There Must be Murder
In the trapped sense of being and feeling….
[Profound simplicity
IT IS A ABOUT A MAP TO A TREASURE
MAP. Create map]
Brainstorming, he capitalizes down coupled with thinking.
[4 GUYS AGREE TO CUT
4 PIECES
Need Obstacles
PUT IT BACK TOGETHER
In the end.]
…as experienced a writer has ever…
[4 pieces – 4 guys?
A fifth. Maybe a copy – a woman??
Yes yes yes
Re-Makes? Re-draws?
kills the original owner?
Why must there always be a murder?]
..recreated characters and the realm.
[Murder. (Why) … there MUST be MURDER?
The 5th Quarter or Corner ? ?]
And not inventing them. …
[Maybe thieves
OF THE COPY
And Rain.]
...these stories were still always shrouded with rain.
And . . . .
….
He was cheating. Like cheating at a game of chess.
Shhhhhh the asylum rain he knew - the quietude on the glass.
Now to play with it; like form them (develop something further than killing characters), he steals. Touches paintbrush to canvas. Scores the constant image of things begun yet as if one continuous escape through a vanishing point. That little something (figures the pathway in, around, walks under bristled trees which shower the… courtyard? Maybe) activates motion of light—with branches slightly prickled—broken into v-lines; such magnificence. Sprinkles a trunk to be the beginning and ending of his story.
Yet he paints over it, reforming. And what is present, what is known; he figures will just create themselves as he draws.
Now thinking it’s somewhere, actually only traded through hands like money, since even the most honest person has to; but not looking for it in that manner; meaning whomever owned it originally certainly was not going to lose it. Only what it is they take from themselves. A test to flush out a rat kind of thing. Secret information. Just see where it flushes out. Expect maybe more. Yet something it make believes (in fact, thieves have them too), it steals way more than it shows.
It steals. That is all it can do. It steals this moment for one that won’t ever happen. Like something that came back; though, shortly, will be gone soon. Even he is unable to show inside in pieces of them on this pulp. But in this story— Knows it. He knows it is confusing merely as simple language, but needs to share more. Might them things come across profoundly? because of my own simplicity? Painted? Says so much that needs to say nothing, but it, the amount will come around equally and be equally stolen.
Something … A message? That light out there looks green, easy and perfect; dots the paper. Profound simplicity. . ..
Goatley Lagelty did so admire himself in one of them easy strolls to hold the brisk hand crafting it. The realm he walked with intentions to walk through, wall forming and developing, with each step he took, it alone cannot be seen in squints or stares at the distance eventually to come. Profound simplicity. Even inside him, holds the end. Like he does not have to imagine the place and all the circumstances he is going to create; yet at this moment stands in the blank canvas waiting for the momet to coat the ceremony wandering immaculate, rich in the state of trust leaned long down walls carved in candelabra, awake in mystical magic of a dripping outside a window.
This sacred something picked in behind them eyes of little things you might say awesomely and beautifully wrestled from the mind, in his steps, then wriggled, flicked smooth from someone else; from something else; borrows this candle flame like the Olympic torch all glowing with determination to continue; slowly dwindle, then dance in rain.
So the sound is gone save the crinkling window he knuckles and sifts over and over detailing the surroundings. Sits, still he laughs. Sweaters, jokes, wide rimmed wine glasses, snows now coast down out of night. Merely the fireplace loses any reflection from the glass. The candle light upon the pulp. Couples in their outfits. The window. Still laughs. Taming that wildness with liquor and smoke, a house, roles, flames, him grinning everywhere, playing conversations with certain altitudes adjusted in personal pilfered moments. Throughout. The years develop. Goatley personifies, presents forth, as who they are (stories too literally taken to be modified), “we can take this place,” with a pistol in Luke’s pack, automatic clip, smoother and quicker shattering the glass, as if Luke exists still. Remembering.
Calm, serene faces blistered by the unknown blood grinning euphoric glee pumped of the glory of getting away with something; like Luke could not. But Goatley did.
Gazing through the glass, elbows on the sill of the breaking or popping, loose embers. Candles are the room light. The fire glows. Bigger. More. He is there now, painted alive inside jagged remains of the reflection, amber visage, and that is all we see of him.
Totally stolen, that little look in his eye never blinks. Green light out there, where sometimes, ideas of that other soul pulling through, travels underground. Unusually sits over there, just stares with arrest forged with a gift.
Pour out before them.
Oh how he deeply focuses until tired little drift-like fallings press upon the violence about to be loved like a woman. Kind pearls in the tiny picture of how do you do... all that…single, instrumental formation, of something sacred.
Squeezes like her veins out her lover’s forehead; within the warrior that tried to save her. So many pains magnify eternal. Look better if you think about it. This thing goes not as one slick slaughter, but as some woman into a miniskirt; passes, by. She had no meaning nor reason to, but Goatley continues what will be labeled as weird but sexy by reporters and critics of the work; in a sense that her white nylons did not make any sense either; other than to titillate those exact senses for it.
The simple undone reason (or am I doing this for no reason, he ponders) again speaks to him –‘never have I any need to reveal these things’—so misunderstanding in the looks she is giving, that truly deeper within, somewhere in the conscious of meaning and purpose is actually thinking nothing at all. Yet now, strangely, Luke, with some weight in value in the poor stray out of her return, that began with unknown direction, but cleverly cycles the guilt, can actually say, ‘substantiates’ it.
He spits up.
The excitement every time. He has stained clothes, through pieces exposed, shoots magic straight down to his heart, back as fast; he spit up the little bit of bile. When he spit the spat froze. She falls back into the mix.
Again and again mystical magic of dripping icicles; all stolen from something else. And part of its personification or character, is human, blank, face creeps in, cheek bones gleam, appear. Because of the actual shape of the bones and closed jaw and cheeks flighty, almost seems like a smile at the stare of Goatley we stare at.
Studying these strange tales that connect the tales he knows unveil, uncloak, and uncover the inevitable reason. Just the cold glow and the silhouette trickle sitting on a concrete haze. Lavender. Group trees under sprinkles, quiet the drips around, onto the scatter; his head splattered, soft, against. His hand’s push tiny towards the enormous touch of like a finger, ripples the picture with a ring on it. Limbs barely decorated, roughly covered in soft lingers of the few crisp frost curls (a crush on crystals), of warmth exhaled, just amazed, almost hovering breath in whirs rhythmical, her husband. Her love. Dead. Goatley Lagelty’s drip . . . . drip . . . .drip returns. Closer exhales.
Maybe thieves learn things never intended to teach. Green eyes…inside this glow, the same old touch warming this becoming beauty within, which seems brightened towards weakness. Through frost shadows, hard grooves envelop of the once moist ground, freezes leaves and limbs. In like this dark frost her green eyes focus at the spotlight upon them; flapped, open, tint the cheeks once, glow a smile, keenly. In her round lifeless face, tiny frame -with those pure legs detailed in flows. Blouse. -Lightness whips. Sandy blond. Yes she was.
Wash the middle, the room, right through the window; where she emerges. Form the candle light fireplace. Sit in the tree frost, immune to the cold, “this was not how it was supposed to go.”
Somewhere under the night inside candle-lit shattered window these two lovers hold each other. Arms wrap perfectly uneven. Intertwined only by their eyes staring looks at the trance itself of which remains creating itself; as but everyone feels; as the only one who wanted to snatch the thing. Yet ended up killing everything.
Imagine this and snatch from thieves the hope of enjoying the huddled dream. Observe that beauty, those moments embracing, the gentle peeks, the single image of the entire story, Goatley's face and a kiss swinging glances romantically.
Drawing this image somewhere under the night and inside candle lit window, he makes the couples lovers…the beauty; yearn; that embrace to be holding; by little looks within, snuggled so close his breath fogs the remaining glass.
That which does not exist anymore; but is okay to give and simultaneously take since she can’t exist; it’s okay to steal those lovely green looks; because she does not, and we do not, and for it will then be replaced by his upturned sleek graces. By Goatley getting what he came for.
The fifth quarter of the map.
Together, though, they must be separate.
Someone told me once that everything written from within should be only from the head and straight from the heart, no matter, and nothing interferes. Pour fire run along like candle wax; like you know what it feels like all melting flowing down over and down onto, yes beautifully onto you streaming, cut, edge, wedging soft gleaming sides perfectly melting and solidifying all at the same time. Not so much the idea or metaphor which we have grown accustom to, but it actually happening, like it is something you know, you think we should know about. We have read and studied but how well do we know something? Without experiencing? You never see the thieves from the perspective of one. Or do you? No intends to be one. No one murders to write about it? Or have they?
And treasure heroes stealing from thieves, or better yet what should we know? Unless…..
-Goatley feels as he skims alive the books along the bookcase, in the background…-
it were say real.
The hard part, he feels, is that it only exists in mind like a piece of something you cannot witness—but imagine. Yet you still wonder it as you’re not thieving, killing, or fighting the pirates. So in fantasizing becoming one, for the experience and to reflect as clearly as if we should become thieves, he creates the story a little further.
Whispering nothing weighs like a gun in Luke’s rigged up little idea to push right through next to the hedges, straight inside. Too much tips into, directly through the middle view. A courtyard or even perpetual quiet area with fragile glass separating from there attaches the ground that started all the growing outside of it; perhaps so incredibly, so simple that it was perfectly captured.
And leaving an insignificant bullet hole as if in water, as if shooting through falling water … but frozen; the vanishing point; something that will make believe, that says so much inside there, freely stared upon; simple profound chunks of glass blow out.
A message.
That light out there looks green.
Go for it.
Ceremonial wandering, immaculate candle flakes caught in dwindle flicker, pressed into eyes. The frozen, beautiful wrestling, swapped, stole inside; the first poke through, just barely past, just into the window. The bullet bursts away breathless, leaves the glass just in pieces.