29, Zi'da, 723
.
Sometimes it felt like Kotton had a case of ‘mind knives’. It was like his brain was being treated by being stabbed. One, two, three too many times. Whilst his mind was wounded, his heart persisted, but it would only allow him so much time. That’s what boredom felt like to him, so in search of something to do, to end his perpetual listlessness, his journal emerged into full view, demanding to be entertained via the graphite from a blunt pencil.
Kotton admired the idea of unique souls traipsing the boundaries of justice, lingering on the border of righteousness and even breaking through the barricade of equality so long as the reason was for the goodness of all. Kotton was no utilitarian- he didn’t believe in the theory that if the majority survives, then the outcome was one of justification, but he did enjoy a good story about a nobody transcending their undeclared yet implied roles towards something greater- a vigilante for instance.
Pop, pop, pop his knuckles went as he bent them every which way, readying himself to undergo the lengthy process of writing without a timer. He had started and stopped with his ideas far too many times. Lack of momentum or something. But his head was full of ideas now, and he was going to use them to his advantage.
Candles lit and resting on the coffee table in front of him, their fragrant fumes a motivation of their own, pillow snug under his arms, held firmly against his chest, and mind clear (not clouded by alcohol- go figure!), he was prepared for an evening filled with a catalyst to the imagination.
‘Donning his mask so that it lay just above his nose, the man was prepared for a night of crime. He had fit himself with all the gadgets and gizmos he required to perform any interference of felonious activity imaginable. He took a wayward glance at his wrist- there was a futuristic device that told him exactly what time it was without having to rely on the sun’s position, and it told him it was nearly dusk. He was ready, poised expectantly on the roof of a salon.’
Kotton smirked to himself. He had always wanted an easier way to tell time, and the idea of a salon simply came to him, abruptly, and uninterrupted. It was a coincidental impetus he gathered with welcoming arms.
‘Out of the corner of his eye-’
Wait, couldn’t there be a more concise way of wording that? ‘Within his peripheral-’ Maybe not concise, but it certainly sounded better, so he went with it.
‘Within his peripheral was a figure dressed in full garb, black being the prominent colour. The man was not one to judge, so he patiently watched as the individual moved.’
Kotton wanted to make sure there were no judgemental applications to his writing. Some people of differing religions or races may attire themselves in dark clothing. He didn’t know. So he kept to his internal script and continued.
‘However, the person rigged in darkness suddenly reached out and snatched an elderly vendor’s goods. They had been placed delicately along her table, prices and-’
What did that have to do with anything? It was implicit in the title of vendor that prices were marked on their merchandise. It didn’t require a special declaration now, did it? Kotton took the other side of his pencil and erased the excessive use of detailing.
‘The goods were gone in a flash, but the man in the mask had seen everything. He threw himself off the roof, his right hand catching the gutter. He slid down the triangular shape the gutter circumferenced until he laid footing on the balcony of the first floor. After catching his balance, he made off for the thief.’
Kotton paused to wonder about his use of verbiage. Did he make off for the thief or make off with the thief? Making off for the thief sounded like he was against the criminal whereas making off with the thief made it sound like he was with the criminal. He stuck to what he had originally written and continued to inscribe his notions like they were coming from a preconceived novel instead of his own mind.
‘With the twists and turns of the city, it was difficult to follow the path the criminal took. With each passing building, with every fleeting glance of an alleyway, the pursue continued. What had this person taken and why were they so fast? Was the goods they stole that valuable to need…’
To need what? Kotton scratched his head, hoping some intellection would signal his brain with a bright light of prepossession. Maybe he had worded that sentence wrong. It didn’t seem to fit right with what he wanted to conclude. He narrowed his eyes and peered through his brunette bangs tinged with layers of honey. There- amidst the keratin was a speck of inspiration.
‘Were the goods that had been stolen of such value? The vigilante ignored the reason and went for the resolution.’
That sounded pretty cool, or so Kotton thought. He brushed the hair from out of his eyes and admired the candle’s flame. Its brilliance added to the impetus that moved his thoughts toward action.
‘Thankfully there had been rain the previous day, which made the ground muddy. The man in the mask observed the footprints in the soil, his sole evidence to the capture of an unlawful individual. In the alleyways he traversed did he dodge barrels, past the corners of the streets did he transcend tables via the stretch of his legs. He vaulted across chairs and counters with the agility of a child. His purpose had been made clear, and with it, had his need for flexibility and dexterity. He flew past door after door, trailing the thief with the determination of a bull towards a red flag. Until finally…’
That stupid pause that always came before the cliffhanger could meet a resolution. What? What was missing that had caused such a ridiculous break in the story? Was it stimulus? Was it motivation? Was it the impetus to finish a glorious conclusion?
Nah, it was a hand cramp.
Kotton placed his thumb against the tender point between his other thumb and wrist and made circular motions. Then, he moved to each and every finger, applying the same pressure with the same hopes that the ache would dissipate. The time it took for alleviation was endless, but eventually it had been done. Thank the gods and goddesses he hadn’t lost his train of thought, or else his novella would have gone without culmination.
He jumped right in, not missing a beat. Fortunate of his memory, that.
‘Until finally his hand clamped upon the hoodie of the criminal who had made his day so interesting.
‘“Stop,”’ the vigilante grunted, pulling the criminal to a standstill.
‘“What?”’
Was that the only words that they had to say after having thefted something of such importance?
‘“Give up what you have taken,” the masked man commanded, keeping his grip tight against the collar of the criminal’s hood.
Moments passed, but eventually a singular item dropped from the hands of the thief. The masked man gazed upon it with relief only to find that it was a roll of paper meant for wiping.
“What the fu-”’
Kotton began to laugh uncontrollably. No, he had not intended to end his story with that, and no, he had not willed the concluding scene to entail a roll of wiping paper. It was all in the wake of the art of storytelling. His laughter ascended up the walls of his house, down the hallways and into the barren rooms of his home. Even if no one else thought so, this was utterly hilarious.
Once he had composed himself, Kotton determined it essential to finish the tale, so he wrote,
‘“What the fu-”
“What, man?” The offender sneered. “My ma needs this and it’s expensive, you know? I can’t afford this roll so I ask you, please, just let me be.’
The exceptionally heavy look of sadness that coated the man’s face was unignorable. The masked man, the vigilante, had to hold up his code of conduct- protect the peace from the unrighteousness. And was this man unrighteous? No, he was simply trying to find essential toiletries for his mother.
After a moment’s consideration, the masked man sighed and offered an indifferent gesture. ‘Off with you then,’ he said without a second glance.
Jumping from building, chasing down fiends at exceptional speed only to come to this? He couldn’t help but regret the waste of his time.’
Kotton hesitated, digging into the philosophical part of his mind.
‘But was it really? Had he not experienced something of significance? Had he not undergone a situation that required more than simple ‘see and believe’? There was more to the story here and that may as well have been the lack of proper funding for those in need of basic commodities.’
Kotton’s hand had hurt for far too long. His knuckles burned and his wrist ached with a longing long reminisced. He didn’t need anymore time spent calculating his mental conceptions via transcription. All he desired was a heavy head against an immaculately comfortable pillow, and a dreamscape that could invite entities of pleasure and happiness.
Kotton wanted to be a vigilante of his own, in his own world, a world filled with verdant greens and untamed knowledge. That being said, his eyes closed within seconds and soon did it follow, the dumbfounded expanse of phantasy.
Kotton admired the idea of unique souls traipsing the boundaries of justice, lingering on the border of righteousness and even breaking through the barricade of equality so long as the reason was for the goodness of all. Kotton was no utilitarian- he didn’t believe in the theory that if the majority survives, then the outcome was one of justification, but he did enjoy a good story about a nobody transcending their undeclared yet implied roles towards something greater- a vigilante for instance.
Pop, pop, pop his knuckles went as he bent them every which way, readying himself to undergo the lengthy process of writing without a timer. He had started and stopped with his ideas far too many times. Lack of momentum or something. But his head was full of ideas now, and he was going to use them to his advantage.
Candles lit and resting on the coffee table in front of him, their fragrant fumes a motivation of their own, pillow snug under his arms, held firmly against his chest, and mind clear (not clouded by alcohol- go figure!), he was prepared for an evening filled with a catalyst to the imagination.
‘Donning his mask so that it lay just above his nose, the man was prepared for a night of crime. He had fit himself with all the gadgets and gizmos he required to perform any interference of felonious activity imaginable. He took a wayward glance at his wrist- there was a futuristic device that told him exactly what time it was without having to rely on the sun’s position, and it told him it was nearly dusk. He was ready, poised expectantly on the roof of a salon.’
Kotton smirked to himself. He had always wanted an easier way to tell time, and the idea of a salon simply came to him, abruptly, and uninterrupted. It was a coincidental impetus he gathered with welcoming arms.
‘Out of the corner of his eye-’
Wait, couldn’t there be a more concise way of wording that? ‘Within his peripheral-’ Maybe not concise, but it certainly sounded better, so he went with it.
‘Within his peripheral was a figure dressed in full garb, black being the prominent colour. The man was not one to judge, so he patiently watched as the individual moved.’
Kotton wanted to make sure there were no judgemental applications to his writing. Some people of differing religions or races may attire themselves in dark clothing. He didn’t know. So he kept to his internal script and continued.
‘However, the person rigged in darkness suddenly reached out and snatched an elderly vendor’s goods. They had been placed delicately along her table, prices and-’
What did that have to do with anything? It was implicit in the title of vendor that prices were marked on their merchandise. It didn’t require a special declaration now, did it? Kotton took the other side of his pencil and erased the excessive use of detailing.
‘The goods were gone in a flash, but the man in the mask had seen everything. He threw himself off the roof, his right hand catching the gutter. He slid down the triangular shape the gutter circumferenced until he laid footing on the balcony of the first floor. After catching his balance, he made off for the thief.’
Kotton paused to wonder about his use of verbiage. Did he make off for the thief or make off with the thief? Making off for the thief sounded like he was against the criminal whereas making off with the thief made it sound like he was with the criminal. He stuck to what he had originally written and continued to inscribe his notions like they were coming from a preconceived novel instead of his own mind.
‘With the twists and turns of the city, it was difficult to follow the path the criminal took. With each passing building, with every fleeting glance of an alleyway, the pursue continued. What had this person taken and why were they so fast? Was the goods they stole that valuable to need…’
To need what? Kotton scratched his head, hoping some intellection would signal his brain with a bright light of prepossession. Maybe he had worded that sentence wrong. It didn’t seem to fit right with what he wanted to conclude. He narrowed his eyes and peered through his brunette bangs tinged with layers of honey. There- amidst the keratin was a speck of inspiration.
‘Were the goods that had been stolen of such value? The vigilante ignored the reason and went for the resolution.’
That sounded pretty cool, or so Kotton thought. He brushed the hair from out of his eyes and admired the candle’s flame. Its brilliance added to the impetus that moved his thoughts toward action.
‘Thankfully there had been rain the previous day, which made the ground muddy. The man in the mask observed the footprints in the soil, his sole evidence to the capture of an unlawful individual. In the alleyways he traversed did he dodge barrels, past the corners of the streets did he transcend tables via the stretch of his legs. He vaulted across chairs and counters with the agility of a child. His purpose had been made clear, and with it, had his need for flexibility and dexterity. He flew past door after door, trailing the thief with the determination of a bull towards a red flag. Until finally…’
That stupid pause that always came before the cliffhanger could meet a resolution. What? What was missing that had caused such a ridiculous break in the story? Was it stimulus? Was it motivation? Was it the impetus to finish a glorious conclusion?
Nah, it was a hand cramp.
Kotton placed his thumb against the tender point between his other thumb and wrist and made circular motions. Then, he moved to each and every finger, applying the same pressure with the same hopes that the ache would dissipate. The time it took for alleviation was endless, but eventually it had been done. Thank the gods and goddesses he hadn’t lost his train of thought, or else his novella would have gone without culmination.
He jumped right in, not missing a beat. Fortunate of his memory, that.
‘Until finally his hand clamped upon the hoodie of the criminal who had made his day so interesting.
‘“Stop,”’ the vigilante grunted, pulling the criminal to a standstill.
‘“What?”’
Was that the only words that they had to say after having thefted something of such importance?
‘“Give up what you have taken,” the masked man commanded, keeping his grip tight against the collar of the criminal’s hood.
Moments passed, but eventually a singular item dropped from the hands of the thief. The masked man gazed upon it with relief only to find that it was a roll of paper meant for wiping.
“What the fu-”’
Kotton began to laugh uncontrollably. No, he had not intended to end his story with that, and no, he had not willed the concluding scene to entail a roll of wiping paper. It was all in the wake of the art of storytelling. His laughter ascended up the walls of his house, down the hallways and into the barren rooms of his home. Even if no one else thought so, this was utterly hilarious.
Once he had composed himself, Kotton determined it essential to finish the tale, so he wrote,
‘“What the fu-”
“What, man?” The offender sneered. “My ma needs this and it’s expensive, you know? I can’t afford this roll so I ask you, please, just let me be.’
The exceptionally heavy look of sadness that coated the man’s face was unignorable. The masked man, the vigilante, had to hold up his code of conduct- protect the peace from the unrighteousness. And was this man unrighteous? No, he was simply trying to find essential toiletries for his mother.
After a moment’s consideration, the masked man sighed and offered an indifferent gesture. ‘Off with you then,’ he said without a second glance.
Jumping from building, chasing down fiends at exceptional speed only to come to this? He couldn’t help but regret the waste of his time.’
Kotton hesitated, digging into the philosophical part of his mind.
‘But was it really? Had he not experienced something of significance? Had he not undergone a situation that required more than simple ‘see and believe’? There was more to the story here and that may as well have been the lack of proper funding for those in need of basic commodities.’
Kotton’s hand had hurt for far too long. His knuckles burned and his wrist ached with a longing long reminisced. He didn’t need anymore time spent calculating his mental conceptions via transcription. All he desired was a heavy head against an immaculately comfortable pillow, and a dreamscape that could invite entities of pleasure and happiness.
Kotton wanted to be a vigilante of his own, in his own world, a world filled with verdant greens and untamed knowledge. That being said, his eyes closed within seconds and soon did it follow, the dumbfounded expanse of phantasy.
