Friendly Competition

Alistair: It's okay, Gallagher, you've done all that you could. [turns around and walks towards door]
Gallagher: [protestingly] But I've done nothing, Alistair, nothing!
Alistair: [has already reached the door with his hand half way to the door knob. Slowly, he does a half turn towards Alistair] Precisely. [walks away and slams the door behind him]


The lights fade.


Heh. I will find a way to fit this in something. Just popped into my mind out of nowhere. The names are... well.... uniquely Brit?! XD But back to the main point. I saw one of San's proses about a moon. I got inferiority complex (again)... :( So, for the sake of pure fun and friendly competition, I do hereby accept a challenge which as not yet been posed.


The full moon's out tonight.  It's dead, white face has risen to the surface of the inky, black pool of the sky. Staring at it carefully, you eventually come to the conclusion that it's eyeing you back. Clouds obstructing it's view immediately dissolve as if they were afraid of offending it. Light trickles from a bleeding moon; covering all it touched under a delicate blanket. It sharpened edges, made the periphery clearer and more distinct, yet the moonlight also gave objects a quality of softness. A breeze rolls in through the half-open window and a chill wraps around you like serpents would do around their pray. The cold reaches out to you through your thick blanket. A bead of sweat rolls down your cheek.


You cannot comprehend how and why the moon's countenance brings back memories. Have we sent our memories to the moon in the hopes that in the cold, black vacuum that they would never decay? Or have we sent them there to distance ourselves between it? The moon haunts you like a spirit seeking rest but finding none. Is it perhaps trying to return you the favour? As a deluge of memories suddenly rush through your mind, you crush them with mechanical efficiency and cruelty. You cannot afford to go through it all again. 


You're awed, suddenly, by how deafening the silence is. The wind does not whisper. The clock at the other end of the room does not click its tongue. And the world now seems to be tainted a gentle shade of grey. You dare not dream; you know how fraught with danger a world where fantasy can easily spill over into reality is. 


The only dream you dream is where one day you can dream again.


~~
Okay, feels amateurish but as the people in Catch-22 say: And he decided "Oh, well, what the hell!" and published the post.