Writing by Nigel Roper
Not many know this but i write as well, stories, songs, and "poetry". From time to time something happens in life and i feel inspired to write. Normally these writings come out as snippets of a larger whole, almost as if their just moments from other worlds of reality so impact full in meaning that they somehow end up in my mind. I write them down as they are and then set them down whilst i wait for the rest of the story to come along. Over the years I've collected a few stories, like marbles, each containing a universe of their own; they sit in a drawer collecting dust. I think its about time I start finishing these stories, so that the characters in them might get on with their lives.
I created this page with the goal of sharing these stories with you. I plan to share the stories as i write them, giving you the audience, a choice of which story I add a chapter to next. I have never felt it entirely necessary to hide the rougher drafts of any artwork, in fact i welcome others to join me in the creative process so that we might witness together the birthing of worlds into the cosmos. The contributions that members make to this site fuel these stories and all other creations
For now all of these stories will share a page, as they grow though i will create separate pages for each.
Follow the link under each story to find the booking section in order to continue the story, add to new worlds, or just to find out what happens next by supporting the story!
by Nigel A. Roper
Man with 3 demons, is a demon but doesn’t know, and he is every other face he ever sees. he is everyone. to him they’re all demons.
The storm had built for days. Rooftops down the alley hung heavy and grey over the dimly lit bay windows that cast light as they do into a long cold night. The deep blacks drift into dark sea green coloring, ravishing at the silhouettes of tall brick giants, cutting sharp edges into the night above the streets. And all the while people lay soundlessly in their beds, undisturbed by their arrogance, as the growling chaos just past their window sills began. Outside, a man danced, reflected in the pains, fractal fashion.
In this hamlet Southeast of the Berg at the streets of Essix and Thyme, stood the man howling into the night.
“You all won’t believe, will you? Will you?” he sang as loud as he could scream, his voice cracking as lightning tore across the sky, booming down in notes inhumanly low, his lament built to crescendo.
“You all won’t believe, and it’s too late! Will you? Will you?” Again the lightning tore across the sky, illuminating the water beneath his feet. Wind seared through the bare-limed, man made remnants of trees, planted in unclean, polluted soil, who stood at guard against the rushing breeze. They struggled against the current for as long as they could muster, having lost their limbs in a battle similar to this.
Another Person’s Point of View - Steven (for now, anyway)
Half way down the block a man sat in his window watching. Pipe in one hand, he exhaled a flush of grey smoke being careful not to choke the Polaroid in his other. With a click of the shudder, he captured the mad old man mid pose, one leg lifted high up behind, his arms stretched out like a twisted Oak.
Steven set the pipe back against his lips, taking a short drag - then another, longer more satisfying toke - and sat it down. He looked at the a moment, in the light of the storm clouds from the small window. he saw the reflection of the old man behind, dancing and raving nonsense with himself in the rain, with lightning flashing with each wave of his arms. He pushed himself to his feet, taking a jacket from the coat rack beside the door.
He was out before he realized what was happening. Standing in the rain, arms stretched out to give the jacket to the old man. Startled, Steven looked back to his house, and then to each side of the street. Was there someone who might have seen him cross the street, someone else who might remember it happening.
He was alone with the old man. First He looked down at his feet, unnerved by the idea of looking the man in the eye. The old mans bare toes wriggled in the mud seemingly independently in an ankle high puddle.
Slowly, his eyes scanned up to the face of the one standing before him.
The face that looked back was weathered, torn by the ions, many lives carved in the lines of this face. Deep, cavernous wrinkles of wisdom scarred the ancient face. Stories upon stories of lives lived all overlapping on one face.
“You’re going to get wet,” was all the man had to say, his finger stretching out to poke Steven above the space just between his eyes. Before he knew it, Steven was back by the door, hanging the coat over the radiator.
He blinked a few times, his eyelids moist from rain droplets caught in his eyelashes. Had he really gone outside just now? Did he imagine that?
The Woman and the serpent
She stood in the middle of the square whistling to the dazed black serpent laying relaxed in her hand. A crisp wind rushing through the small atrium grew heavy and cold, echoing her sorrowful melody. She could taste the rain coming.
From a distance three young men watching, all uncomfortable in their own way, turned and walked off to their homes without a word. No goodbyes were said, no plans made for the next day, they simply left in a gloomy procession as the woman had eyed them each individually.
Rain trickled onto roof tops of nearby buildings with a gritty, ceramic sound, and gracefully rolled over the moss covered cement walls. Short blades of grass muffled the splash of a thousand more drops of rain falling into the open air block in the middle of the city. Everything slowly intensified. A storm was gathering overhead, in the most gentle way. The woman whistled louder.
Alone in the square, the two souls danced, weaving in the rain. Coiling between her long skinny fingers, the snake hung in a trance. It moved only to mimic her movements, and to stare into her deep green eyes, Her eyes, that could placate the devil himself.
Lightning flashed far in the distance. Accompanied by a long, low rumble, a man strolled into the square. The man was nothing but long legs, in short pants, and the snappy click clack of hard leather soles, offset by the cane he carried, keeping perfect tick take time on the cobblestones. Unable to stand still the man tapped back and forth watching as the woman danced. She hadn’t eyed him wildly as she did the other three men, but she knew he was there.
“Your going to get wet,” Yelled the old man form a good distance away, now making his way into the square atrium stepping quickly. He moved like the trees blowing in the wind, a tree in pinstriped pants, with a cane. His voice was joyful and foreboding, a macabre combination, slick like a trickster.
“Can you not hear the storms coming?”
“You should know I don’t mind a little rain,” replied the woman, her voice calm, and wise, like an old woman, thought she looked as young and fresh as a newborn. She continue to dance in the rain. Water dripping form her skirts. “the rain makes the sweetesr music.”
“Music?” The old man asked, removing a rather large bent cone from his pocket “Is that what you hear?”
He put the cone up to his ear, to focus on the sound of water falling from the rooftops.
“That is not what I hear…You should listen more closely Madame”
With that the dance stopped, both the woman and the snake eyed the old man, fully attentive.
“tis the sound of a hundred demons drooling, at the thought of eating your soul…”