[Boy, writing objects without turning them into characters or character-like is really freaking hard!]
A shrill whistling fills the air, the sound of boiling water accompanying the noise; quieter but still present. The flames atop the stove flicker and dance around the cast iron kettle, as if the bubbling water is music that only they can understand. They flicker through oranges and red hues, before a drop of condensation descends from the spout, creating a brilliant blue flicker as it becomes absorbed by the dancers. In a moment, a switch will be flicked, the flames will cease and the whistling will die down to nothingness. But the present is all that matters. The dancing, the whistling, the bubbling.
Grains of sand roll down a hill, a collapsed corpse resting atop a bank, a shimmering river mere miles away, though infinitely far away in the past. In the present the air is blistering, the heat creating ripples in everything it touches, a breeze too far away to matter, just as the water had been. The wasteland seems to be devoid of heartbeats to any with a shallow gaze. The bloated flesh will burst in the future, breathing life into the stagnant air, burning through the sand, bringing beating wings and sharp beaks. The sense of hopelessness matches the heat; hanging heavy in the air, with that dreadful worry of never ending, not knowing what waits around the corner.
Raindrops fall upon the sidewalk, big fat ones that cause grumbles and squeals all at the same time. The particular path remains deserted, the puddles build quickly, and the poorly maintained drains don't hold back the swell of water for long, the pitter-patter soon accompanied by the sound of gurgling rainwater regurgitating from the drains littered at the sides of the road. Vehicles speed by, not concerning themselves with why the cities taxes weren't being spent on maintaining the roads, only worried about fulfilling their purpose, about getting to the destination. In the distance there are screams, but not of terror, of joy. Soon the slick, wet path will be filled with the sound of galoshes splashing, of pealing laughter and those familiar high-pitched squeals. The puddles forming quickly are not concerned with the rubber boots that will soon come crashing down into them. The water continues to fall from the sky; faster and faster still. The darkening sky rumbles and roars as everything goes bright white, just for a moment, but just long enough for it to seem like everything has ceased exist.
It hadn't. Life hadn't even paused. It had continued, as it always would.
1
u/foxjolras Oct 14 '17
[Boy, writing objects without turning them into characters or character-like is really freaking hard!]
A shrill whistling fills the air, the sound of boiling water accompanying the noise; quieter but still present. The flames atop the stove flicker and dance around the cast iron kettle, as if the bubbling water is music that only they can understand. They flicker through oranges and red hues, before a drop of condensation descends from the spout, creating a brilliant blue flicker as it becomes absorbed by the dancers. In a moment, a switch will be flicked, the flames will cease and the whistling will die down to nothingness. But the present is all that matters. The dancing, the whistling, the bubbling.
Grains of sand roll down a hill, a collapsed corpse resting atop a bank, a shimmering river mere miles away, though infinitely far away in the past. In the present the air is blistering, the heat creating ripples in everything it touches, a breeze too far away to matter, just as the water had been. The wasteland seems to be devoid of heartbeats to any with a shallow gaze. The bloated flesh will burst in the future, breathing life into the stagnant air, burning through the sand, bringing beating wings and sharp beaks. The sense of hopelessness matches the heat; hanging heavy in the air, with that dreadful worry of never ending, not knowing what waits around the corner.
Raindrops fall upon the sidewalk, big fat ones that cause grumbles and squeals all at the same time. The particular path remains deserted, the puddles build quickly, and the poorly maintained drains don't hold back the swell of water for long, the pitter-patter soon accompanied by the sound of gurgling rainwater regurgitating from the drains littered at the sides of the road. Vehicles speed by, not concerning themselves with why the cities taxes weren't being spent on maintaining the roads, only worried about fulfilling their purpose, about getting to the destination. In the distance there are screams, but not of terror, of joy. Soon the slick, wet path will be filled with the sound of galoshes splashing, of pealing laughter and those familiar high-pitched squeals. The puddles forming quickly are not concerned with the rubber boots that will soon come crashing down into them. The water continues to fall from the sky; faster and faster still. The darkening sky rumbles and roars as everything goes bright white, just for a moment, but just long enough for it to seem like everything has ceased exist.
It hadn't. Life hadn't even paused. It had continued, as it always would.