Alfonso de la nada
Bio
My cells cry out for creation, my heart cries out for death.
Stories (7/0)
A History of Eldland in the Draconic Age...
There weren’t always dragons in the valley. There wasn’t always a valley. Once the world was not, only rock without time. Then, there was want, there was will, and the heart of the world beat with desire and did bleed and sigh with longing. Any amongst you who have been in the throes of love knows well how tears cut crows feet into your eyes, and sighs cut jowls beside your lips and bony depressions into your breast. Thus it was with He, the World, and his blood-spurt tears of She, The Great Desire, his sighs for She, The Great Will. And those of you still trapped in this maw, so ensnared in this bears trap that you certainly shan’t escape without losing a leg, recognize how you toss and writhe at midnight, and much the same at daybreak. How you go cold hot in different places. How you love and hate and love again. How your heart grows too big for its cage and racks against the bars, how mysterious bumps boil to the surface of your skin as an embellishing emblem of you overflowing passion. Verily it was with the World, bleeding rivers that cut valleys and mountains jaggedly, sighing winds that rounded them; going hot here and cold there; shifting lands, bursting with mountains and hills; wrinkled by streams, exploding with eruptions here, and frozen with ice there. Remember still, how you dragged yourself to the edge of the water and recognized yourself for the first time with your mothers lips, the arch of her eyes, and the bridge that extends gracefully between. When you drag yourself to it still to weep, doubled, seeing only the rosied lips of a lover in the distorted gaze of a mirrored image that ripples in warbles. The same with the World: nothing, then two and three; nothing, then world and will, and rock, water and fire. With eons upon eons, stacked like grains of sand sifting through the hands of time sometimes gracefully oft violently but always at the same pace, history moved by the forces of carving and growth. The wind and the water whispering while washing over Him sliced into him like the biting tongue of a hurtful word, and from wounds springs forth life and the new. And wind and water lay bare life and yet death after life is still new as life after death. Epochs, kingdoms, empires, species, histories, peoples, tongues, dreams, moralities, religions, goods, evils, many gods and their many incarnations rise up from the depths and go under to return to that which they are but a manifestation. Many draconic ages are recorded in legend and history, and also many a beast and fantastic creature far stranger far grander than dragons. The World and Will have known many deserts of time devoid of life, barren but far from boring, and many great storms when lives fell into the ocean of death like so many drops of rain out on the deep sea; loud, quiet, and unobserved. As I am no theologian, I understand not the full meaning of these poetic verses that the scriptures have left us, but I do understand that the fantastic things of this world come and go like the rains that blow east or west across the plains of our very valley. Here is but one more drop running from the storm. How far yet to the bottom?
By Alfonso de la nada2 years ago in Fiction
Birdmen
Mush. Mush. Mush. My feet cut into the soft ground with each step. They leave behind footprints gasping with pools of muddy water like blood leaving a wound. As my feet glide swiftly above the ground they make a sifting noise as they brush along the grass. Green. A green that is both grayer and greener on a wet and gray day like this. Dad died yesterday, and the path seemed so different knowing that he will no longer walk this path. He had lived alone. His house stands sovereign in a clearing surrounded by lush forests and green hills. A very calm area, with wind and sound that flowed much like he does. Did. It's funny. Today I feel a lot like him somehow. What does it mean to feel like someone? You can never live in any body but your own. Any skin but your own. But I’ve always been able to feel like someone else. Sometimes I even think with the voices of other people. And sometimes I feel like I carry their faces, their being inside of my own. Maybe that’s why I feel like him. Every time we spoke I got the feeling that he had done the same. Felt the same. There’s his house all modest-like. Modest in an elegant and sovereign manner, like a roaming Franciscan under the solemn vow of poverty reciting a silent prayer. The house always looks as if it will be gone if I turn my back on it but a moment. Brown, with white windows. Surrounded by grass and shrubbery and wildflowers and weeds and dandelions and green and green and green. The sky is very gray today, overcast with clouds. It just got done raining today. Maybe it’ll rain some more. Green is greener on gray days. Or I don’t know, maybe—bluer? Especially when it's all wet like this. Sad but in a somber, almost happy kinda way. Almost. Which pocket did I put the key in? Pants pocket? No. Left Jacket pocket? No. Right? Found it. The key slips in easy, but the door’s always been a tight fit. Gotta push real hard. Shoes. All three pairs he'd owned, lined up by the entrance both messy and tidy all at once. Books lying everywhere from the entrance to his bedroom winding from one end to the other like a breadcrumb trail designed to entice an old bookworm. That old-man-rug in the entranceway and the bigger old-man-rug in the living room. Brown. Lot’s of hardwood. He does love that old fashioned look. Did. Burgundy. Lots of old books in a color not too dissimilar to dried blood, as if to signify that the writers are long dead. Green. He had loads and loads of plants all healthy and well taken care of. More brown. Bookshelves everywhere in the house, both messy and tidy all at once. In sum: disorderly order.
By Alfonso de la nada2 years ago in Fiction
The Beast
A darkness permeates the house— in a manner unusual for this early in the day— and with it a quiet. There is no chattering TV to be heard in the living room and its glow wasn’t to be seen; no shuffling footsteps echoed through the halls; no hum or buzz of a washer and dryer. Only occasionally does a muffled, suffocated groan of a passing car creep its way in, unwelcome, through the cracks of the windows and the doors. The most lofty, delicate, and gentle sensations of the outside, which were most unwanted, are completely shut out: the gentle breeze of early fall sifting through the trees; the songs of the birds; the soft glow and intense gaze of the sun in the morning, afternoon and evening. The only sounds that could be heard, like a tree falling alone in the forest, were mutters that were afraid of themselves, belonging to it whose ears intercept them.
By Alfonso de la nada3 years ago in Fiction
Cyberpunkapocalypse
One spring afternoon, about 5 pm, a man stands on a crowded train heading to what felt like nowhere. In this bizarre ever-transitory space between spaces that seemed to be so far removed from reality, his mind couldn’t help but wander. He thought about all the millions of people travelling here and there. The millions of glances, the billions of breaths all exchanged between passengers in enclosed spaces such as this one. In his heart he lamented a tragedy that wouldn’t be remembered. A tragedy defined by not being remembered. All of those uncountable exchanges, footsteps, thoughts, the checking of watches, intimate embraces with bars and rails, the petty dramas in our minds when others don’t and do give up seats, where we are, where we’re going. It all felt like sacrificing treasure not to Gods but to a void. He lamented the continuous destruction of information, and he dreamt of a world where bureaucratic gods hurriedly recorded every occurrence both subjective and intersubjective. He didn’t know it, but he dreamt of hell. He thought about the end of the world: a final destination, like a train that was never reaching one.
By Alfonso de la nada3 years ago in Fiction
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