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[Automatic Writing] Hort
Hort
17.04.11
AN: If you take the time on this, thank you. Poppy.
Chivalrous and destitute, he sat above a pile of paper, his empire of cards.
“And you said this couldn’t be done.” He jumped, allowing the newspapers to tumble out onto the back alley and his top hat to fall from the crown.
“I said it shouldn’t be done,” Aler replied, flicking her blonde hair from her eyes and staring at the six-two, thin, tall duke of a man. He grinned, the two hollow spaces where white teeth should have been showing in the left of his mouth. Aler didn’t dare to pay a guess who he fought to lose those. “Now I have to return home. Mother will be in a fit at my lateness.” She bit her lip knowing the argument that was about to take place.
“And not see another card trick? Come now, Aler, 'muse me a little further.” He fell against the wall, used by the drunks and laggards who stumbled with dropped flies, and pulled his tattered cards from a pocket in the trench coat he wore. Aler watched nimble fingers mastering their way across flicking cards through black, fingerless gloves.
“I think you are trying to make me late, Mr. Hort.” Aler smiled, her wide red-lipped smile, before pulling out an edge of his trench coat and sitting upon it beside him. Her emerald-green, tartan, school-skirt flounced about her thighs revealing lace, white stockings and pointed red witch-like doll shoes. Mr. Hort poked his nose out to get a view around the dustbins and onto the street. He nodded to himself, acknowledging no one would disturb their game.
“Choose a card.” He demanded pushing the cards against her chest.
“Okay.” Aler whispered as she held the Four of Clubs over her heart and watched him play with the cards alone once more, flicking them and allowing them to jump back and forth through his palms. He stared up from the cards, charcoal washing around his pupils like two paper bags of dirt in train cargo.
“Diamond! It’s a diamond, isn’t it?” He bounced, face lit up like a gleeful war-child greeting his long-gone father from duty. Aler paused, looked down at her card once. She licked her lips and closed her black lashes, imagining it to be a diamond. “Why yes, Mr. Hort.” She smirked, watching his face wash with the amusement at a lack of predicted disappointment.
“Up, Up!” He swashed his hands, the cards falling around them on the cobbles. Aler clambered to her feet, careful not to touch the abused wall. Silently Mr. Hort paced around her for a moment, or two. He eyed the dress and the sparkling, blue headband and the long, sunkissed hair. “Four.”
Aler sighed in relief handing over her card. The energy it took to morph situations to her conclusion was more than draining. She felt at times, without limbs at all, paraplegic for a day or two, even then, as Mr. Hort bounced around her, she couldn’t feel her fingertips or lips.
“I told you I was getting better.” He jumped backwards onto the top of a dustbin and sat. Kicking his legs, he realised much to his amusement, he could make the glass within rattle against the sides with quite a skull-penetrating racket.
Aler needed tea, with biscuits.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mr Hort,” Two men began rowing at the bottom of the alleyway, near the gutter-rats and over-smoked jazz bars. Aler spun on her toes, and stared at the larger man pushing the small man back and the small man fighting back like an angry leprechaun. Her head was already pounding, over their shouting, due to Mr. Hort's earlier kicking and having to react the changing of the cards. She closed her eyes and imagined no noise, complete dead silence.
“Look.” The warm stench of Hort's breath filled her ears and her mouth and her nostrils in that familiar, comfortable way.
“Oh,” She gulped, her eyes adjusting to the lethargic feeling. Aler stared down the cobbles towards the hazy blue lights of night-life, the ragga-muffins and jazz bar-filled street. The sky above Hort and Aler was transiently red. The two men, burly and leprechaun, lay lifeless, on the cobbles. “Curious! That wasn't my affliction. Hort,” Aler grabbed the thread-bare collar of his coat.
"Tell me I didn't do that."
“Oh, but buttercup, you did.” Hort laughed giddily, bouncing from left foot to right foot to left foot. He smashed his teeth against each other over and over again holding his hands to his face in ‘Scream’ fashion on her left-hand side.
“No.” She swallowed, his chaotic laughter now silence to her. The air whirled in a God-like aggression, flying around her and pulling at whatever could be pulled. The headache was now somewhere far, far away fishing in the bowl of reality and her sub-reality. Her olive eyes felt like buckets on her face, cheeks stinging as if sprayed with mace and a tired state she couldn't shift. Aler took to running, so fast the space between one road and the next seemed minimal. She wondered when she’d kicked off her shoes, when she’d reached her Grandmother’s house.
Rat.
Rat-a-tat-tat.
Key.
Lock.
Creek.
"Who is it?"
“Ma'ma, you have to make this stop.” [/font]
17.04.11
AN: If you take the time on this, thank you. Poppy.
Chivalrous and destitute, he sat above a pile of paper, his empire of cards.
“And you said this couldn’t be done.” He jumped, allowing the newspapers to tumble out onto the back alley and his top hat to fall from the crown.
“I said it shouldn’t be done,” Aler replied, flicking her blonde hair from her eyes and staring at the six-two, thin, tall duke of a man. He grinned, the two hollow spaces where white teeth should have been showing in the left of his mouth. Aler didn’t dare to pay a guess who he fought to lose those. “Now I have to return home. Mother will be in a fit at my lateness.” She bit her lip knowing the argument that was about to take place.
“And not see another card trick? Come now, Aler, 'muse me a little further.” He fell against the wall, used by the drunks and laggards who stumbled with dropped flies, and pulled his tattered cards from a pocket in the trench coat he wore. Aler watched nimble fingers mastering their way across flicking cards through black, fingerless gloves.
“I think you are trying to make me late, Mr. Hort.” Aler smiled, her wide red-lipped smile, before pulling out an edge of his trench coat and sitting upon it beside him. Her emerald-green, tartan, school-skirt flounced about her thighs revealing lace, white stockings and pointed red witch-like doll shoes. Mr. Hort poked his nose out to get a view around the dustbins and onto the street. He nodded to himself, acknowledging no one would disturb their game.
“Choose a card.” He demanded pushing the cards against her chest.
“Okay.” Aler whispered as she held the Four of Clubs over her heart and watched him play with the cards alone once more, flicking them and allowing them to jump back and forth through his palms. He stared up from the cards, charcoal washing around his pupils like two paper bags of dirt in train cargo.
“Diamond! It’s a diamond, isn’t it?” He bounced, face lit up like a gleeful war-child greeting his long-gone father from duty. Aler paused, looked down at her card once. She licked her lips and closed her black lashes, imagining it to be a diamond. “Why yes, Mr. Hort.” She smirked, watching his face wash with the amusement at a lack of predicted disappointment.
“Up, Up!” He swashed his hands, the cards falling around them on the cobbles. Aler clambered to her feet, careful not to touch the abused wall. Silently Mr. Hort paced around her for a moment, or two. He eyed the dress and the sparkling, blue headband and the long, sunkissed hair. “Four.”
Aler sighed in relief handing over her card. The energy it took to morph situations to her conclusion was more than draining. She felt at times, without limbs at all, paraplegic for a day or two, even then, as Mr. Hort bounced around her, she couldn’t feel her fingertips or lips.
“I told you I was getting better.” He jumped backwards onto the top of a dustbin and sat. Kicking his legs, he realised much to his amusement, he could make the glass within rattle against the sides with quite a skull-penetrating racket.
Aler needed tea, with biscuits.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mr Hort,” Two men began rowing at the bottom of the alleyway, near the gutter-rats and over-smoked jazz bars. Aler spun on her toes, and stared at the larger man pushing the small man back and the small man fighting back like an angry leprechaun. Her head was already pounding, over their shouting, due to Mr. Hort's earlier kicking and having to react the changing of the cards. She closed her eyes and imagined no noise, complete dead silence.
“Look.” The warm stench of Hort's breath filled her ears and her mouth and her nostrils in that familiar, comfortable way.
“Oh,” She gulped, her eyes adjusting to the lethargic feeling. Aler stared down the cobbles towards the hazy blue lights of night-life, the ragga-muffins and jazz bar-filled street. The sky above Hort and Aler was transiently red. The two men, burly and leprechaun, lay lifeless, on the cobbles. “Curious! That wasn't my affliction. Hort,” Aler grabbed the thread-bare collar of his coat.
"Tell me I didn't do that."
“Oh, but buttercup, you did.” Hort laughed giddily, bouncing from left foot to right foot to left foot. He smashed his teeth against each other over and over again holding his hands to his face in ‘Scream’ fashion on her left-hand side.
“No.” She swallowed, his chaotic laughter now silence to her. The air whirled in a God-like aggression, flying around her and pulling at whatever could be pulled. The headache was now somewhere far, far away fishing in the bowl of reality and her sub-reality. Her olive eyes felt like buckets on her face, cheeks stinging as if sprayed with mace and a tired state she couldn't shift. Aler took to running, so fast the space between one road and the next seemed minimal. She wondered when she’d kicked off her shoes, when she’d reached her Grandmother’s house.
Rat.
Rat-a-tat-tat.
Key.
Lock.
Creek.
"Who is it?"
“Ma'ma, you have to make this stop.” [/font]
Published 17th Apr 2011
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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17th Apr 2011 10:01am
17th Apr 2011 10:04am
