— Chapter One, The Group from The Clouds
(transcription and taglist under cut)
Every once in a while, a new man would join the ranks. They made sure they got to the appropriate place and settled down on the curb. Laughter and hilarity rang out, the tumult rumbling. (It was certainly a noisy spectacle.) Certain passers-by on the street peered in with puzzled eyes and the bewilderment framing them. Nobody at all seemed to grasp the swirl of hormones and rampage located at that spot in the city—they are adolescents, after all, only themselves can understand each other. So why the gathering of youth?, they wondered. Why do they wait around?, they wondered. Why and why?
The pulsating, metallic sound of a bell pierced the ears of the crowd. It spiraled up to the sky and burst acutely over the plethora of heads. Mike Morgan, as many, allowed his impulses to propel him to the Fishheads’ mouth. A pairing of jubilant faces greeted the crowd with smiles. “Welcome”, cried one of them.
They soon thundered the names of the different voices in the ranks. The clock that seemed to be stopped in Jonson Street was repaired by a clockmaker with quivering hands and gaunt features. Like a train at rush hour, the throng was tingling in a daze. They were heading towards Fishheads’ doorway as if it offered them a shining and vigorous future, a new and lavish life in quite a way that not only their shadow would not recognize them, but they would not recognize themselves. A place where they could be baptized as they always dreamed of; their most far-reaching fantasies. Famished for a life which would only run for a few days, yet long enough for them to fly and twirl around; to turn in upon themselves, having worn themselves out, till they faced the finite and fell headlong into miserable poverty. It would yell at their faces while opening their bags in the lofty rooms they inhabited, their hearts pumping in sorrow against their breasts and their dreams shattered at the door. But now, that one thought had been locked away in a wooden box somewhere in their suitcases, forsaken before life’s fierceness and put off to the last of their sojourn. They were advancing to their sunny tomorrow, a tomorrow that awaited them and them alone.
The queues were sometimes emptied at breakneck speed, like cool water from a waterfall falling into a stream and like a bold steed at the hands of its paladin in a brisk chase between life and death; and sometimes with slow, very slow gaits, like a sloth awakening from a deep sleep. At around 9:15, it was Mike’s turn to walk through the door; a door that now fragmented two worlds and spelled utter disaster. He walked through Fishheads as dry as a stick. The kids who had raised the question at the door were standing behind a precarious plastic table, on which chaos was solemnly raised to its peak (Mike waited expectantly behind two girls with Texan accents, and once they had finished, he stood before the table).
TAGLIST:
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@kashilascorner @maidollanganger
i’m tagging some writeblrs who inspire me, if you want to be removed, let me know
@sautrns @morgan-s-writes @amurderoffoxes @cass-j @rhyaxxyn @sleepyblossom @gardenfolk @cinnamonboba-writes @alejwrites @dulcua @whatheangelsdreamof @mistowrites @calliopaelle @rcvolutions @azrance @caelum-writes @imintheunderworld @onheil @creatvrae @deadicateds @maskedlady @wildares @acrimoneous @ashvayr @lumierezi
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