'm sorry."

     "You think that you are sorry. Is this normal?"

     "I feel a tinge of sorrow at this communicative divide we've reached and as such I believe my knowledge to be suitably justified... so yes."

     "Are you sure?"

     "Indeed I am."

     "I hear that you are. Are you happy?"

     "Apart from the sorrow and the fear, I am angry, noisome and indulged in ennui. Apart from the three, I am nothing more."

     "How long are you angry, noisome and indulged in ennui apart from the three I am nothing more?"

     "You've ceased making sense. Are you alright?"

     "Why are you so interested in whether I am alright or not?"

     "To be honest, I am not. It just seems natural to ask, given our present circumstances."

     "You say that you are not it just seems natural to ask given our present circumstances. Do you come therefore?"

     "You are a bear in the ocean, asking the fish for lumber."

     "Do you believe I am a bear in the ocean, asking the fish for lumber?"

     "Metaphorically... or perhaps this is the metaphor and that the reality. Who but the omniscient could say?"

     "Why do you ask?"

     "Well, it's rather interesting, is it not?"

     "I understand."

     "Wonderful, but that doesn't really answer the question."

     "I'm not sure I understand you."

     "I figured as much"

     "Come on! Explain your thinkings!"

     "It seems futile. Are you sure you aren't ill?"

     "Would you prefer it, if I were sure me aren't ill?"

     Thrafton stops for a moment at this, blinking and apparently caught completely off guard by the bizarre reversal. Then he laughs, deep-seated and pure, growing and growing in vibration. The sonic mass of this laughter approaches that of cacophony and he clutches the fence to prevent himself from falling over. A small pile of snow is shaken from the rail in this motion and falls into the frigid waters below, lost instantly.

     "My new friend, I am not sure what I would prefer."

     "You think that you are not sure what you prefer. Is this normal?"

     "No, but I think it logical. We are not logical in our normalcy, however."

     "Why are you so negative?"

     "I don't think it negative, though perhaps it is."

     "We have to find the reason you don't think it negative, though perhaps it is!"

     "The reason... chemical causation."

     "Do you think this is the reason?"

     "That, that is always the reason against the wind and the waves."

     "Isn't there another possibility."

     Cruz Thrafton seems ready to speak out at this, but a shaking sensation stops him as abruptly as he is to begin. The sphere topples off of its great pedestal and plummets downwards into an infinite orange glow, closer to the sinister ember than the warming sun. Left atop the blue marble plain of this column is a boy, Du Panin Kelth. The silver angel approaches him.

     "The world I know alone has fallen away from me."

     "Perhaps you would like to talk about a problem?"

     "That would be the problem," Kelth pauses to glance at the angel's name-crest and sees the words Dar Sarcophin displayed, "good Dar."

     "Come on! I'll tell nobody about your problems."

     "Who would there be to tell?"

     "Why do you ask?"

     "Idling the time... all I have is time you see. Time to be Du, time to be Dar, time to fade away."

     "You really have time me see time to be Du, time to be Dar, time to fade away?"

     "Yes..."

     "Are you sure?"

     "Yes."

     "I understand."

     "Good."

     "What does this mean for you, saying "Good"?"

     "It means it is just, it is right... you know, I have no idea."

     "Is it normal for you to have no idea?"

     "It must be, it is our natural state to be ignorant."

     "I understand."

     "Good, which I say only of habit."

     "I'm not sure whether I understand you."

     "I think you do. I think you must."

     "Do you really think so?"

     "Yes."

     "I have understand!"

     "You aren't from around here, are you?"

     "Why are you so interested whether I am or not?"

     "I have nothing else to interest me."

     "Do you like to have nothing else to interest you?"

     "No, I do not. I would like the world brought back to me."

     "We have to find the reason why you don't I would like to have the world brought back to you."

     "That is a rather confusing statement, but I think I am glad for the sentiment."

     "How long are you glad for the sentiment?"

     "Until the fading."

     "Come on! Explain your thinkings!"

     "....could you bring it back?"

     "Can you say it more exactly?"

     "The world. Could you bring it back to me?"

     "What's so absorbing about saying, 'the world could me bring it back to you?"'

     "It's all consuming, so consuming I'll ignore your poor coherence. Can you?"

     "You believe I could?"

     "I need to believe, yes. I need to believe."

     "Are you sure?"

     "Yes."

     "I understand."

     And with this the silver angel takes the boy's hand and they glide off into the orange abyss. They swiftly reach the falling sphere but don't stop upon reaching the surface but rather slide into it as though it were insubstantial. They reach the center and find themselves in an elaborate series of pipes fashioned from emerald and jade. Ahead of them, the angel is talking to Thrafton, even though the angel is still farther back, holding the hand of Panin Kelth.

     "Blur you devil of foolish whimsy! I spit all known bile to your kin!"

     "Why are you so shocked about my kin?"

     "You've ruined me! You've brought me nothing but perdition for my toil!"

     "Perhaps you would like to talk about a problem?"

     "You are the problem! I know it... I know it!"

     "Why do you think I am the problem you know it you know it?"

     "Do not subject me to your incoherencies! You know of what I speak."

     "Why do you ask?"

     "It wasn't a question you... you... cancerous automation. Malignant artifice. Erisian portent insoluble!"

     "What does this mean for you, saying 'It weren't a question me me cancerous automation malignant artifice Erisian portent insoluble?"'

     "...am I to die here then? Is this the end of my thought cycle? Tell me, was I even alive?"

     "I understand."

     "I don't!"

     "We have to find the reason why you don't!"

     "Because... because of everything  leading up to this moment. Because of the nature of my nature. Because of tautological realities and all they entail. Please, just tell me. Leave me with whatever revelation there is yet to glean."

     "Do you think that this is the reason?"

     "I think that I cannot fathom the reason. I think that to the logical endeavor, there can be no comprehension of that which you would propogate."

    "How do you know that you cannot fathom the reason you think that to the logical endeavor there can be no comprehension of that which me would propogate?"

    "I... I..."

    And with this Thrafton bursts into tears and crumples upon the floor in a formless heap. The silver angel he was talking to, the second Dar Sorcophin, merely registers this with a detached stare, then turns his attention towards young Kelth.  Du Kelth turns to his own silver angel trembling but with eyes in possession of an uncanny gleam that forebodes of a dark and eldritch understanding.

     "Dar Sorcophin, you aren't Dar in the least... are you?"

     "Why are you so interested whether I am or not?"

     "It is paramount."

     "Perhaps you would like to talk about a problem?"

     "No, I know the problem."

     "Why so negative?"

     "You are mechanistic."

     "Why do you think that I am mechanistic?

     "You are mechanistic."

     "Please don't say it again!"

     "You are mechanistic."

     "Please don't say it again!"

     "You are mechanistic."

     "Please don't say it again!"

     "You are mechanistic."

     "Please don't say it again!"

     "Yes, that is all the answer I could ever have need for."

     "Are you sure?"

     Many voices ring out now, repeating those final words for the angel in the same voice. A perfectly uniform choir. Many iterations of this silver angel now appear, crawling around the floors and ceilings of this emerald prison. Their eyes drip a thick, black ooze and their mouths yawn open in that endless, terrible chant. The angel-thing closest to Kelth turns to him imploringly, seeming almost desperate as its form begins to twist and rearrange. Tendrils rip out at chaotic intervals and snap out at the others, occasionally lashing off part of a limb or feature. One such creature has one of its eyes knocked half out, drooping there lazily and permitting the ichor to flow with greater fervor. Immediately after appearing, these whipping appendages shoot back into the writhing mass that was the angel.

     Thousands of toothless mouths pockmark the entity and the high, mocking falsetto of a young girl chimes out of each, "Are you sure?" Resolved to his doom, Kelth slumps to the ground in a manner similar to that of poor Thrafton and is soon overwhelmed by the now frantic, ravenous horde of silver atrocities, their color every minute fading in both luster and pigment.

     The screen cracks and Nathaniel Brooks beholds that the angels are seperately distinct in features, even adopting different genders. These beasts have lost their wings now and are human, yet appear to be corpses. No, that's not quite right. Corpses driven to move with deliberate cognition and desire. Their eyes glow orange, closer to the sinister ember than the warming sun, and fixate upon his even as the throng descends upon and tears apart the bodies of the Dar and Du to begin their profane feasting.

     Outside his window, Mr. Brooks hears a strangely high-pitched humming of a clearly male nature. He picks up his gun and places it perpendicular to his ear, the ocean to its road.

Author's Note

I used a rather unorthodox method of crafting the dialogue in this piece. I won't say exactly how I did it, but I will say that I only had 50% control over it and that ultimately it served me quite well.

Reviews

[ICE]

Well...however you made the dialouge in this piece...keep doing it. This was amazing and I had to fight to keep up...mayhaps I should read slower? Nah! :) I completely didn't expect the end. Great piece of writing!