The Curtain Call of Marcus Heckinberry
The glorious backstory.
The Curtain Call of Marcus Heckinberry
Unbreakable is the prophecy the poets hath spoken through timeless years: life, the eternal string of applause.
Rejoice, rejoice! What a remarkable beauty, it is, when that spark first ignites upon hand connecting to hand, flaring again and again only when the admiration stops; but nay, 'tis merely a mark upon nature's clock for when they inevitably meet again. Ah, the clap: a bombastic songbird in solidarity, yet in flocks become a chorus doused in honey and wine, separating and converging for its own entertainment. May this blissful cycle, unquelled through pain or misery, be forever fated to begin again, whether through play, or seduction, those hands meet again in such a manner. And soft as silky nettles, too, does it touch the hearts of those who have worked enough to hear its pleasant sounds, like witnessing cannonballs bursting ablaze in the skies that dissipate into tides of rainbow. But the spirit of such ammunition that spits pain as it does desire, requires a blacksmith of such skill that few are daring enough to buttress...so, curious, am I, for submitting myself to this cannon.
The mantra of the performer is this: repetition is as much of a deity as it is an art, existing in all that makes the world such a beautiful place. Demons and gods alike speak thy name: "Consecutive", the nature of nature itself - that which exists by the sun, and the moon, and the sun again; by the flight of the birds and the bugs, through the craft, destruction and reconstitution of resources, and yes, true, by the rise and fall of even the tallest of towers. And in the midst of our discord between nature and inspiration, we have only to rely on the ingenuity of us bipedal, curious wrecks that have taken it by the reigns, merely steering the ship further through the unknown, daring to find anything more than an impasse.
But so this mantra must it be an omen for those who choose to follow their fates. What has begun shall remain to the death. How shall I describe the flap of a vulture's wing that circles me overhead? Shall I admire the curve of its path, or call it an enigma of my lethargic pursuits? P'shaw! P'shaw! Such is merely another distraction. What is a dream, but a temporal loop of progress and shame as pure as its congruence to the loop of time itself.
And so we meet the revelation of yours truly, lost in a bizarre world of tragic, wicked souls and wondrous commodities. I do not wish to compare myself to the gods among brute strength and charisma; yet, I shall not hesitate to indulge you in my walks through wood to silver. Yet, if these footsteps could talk, they would sing a song to you, instead. Few will know the suffering tainted upon my poor legs. Through my eyes, there exists nothing; I gaze up at the sky and see an empty canvas, then sighed like a poor beggar asking for but one constellation. There's enough starlight to go around in these candles that surround me. And as time may march ever forward, the passage of these days may quicken to a flame across a bridge of twine and sticks. I turn my back in naive hope of some company, but all I find is a footprint for every season; in a year, it seems, I will find a season for every footprint.
Foolish I am for turning back in the first place, as I look forward again to see the mouth of that pale darkness bearing its ugly fangs.
My blood turned to bolts!...and in an instant, I was awake. It was daytime through the discolored window above my bed. Even the most heavenly light above is doomed to behold a shadow; thus, the poetry of life is but a stain that dooms us all. Yet, the only way out is through, away from the unknown. I remove myself from my bed, stumbling with aches as I once again yearn for my work desk, the sun shining white 'cross the wooden floors as I walk.
But curious is this one entity that still remains from my dream. Soft as the rabbit's naked foot across grass, but not unnoticed; at my right, beneath the hem between my wall and my floor sits a curious crack, which glowed snake-iris yellow and curved in waves like its body. I step towards it, fascinated by its luminance upon the shine of my shoes, the likes of it outshining the daylight. Not long after then do I hear its swirling voices from beyond the seams. It fills me with a pulse unlike any I've felt before. As I hold my gaze, the world around me seems to fade away. And the longer I stared, the more it unveils its holy secrets. Upward, fizzling, I see its borders of silk and velvet stretch to above, and the floors below boast a brand of hardwood unlike the one any that I see in my house.
Like a moth to the flame, I wandered in such a way that two blind eyes would not bolster my stride. And just as the nothing crosses my mind, I suddenly noticed that the daylight is gone, replaced with a sheet of darkness, depriving me of all light, except for this one simple crack.
...
Of course.
(The crack extrudes upwards, thickening, all the voices becoming clearer. Its volume ascends, Marcus feels bare. His limbs still weary, he runs his fingers through the wrinkles of his handkerchief that plumed from its equally white collar.)
And so the dawn of this peculiar zone engulfs my body, first at my tan trousers, then to my navy blue tailcoat, shining off the two buttons before it revealed my combed back mahogany hair. Salvete! The veiled audience hath unsheathed from my view. Stretching to impossible lengths, fading into black obscurity, they see my brown fur and at once break from their hypnosis. My shoulders ruffle in preparation as their cheers echo through oblivion like town criers at the brink of cataclysm. Their bodies were the paint to the canvas of empty seats. Before me, unmistakably, was a theater, and a showing of nothing but opulence as far as the eye can see, and beyond.
(Marcus whispers one word to himself: Masterpiece. At last, all lights dim low, except for the ones aimed at the scholars' position. He is the only visible object in the room. All is silent.)
I speak loud and triumphant to them, with not a moment to spare:
"Ladies and gentlemen," I announce, "here you are...and here I am. At long last."
(I pause to hear his voice disseminate. As it does, I bring my hands behind my back and lock them together. Pacing begins, and the thrill in my heart escalates wonderfully.)
" This...is the story," I commemorate, "of Marcus Heckinberry."
(The green and gold striped wallpaper makes the background setting for the opulent bedroom that drops behind me; a bed appears, a window.)
July 12th, 1821, marks the day Marcus was released from the womb of his mother, Ethel Heckinberry. My father, Arthur, sat and watched but an inch away. And what a dazzling sight it was! Amidst the newborn's otherwise amber and white fur was a rare silver outlining upon the edges of his ears. No other member of the family possessed such a magnificent shade. How could this be? Ethel was a virgin before Arthur...it must be his. And he was correct. But the significance of this marking would be a mystery that persists to this day.
I had my share of internal, quarrelsome debates. Was this a sign of the future? Was it destiny for something more? Perhaps his childhood would be a clue....
(The background shifts, and the prop bedroom dissipates into nothingness. A new wall depicting a breathtaking schoolyard descends, boasting it in its four story brick walled glory in front of a cirrus cloud covered sky.)
A spectacle at sports, a songbird for the girls, and a prolific exam taker; alas, I regret to inform you that only one is true. So goes the gauntlet: an endless hall of faceless voices, all shouting envy in his face. And though it bothered Marcus dearly, he refused to convey his distaste in fear of the consequences. Such quarrels are best left for the written form. As I progressed through my days, I would become a prodigy; a genius among many, rather, which quickly rose to the top of my class. Not one of my three older siblings could ever hold a candle to the flame Marcus produced, and though they envied him like a saint, this is precisely why his mother and father held him to the highest expectations.
As for my memories of my classmates, I regret to inform that they are but a blur. If I could trade a piece of mind for a morsel of memory, all that would show is the balderdash smudges across a crumpled letter. Though, I do know one thing: I never did gain their adoration. It was either distant bewilderment or hapless aggression. The simpletons...if only they knew of my potential! Surely they would have been bowed to their knees, witnessing my true talent as they drown in the sorrows of their pitiful regret!
(I pause as if to cue a setting change, but when it does not, I clear my throat instead.)
Alas, the true legacy had begun on a most average day in class, during a tumultuous storm. Thirteen was Marcus when he had passed in the final exam and sat down once more. Summer was essentially there. Yet, the universe would not grant me the bliss of sloth in nature. Little had I known that. For when I dropped my pencil down beneath me, I reached with both hands to grab it, trapped it between my hands and my garments.
(Cyan lights scatter across the stage as cardboard clouds descend from the intangible ceiling. Ocean breeze sounds reverberate off the walls. I, myself feel a little chilled from this atmosphere. Yet nothing about the temperature changed.)
A resonant sound panged like a gong over the radiant valley. All was still with my physical state, but all else was different. The wind howled, but I did not feel its pressure. What happened? Marcus opened his eyes. What _is_this place? He knew not the significance of the opulent hallway of pillars before him, those erected from clouds as white as snow. Marcus then looked down the hall. At the end, an unmistakable encounter: there, turned opposite of his direction, sat a throne of gold attire, draped with silk, and drenched with the finest of wine.
Marcus followed this gleaming path, onward to this curious pantheon. His footsteps were of feathers gliding through the sky, gracing each cloud in fluttery steps... and it was only until he reached the gilded stairway when he remained this blissfully unaware of the truth.
(French horns blare as the cyan lights turn to gold. A ball of oceanic sound spins around the auditorium. Marcus smiles and tips his head in remembrance of the peculiar moment.)
For when that golden throne turned, so, too, did its true owner. Marcus's whole mouth dried the moment he opened it to gasp. There, in his path, sat a fox with fur not unlike his, boasting his legs upon the chair's arm, wielding a staff as erect as the pillars surrounding him, naked and chiseled like a statue of olde, though, dear lord, the mist rolled in around his crotch area. This form of his far older self is an image that would never leave Marcus's mind. Nor would the silver tips that colored atop his ears. And the moment he saw him, he ascended from that seat, walking towards me with the very same serious glare.
"You dare intrude on this holy temple?" he spoke, though his voice boomed as if it was a yell.
"My lord...!" Marcus pleaded with stress, though he did not know why. "I beg of you, forgive the inconvenience of my presence! I do not wish to quarrel, yet, I beseech of an inquiry!"
(God damn, the vocabulary on that kid. What a prodigy.)
"Fear not, child," the godly figure calmed, a palm out to Marcus, "for I already know your questions. I am you."
Marcus gasped, bewildered in his awesomeness. How could this be? Ah, the questions that now buzzed 'round his periphery could turn a man to madness...what horror! What revelations could be made?! Good, then, that he would then be given an inkling:
"Though I needn't become the messenger of your future," the godly Marcus spoke, "for the journey itself would cease to be. Instead, I shall give you a hint of the gilded path."
His eyes fixed upon the tip of godly Marcus's staff, which was now bursting out the seams with a flurry of ink. Child Marcus flinched and threw his forearms out like a shield, but the ink scattered instead, painting every cloud that existed around him. And when the child looked around, he saw the markings they had left behind; text that was too small to read, yet legible enough to know it was letters. Punctuation. All of it, beautiful. He turned back to the godly figure, but did not even have to ask.
"This, my boy," the godly Marcus spoke, "is everything that you will ever write in the future. Every essay, every song, every story, every masterpiece. It is all right here. Concentrate, Marcus. Look deeply into its volume."
Child Marcus was now twirling 'round his solitary position, reading ever cloud as if it were up and down a piece of wallpaper. Though every word was legible, it was simply not possible to read all of it at once. Much of it was difficult to understand its point; others seemed like the works of art he strived for. And while its beauty would last with him for such a stretch of time that all else seemed to be inconsequential, the lack of decrepit blots and blemishes of mediocrity would be details that would never be found. Marcus felt rushes of winter that prickled his fur. Perhaps this was intentional....
"Remember this, Marcus," the godlike figure urged once more. "Gaze into its lucidity and nurture yourself in its every word, for you shall never see it in such a manner again. But know that one thing is true: this text is finite, and so, true, are you. Learn what you must, and write what you can, for the winds of time may push beyond the breaks!"
The child Marcus opened his mouth to speak, but again, he could not. And suddenly, the world began to blur. The writing had faded, not in splotches, or fluid, but simply a fade; much like the sky, which had dissolved from blue to dancing patterns of red and gold. The godlike Marcus was fading into its colorful fog. But he left not with the scowl of judgment and severity as before. Instead, a smile. A symbol of hope.
(Now, the atmosphere ascends to a wind tunnel of feeling.)
Grace of a dove, dive bomb of an eagle, the clouds and the stars clinked their glasses of wine in a pang; a symphonic anthem to his plummet back to Earth. Falling, falling, time was an illusion...the shadows converge, until finally, my soul collided with flesh. Instead of a class, I was in a bed. And where had my clothes gone? Why was my right hand clutched in a fist above me? Like him, we are one. This was the sign. Now, my eyes had truly opened.
(The whimsical woodwinds echo through the stadium like a flock of doves taking off.)
"Yes! Yes!" Marcus exclaimed! " A scholar! That_is what I am meant to be!" The future was clear, and there was no time to waste! My journey was calling. All other necessities were removed from my good mind, replaced with the ultimate goal. What joy there is in finding a prize those take _decades to discover!
When Christmas came around, he requested for a desk, a quill, ink, and paper. Puzzled were his parents at his decision making, but as the decree was made in the name of the winter holiday, that decision was no longer up to their doing. And when the holiday came 'round, my requests were answered with divine perfection! There, before me: the finest desk, the largest array of paper, a feather plucked from a magnificent eagle, and ink that looked of obsidian candle wax. All was exactly in place.
Prophecy sealed...from that moment on, every moment of free time was spent in the workstation. Essays, journals, stories, poetry, eulogies, all were practiced to bloody pieces as little Marcus tirelessly worked 'round the clock. His future was not certain, as none ever were, but his path was clear: he must truly become the greatest author of all time.
(The strings bring a tone of aggression, as I scowl in frustrating nostalgia, pacing the stage roughly.)
And as their complexity grew, so, too, did Marcus. The workstation soon became surrounded with crumpled, failed works and stacks of those deemed not acceptable. But even "acceptable" would not settle with the best. He must keep focused. The outside world always attempted to bring him out of his journey. They banged on the door. They tapped on the window. If they had clawed down the walls, the only reaction they would have gotten was a tap on the desk of pure frustration - then, back to work on the latest masterpiece.
Ah, the dreams that could have been adjourned from every corner of his room...they were set to stretch to every corner of the horizon and beyond, to conquer the strange places only the brave would ever see! Alas, that phase would come to a most unexpected end. It was a spring night, the ides of April, nineteen-year-old Marcus and his family were traveling to a tremendous family party located far, far away. The journey would take roughly three days...unless, of course, we were to cross a bridge....
(The room silences as I steady my heart with a breath to the body. Once the transition is noted, the lights dim low. Dark enough to obscure the notches of my clothes. Somehow, the stage beneath me begins to glisten. With no time for apologies, I clear my throat again.)
I still remember how the carriage wheels rumbled their way across the planks: shaken, but not harmed. A tumultuous storm brewed and grumbled outside, bringing its rainwater to leak in through the ceiling. His folks stayed to his left. Marcus was by the window seat, fidgeting with the angle of his monocle, as there was an edge on it that bothered him greatly. But his dexterity failed him as it slipped out his fingertips, spinning rapidly as it danced its way out the window. His poor old monocle was but a shrinking blur as it accelerated downward into a swirling pool below, never to be seen again.
(Chimes play a delicate drone as the lights grows increasingly dim.)
But he would not give in. Panicking, he quickly reached his arm out to seize it again, heaving his own torso towards it, late to the trigger...
(The fog rolls beneath my feet. It is cold to the touch.)
...and had his poor mind only looked above, up to the serene fields where his dreams now lay to rest....
(Organs crescendo. Dread and despair.)
...perhaps....
(A bright flash of light explodes across the entire auditorium, revealing me once more while the string section blares an anxious beat.)
Fie! Fie! An unholy wrath RUPTURED'cross the sky! A bolt of lightning SHATTERED the top of the carriage! Streams of wind fill with flames and fright! SCREAMS amidst the crackling embers! And Marcus, poor Marcus, his balance was faltered and failed; the mantra of his decisions, catapulted into the air like his body, sailing like a meteor towards a violent collapse! Down! Down! Down Marcus fell! A chaotic mess of wooden scraps and flames! His pleas were screeches to the stars above to repent his own fate from the whirlpool below! But all was too late, as he neared the purple glow of the outer rim, the electricity pulsing through the waves, frothing with piranhas gnashing their horrible teeth!
SPLASH! PLUNGE! Marcus has fallen! Now, his doom began! He thrashes, and fights, and curls, and screams, and begs dearly for mercy: Please! Somebody help! My name is Marcus! God help my poor soul! But nothing but malice would be given; the maelstrom was twisting and turning, etching the sigils of his certain death! Treachery was approaching with Death beckoning by its side!
(The symphony fades through a timpani roll, faded by a cymbal crash.)
Yet at all impossible odds, both heinous beings subside. Quietness begins. His hair swirls, as does his fur. But there is no pain. The world flashes away into whiteness. The sky was no more, and so went the storm. Was he dead? Nay, there be no need for gentle streams in Heaven, which now buttressed his body in his state of great confusion. There were no fish teeth in his coat, nor up his garments. It was but only a river. Shaken, he daintily swam back to its edges and collected himself. Alas, he could not, and neither would you, as he was still perplexed at the reality of his situation. Having no choice, he walked down the nearby dirt trail that lay just north of the body of water.
(Whimsical percussion complements the mysteriousness of the setting. Its hymns were of a replica of my hapless confusion.)
The trimmed bushes accompanied his weak and trembling legs on either side seemed to hint at civilization at the end of this mysterious route. The forest had broken off into a dirt road, which then trailed off into yet another, this one spreading wide, vacant as a smuggler's empathy. Except for one seemingly lost fellow, wearing a strange pattern of red and black interwoven designs, only visible in the light of what Marcus assumed to be a highly elevated lantern. He had never seen one so tall, but its use was impressive.
Marcus approached the strange looking man, and asked him two questions: the time, and the date. To answer the first, he peered down at a strange, glowing gadget, and muttered, "Three o'clock". This horrified - and intrigued - Marcus to no end. Not the time...but the device. This was no candle! Was it sorcery?! Was it about to explode?! He shrieked and ran away while he heard much laughter bellow behind him. As he huffed and puffed, he knew for sure he had escaped a demon.
But as he learned through the trials and tribulations of man, discovering civilization, Marcus discovered how ignorant he truly was. He walked to an unknown road, boasting a mysterious double yellow line, strangely branching into many. The sight of its radiance fascinated him, lifting his spirits to the heavens above. What a genius design by his brethren, to craft such a load path back to civilization! Should there be a town at the end of this place? A sanctuary of reliance?
(All the lights turn to crimson, saturating my clothing like a bloodbath.)
'Twas no more than three steps onto this path before he heard a brilliant siren of ire and villainy. He turned to the source of it. There, by god, two threatening lights charged towards his direction! Egad! Was this the eyes of Satan himself?! With no further thought, he leapt to the side, back towards the forest, as the most horrible spirit swooshed by him at the speed of a thousand cavalcades!
(An aggressive French horn note blares from one side of the auditorium to the other, then fades. Oyez...it sounds really fucking cool.)
Marcus felt the woes through his heart. But clueless as he was, he must continue onward. Clearly this land was not of his own. Unknown dangers were lurking all over the area, but somewhere must lie an answer. The night was dreary and miserable, full of such nonsense beasts of speed, but soon, he came across a place he never thought could exist: a brilliant, silver town whose buildings touched the sky.
(All instrumentation tunes to the sound of flashing imagery behind me, which depicts the beauty of this encounter.)
This place, he'd grow to learn, was called the "city". These silver buildings reached throughout the wildest horizons, populated by copious amounts of anthropomorphic animals like himself, all with rumpled foreheads and questionable attitudes. Down the center, Marcus noticed, there were no longer chariots, but mechanical, high speed beasts. At night, their eyes would open, and he would come to understand these as synonymous to what he faced from earlier. Of all morsels of information, this was the most impossible of them all. Whoever these skinny creatures were, they could pilot even the Devil himself. This place was like a sanctuary of the Heavens!
And it seemed as though it never ended. And the further he trudged, curious as a child, the taller it all seemed to get. Hah..."City". What a simple, yet meaningful name. Such fascinating monoliths seemed to stretch for miles in both directions, perhaps the height of the gods they were built for. He looked a little closer and noticed that all the people around this place were entering in and out of them, lifting his spirits of wonder each and every time. Is this must be the most pious place in all the land? Who could have built this from scratch?
He looked for the town criers for answers, but aside from the strange, repulsive-smelling man who offered him a peculiar white powder, none were willing to help. Marcus was in shambles. What is this place? How could this be?!
I regret to inform you, dear audience...I am still waiting for this answer.
(Now the instruments slow to a droning undertone of despair, sinking further into the abyss.)
None would explain this to him. They always seemed to look away from him when they talked, their eyes fixated on their glowing, magical boxes. What were these things, anyways? Sometimes they were small enough to fit in their hands, and other times, they were so large they had to be set on a table. Any time he would politely ask them to avert their eyes from them, he was met with scoffs of disappointment. Marcus knew not why they would not answer if it could conjure a time-altering maelstrom; but they did, and it vexed him dearly.
_Perhaps it is their altar,_Marcus thought. _A secret that they must not share. Are they, too, lost in the future? Or is the future lost in them? Egad! Could they be...hypnotized?! _
From this moment on, Marcus would refer to this as The Great Hypnosis.
And slowly but surely, his fate was beginning to turn its ugly head. They called him "old". "Corny." "Out of style". And a "boomer". Marcus knew not what these words meant. Still twenty yards away from snapping, but to remain pondering why he had been outcasted as a fool would be to sprint his way there.
The lack of context concerned him days after. His family was gone, but not forgotten. So were his surroundings. Everything had changed. He had no home, no friends, no desk...and most harrowing of all, no theaters. True theaters, that is. O, the pain Marcus felt! Their listings of black letters lit upon a brilliant canvas was merely a bait into their same form of hypnosis. At first, he had fallen for it! Egad! What kind of madman would turn a great theatrical performance into a black room with a giant screen, bellowing its loud echoes like a call from Satan himself?! Marcus wailed out loud in disgust, red thunder struck 'cross his sclerae as he stumbled out of this dastardly room, collapsing to the ground on his knees, palms covering his weeping eyelids. From behind him, two bewildered lost souls had grabbed him from both arms, hauling him out the door, telling him never to go back. It was only then when the most welcome of miracles occurred.
The last thing one of them said to him would stick for a _glorious_stretch of time:
(The music stops.)
"Never come back to this theater, you crazy mutt!" he screamed at him. "And put on a t-shirt! The year is 2020, not 1843!"
(The violins hold a panicking high note.)
He gasped upon hearing this, too shocked to uncover his face. What kind of jest must this be?! How could he have jumped nearly two hundred years in the future?! Surely this must be a goof of greatest proportions! Nobody goofs the great Marcus Heckinberry. But their decree had been made, and there was nobody to fight about it. He had only to accept it, sighing as he walked the streets of silver. It would take hours of contemplation to understand what this was.
Resting on a park bench, aged with most unsettling knowledge, he realized that this moment was a sign. How come these were the only people to have recognized his great sorrow? In a single move, the duo had saved him from falling into The Great Hypnosis! Though he would never see them again, Marcus forever owed them a great form of gratitude. He must pay them back by learning the world for himself.
(The percussion slams its resonant notes over the spidery string section. My fingers curl, twitch and writhe as I speak with conviction.)
Alone, but not broken, Marcus was determined to find out this world for himself! He relearned the English language, studying their slang, slurs, and intuition. Weeks and weeks went by at his studies, a statue of brilliance lost within the libraries. Though many told him to take a strange thing called a "shower", (which Marcus would soon to understand as important) each day was now a challenge for Marcus to escape his wicked label as a "fool".
Because in his heart he was still - it was them who were the fools! And one day, they'd come to respect him and his works of art. But that day never came. Still, they defied him, still, they rejected him, no matter the blood that was shed clawing his way to this new modern age. And the very thought of this was a bull that built up in his heart. Until one day, a day that still eludes me, the tempest was let loose:
(All music drops at this point, for there is no need for it here.)
"I am Marcus!" He shouted, prompting all attention to him in the library. "The great, talented Marcus Heckinberry! Shall this counsel of wretches defy my purity? P'shaw! If these foolish swine may not respect me in all my glory, I shall earn it from you myself! For my now perilous, weak and weary journey, I decree two tasks: One, I will adapt one of these arcane boxes and learn to master it for my own! And two, I will leave them for the heart of the forest at once! There, with no one to disturb me, I shall accomplish all my weary goals!"
(Now the symphony gallops, snare drums rolling in the background. Lights dance in chaos across the stage.)
It was final. He scoured up enough money to purchase one of their devices, he was off. With his mind in the sky and his dignity in his hands, Marcus fled far, far away; far into the woods from whence he had teleported to, away from the illusionary fascination of this gray world. Then, he took to an abandoned lodge located deep in the forest, marking the sanctuary that would become Marcus's home.
He adjourned it with candles and the scattered memories of his old playwrights. Then, he got the stove to ignite, as did he figure out what a "shower" was. Things seemed to be put back together. But the money he could muster would scarcely last a week. Lost in a mysterious place filled with absurdity and whimsy unlike anything that sat top even the highest throne of the 1800s, Marcus was left to build anew.
Which meant he must return to the city. By the lord, the lengths he went to save himself! Much of which did not work kindly with the surrounding folk. This place was but an endless hallway of ugly stares that looked far past his desperation. Perhaps they were jealous of the way they dressed, but either way, Marcus would receive no help from them.
Until one day, the opportunity presented itself just fine: a brilliant white shop adjourned with tons of arcane boxes, much larger than most of the ones used by the common people. Lost and hopeless, he was sure this contained the answer to his woes. But he, with him, had a premonition from the start. His childhood hero - himself, naked as the day he was born, boasting all of his outer beauty. Surely now is the time to follow by example!
(Beauteous strings bring goosebumps to my skin, reminding me of this day of great freedom.)
With no other choice in sight, a bow to the sky as he did it, he sold his clothing for the curious arcane box, then walked all the way home with it in his arms.
A peculiar sensation overcame Marcus during his naked walk home. Unexpected of this action, he received plenty of attention from his surroundings. Egad! Could this be...a performance of itself? It must be! They stared, and spat, and laughed, and cussed, and yelled, with manic, gasping barks of "Pervert", "Asshole", and "truly an imbecile" as his direction...p'shaw. They know nothing of the risks I take. How should they know any more than the curve of my erection? Tut-tut...this is but the beginning of my public exposure.
(The wind section triumphantly crescendos to send a final note echoing across the auditorium.)
When he took it home, it took weeks to understand how it worked. Those were the most terrifying moments of Marcus's life. The first day was spent trying to get it to glow. He pressed a most peculiar looking button in the corner of its bottom platform, and when it glowed to life, he had to run into the other room in fear. This was not necessary. Either way, he would eventually figure it out. Marcus would ask many questions; many, many questions, and soon, he discovered ways to receive money.
He would become a freelance "blogger" on the "internet" for many different websites. He never quite understood them, but he passed in all of his work with ease, and soon, his name had circulated all throughout the city.
This, then, prompted a sorry looking fellow to stop by his doorstep. He offered me a supply of clothing, yet I rejected on behalf of its lack of regency. I have no idea why he sighed at this, but when he did not return, Marcus was left to return to the city myself to look for it, again, as naked as before. Though it took hours, and I had a strange red blush on my face the whole time, with the strong urge to cover my genitals from the crowds of many (though I did not, as I must be reveled in utmost brilliance) I was at last offered an identical to my last uniform. Piteous did that man look for purchasing it for me, though he deserved the lowest of bows for it.
Ah, serenity, thy name of honor..."Party City".
(The instrumentation all pauses once more at the wave of my hand. I face the audience in full.)
I propose a sporadic inquiry to my grand audience! Have any of you tried walking naked in public? It's divine, and simply refreshing. The absence of its popularity eludes me. The wind kissing upon my nether region was like...well, like...no, honestly, it just felt really fucking good.
(The audience doesn't respond. Then, the symphony comes back with whimsy.)
But at this time, Marcus appeared to have it all figured out. No company for his solace, but a job and his abode to carry his steadfast heart. What could possibly go wrong?
...As Marcus would come to realize, he reminded himself of the journey he had ahead of him. His knowledge made it seem all the more daunting. A world of silver, gold and endless noise, shrouded in a great fog before his eyes. The longer he traversed this land, the thicker its obscurity became. Where had the plays gone? Where was the suspense? What about the colosseums? None of it was here.
The future is now, and it soars without Marcus.
And so, upon knowing this, he felt the most severe of all woes. These comely monoliths had no oracles to behold. Marcus cried and cried_and _cried alone, confused and lost in a world he did not know.
(I pause and pace as the violins begin to sway. The tension increases. It is all warranted. This is the worst thing that has ever happened to an individual.)
And as he wiped the tears away from his tired cheek, he looked deeply into his palm. A single drop had formed atop the moisture, rolling back and forth as his paw shook with anguish. Like a sudden heavenly light, it took a moment for Marcus' eyes to adjust. But when they did, his senses erupted. As if the teardrop was the key to the keyhole of the universe, the riddle was unlocked:
(A strong bass drum slam brings the symphony to a triumphant return.)
He thought, yes! This must be the key to my answer! Pay no homage to despair anymore; I shall continue my journey to become the greatest writer of all time! I will make a story so incredible, so heartwarming, so passionate and fierce, that it will make the entire world cry! Then, when their tears seep into the ground, and the cracks in their arcane boxes, they will compound and converge unto my very position, creating another maelstrom! Should all the stars align that day, the rapids will spin and thrash me about, the thunder above will crash, just as before, and finally, it will bring me back to the year of 1843!
Huzzah! It was brilliant! Marcus could hardly believe his own intelligence. So cunning! So fierce! But how, then, must he go about this unspeakable task? Surely reaching out to the world was...preposterous, correct? Nay. His obscure logic of the internet stretched to a width you would not believe. All he needed was an outlet to bring out my creativity. A simple place that is worthy enough for my deeply constructed masterpieces!
(All the music quiets moderately.)
So, the search began for the worthiest of websites. And it was a _glorious_search. Scrolling through pages and pages of material, finding nothing each time, a Columbus of the chaotic arcane world. But this time, he would not falter. The journey was no more than a click away! One correct move, and he would find the strongest place worthy of true talent. The expedition was of many woes of anguish, terrified screaming, and confusing feelings. But after many a sunrise and sunset, all his woes would come to an end.
(The ambience changes to a darkened background while those metal xylophones nobody knows the names of play a tune.)
My findings landed upon the website I've been looking for. The first thing I noticed were its ambient, yet dark scenery, accompanied by a wide array of fine art and literary works (still lesser than mine) filled to the brim with adoring fans waiting for more. Two native people are shown giving an apple to a ravenous beast. I sigh a sigh a great relief, like eons of stress flowed away from my soul. My home was in reach, and this was the clearest mark of it.
He had never seen anything so masterfully crafted in his life. It brought a tear to his eye. Surely, this was the grand gates to infinity that lay beneath the surface. This vessel...it must be true. The ultimate outlet for my masterful craft was none other than FurAffinity. This is what would send him careening back home for my success.
And yet, a moment of hesitation. Is it not a betrayal of the quill and ink to surrender such hopes to a hapless form of simplicity in complexity? Stories are of the heart as the font is to the arm that traces it, moved by the brain which connects the body to move, express, and create. No magic could ever reproduce this magnificent blast of inspiration we call emotion! Shall I tarnish my excellent, hand-crafted purity for the sake of mere reason from popularity?
(As I breathe in, I feel the rising hymns of the wind section. As I speak my last sentence before the resolution, they crescendo in wondrous harmony.)
Well, I thought solemnly, clicking the "Create Account" button, if I must!
(I smile in relief as a plume of sparks explode in a circle around me. But the performance is not yet complete. My hands spread out in recognition. I must utter my final words to the stage!)
And that, my dear audience, is the story of Marcus Heckinberry! The marking of my glee, my tragedy, my retribution! My rise, and my fall, and my rise again! God hath wrought me with a venom that cuts deep in my wounds and soaks my clothes, but I will wrap those holy ends and wring my garments 'til out pours a sweet nectar! And with it, I will bathe myself, soaking in destiny 'til the misery is gone. My audience, my glorious audience, the dawn is but a spotlight to these tales of drear and tragedy! I will make you sing! I will make you dance! And by god, I will make you cry!
Bursting came they from their chairs into a vociferous ovation, the opulent walls fluttering in response to their reverence. All lights return to me and scatter 'cross the rumbling stage. At my eye, a tear of satisfaction. Here, I stand, at the witness of finality. The adoration I strive for. And for that, I take a bow, low enough to fall under, the shivers of delicate embers spreading out the seams of my very soul.
There is more to come for the both of us.
But now is not the time to sit back and relish in self vain. That would defeat the purpose.
And so, the tear evaporates.
As the brilliant, red curtain descends one more, I hear the rumbles of true reality seep back into existence. They slip up beneath my poor soles, inebriating my very blood. The stitch lights dim and fade into familiar orange flickers off the corners of the room, which then blends with the pale blue falloff. Its subtle glow pulls a breath from my lungs. All this was merely a moment in time before the curtain collapsed and shapeshifted into the wooden wall I see before me.
Darkness taketh center stage.
I do not remember the walk back to my desk. I just know that I am here again. The day and time elude me to bits...while there is still much to be done, there is no reason to check. For while I am awake, I will try. Through the gauntlet of torn up calendar pages drowned within sweat drops and ink blots, one day, all the digits will align, and take on the form of the anonymous title I give it; yet this precious moment of finality yearns for no patient eye. Such is merely a virtue for the....
Bah.
My dear reader...I must betray your expectations one last time. For if you are to understand the purpose of these words, I must slash my headless portrait and spoil the moral of this tragedy: if you look into that void and see the twinkle of my own tired eye, you are but only the reader. But should the void you see contain even the faintest reflection of yourself, it now becomes your duty to question your own curiosity. Shall I reach into the never and fetch the clones of your identity, merely to test if the other is so naive? What shall become of the response? Why even ask such ridiculous things?!
...Rest with such motives intact.
For when the void calls, and I have heard it many a time, there will be a crack of dawn in the waits. Through the brains, brawn, and struggle into near collapse, this crevice shall always remain, heeding its promise of the sunshine in its wake. All until the inevitable moment when clueless dust breathes out of clueless figurines on this endless game of nothing. And as our days shrink to microcosms in this calamity of time, so does the value in the choices at hand, flowing and winding, only to throw it all away time and time again. We look to our peers, and our gadgets, and passions, which may guide us through these trials and tribulations...but alas, we know too well the consequences of grand expectations from the void.
When it swallows us whole, what will remain?
I think this to myself every day.
From betwixt my lips, a gust of wind.
The candlelight flickers.
I look to my right. I see her there.
Prickle head, gown of swans, an ethereal grin.
We hold each others' hands.
Is it I that holds her tight,
or is it she that holds me?
We look forward.
Past the sanctuary.
Into the endless void.
Four corners of nothing.
Four spirits within it.
But it is not fear we feel.
Nor rejection, nor anguish.
For the sigils in these candles are clear.
The only way to escape,
is to sell your soul,
and start again.
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Wonderful masterpiece by [url=https://twitter.com/AzsharaKletete]Azshara_kletete[/url]