Lost Coast Chanties
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Originally started in Sep. 2024 (and never finished) on Edward Riggs (or LINE-3).
Posting it here because I'm pretty tired of seeing it sit around in my Google Docs.
Posting it here because I'm pretty tired of seeing it sit around in my Google Docs.
The Hanged Man
by Edward C. Riggs
by Edward C. Riggs
I.
LONG WAS THE SHADOW that danced around the city skyline, a fickle presence that reminded those below of the coming trouble. They never knew what to expect, or how and when it’d show its ugly face, but always they could recognise the slow, encroaching steps of something creeping through the fog. It was a rule of nature, a left-over fear from mankind’s worst days — that the late hours brought forth visitors unknown and unwelcomed. But perhaps there was an exception. Perhaps there were people who did not fear the coming of the night, and who did not breathe the iron fog and did not melt from rays of smog-stained sunlight. Perhaps they lived like angels, up above, and flew around the Tower that produced this ominous shade — a place where no poison could possibly reach them. A separate world, a perfect world, for which every man wished to spring wings; to fly above and join the mellow dance.
TO THE STENOGRAPHER such a world, if indeed real, had died long ago. Maybe it was killed, but by whom or what — she wasn’t entirely certain. At times, when her mind felt most creative, a thought entertained her that it was indeed, a heinous murder. And among the metaphorical line-up of suspects stood one that she put blame on the most — expectation. In her view, it served as an accomplice to all hopeless failures, and in this case, all unwrappings of idealistic theory. To her this great tragedy seemed awfully witty. “Perfection is murdered in its inception by the expectation.” The Stenographer thought it smart and took great pleasure in trying to make it rhyme. Indeed, at such moments she could consider herself the greatest philosopher of the 21st century. But then she’d scoff, think of it as nonsense and call herself stupid, if quietly and in her own mind, throwing away whatever it was that she concluded. It was her own little rule of nature — everything she considered smart was actually plain idiotic.
FOR THE PAST YEAR she had worked as a typist for the Loyalist Party, a job that was alluring to those who wished to climb the Tower, but to her, always seemed more like a bloated accessory of an age bygone. Without a speaker, someone to deliver the words, there was no point to her existence — she was just a living compliment, the embodiment of one’s smile in the mirror. It wasn’t a terrible existence, of course, and never did she wonder how to crawl away from her responsibilities. Instead, this pessimistic notion seemed to her more like an admission of fact — for just as she disliked expectation, she detested personal embellishment. And it was due to this mindset that she was awfully surprised when others forgot she was just a stenographer. Perhaps they assumed there was more than met the eye: a secret role or a distant connection to someone important. Maybe they simply enjoyed her reliability and started to take her presence for granted. But whatever the case was, they learned her name and acted like eloquent friends; so naturally, she did the same.
EVENTUALLY, the long shadow would subside, and, slowly, she became accustomed to her greener pastures. There was no longer any fear of the dark and the uncertain — everything seemed clear and set in stone. Rarely would she find the crooked metal architecture any less shining in the day. And, when the clouds parted and let the light crack the asphalts, the obsidian Tower protected her with its long, uncaring shade. It was a marvellous thing, she thought — a fortress in the calm sea, a metal obelisk, from which waves would swim outwards and grow colder and colder in the waters of the night. She was always content by nature and, if left alone, would be fine spending her whole life here, hiding in the very darkness that once carried a feeling of dread. For, in a way, her life seemed just as still — a key pressed, a verbal bird momentarily released and then permanently caged on paper; and then, for the rest of the day, a break from the endless singing. Such was existence, plain and perfect.
SHE WENT TO HER JOB, talked to her eloquent friends and listened attentively to talks far removed. And, for what seemed like a millionth time, someone had confused her with someone else. But this was different — perhaps a special little milestone. For this confusion was capital, gravely malformed, and delivered on a shining silver platter. A personal invitation, with her full and hard to pronounce name, to that very obsidian Tower that stood guard above the sky. She was to ascend its endless floors and join a mythical Loyalist party, a grandiose bouquet with life-changing ramifications. In its stable ranks it would lead a procession of every face of importance, bowing, shaking hands and smiling wide to the unsuspecting arrival. For the first time in a while, the long shadow danced around her and quietly whispered of the coming trouble, reminiscent of her old stenotype. One key for the start, another for the end. And this time, the Tower itself was dictating her fate.
TO THE STENOGRAPHER such a world, if indeed real, had died long ago. Maybe it was killed, but by whom or what — she wasn’t entirely certain. At times, when her mind felt most creative, a thought entertained her that it was indeed, a heinous murder. And among the metaphorical line-up of suspects stood one that she put blame on the most — expectation. In her view, it served as an accomplice to all hopeless failures, and in this case, all unwrappings of idealistic theory. To her this great tragedy seemed awfully witty. “Perfection is murdered in its inception by the expectation.” The Stenographer thought it smart and took great pleasure in trying to make it rhyme. Indeed, at such moments she could consider herself the greatest philosopher of the 21st century. But then she’d scoff, think of it as nonsense and call herself stupid, if quietly and in her own mind, throwing away whatever it was that she concluded. It was her own little rule of nature — everything she considered smart was actually plain idiotic.
FOR THE PAST YEAR she had worked as a typist for the Loyalist Party, a job that was alluring to those who wished to climb the Tower, but to her, always seemed more like a bloated accessory of an age bygone. Without a speaker, someone to deliver the words, there was no point to her existence — she was just a living compliment, the embodiment of one’s smile in the mirror. It wasn’t a terrible existence, of course, and never did she wonder how to crawl away from her responsibilities. Instead, this pessimistic notion seemed to her more like an admission of fact — for just as she disliked expectation, she detested personal embellishment. And it was due to this mindset that she was awfully surprised when others forgot she was just a stenographer. Perhaps they assumed there was more than met the eye: a secret role or a distant connection to someone important. Maybe they simply enjoyed her reliability and started to take her presence for granted. But whatever the case was, they learned her name and acted like eloquent friends; so naturally, she did the same.
EVENTUALLY, the long shadow would subside, and, slowly, she became accustomed to her greener pastures. There was no longer any fear of the dark and the uncertain — everything seemed clear and set in stone. Rarely would she find the crooked metal architecture any less shining in the day. And, when the clouds parted and let the light crack the asphalts, the obsidian Tower protected her with its long, uncaring shade. It was a marvellous thing, she thought — a fortress in the calm sea, a metal obelisk, from which waves would swim outwards and grow colder and colder in the waters of the night. She was always content by nature and, if left alone, would be fine spending her whole life here, hiding in the very darkness that once carried a feeling of dread. For, in a way, her life seemed just as still — a key pressed, a verbal bird momentarily released and then permanently caged on paper; and then, for the rest of the day, a break from the endless singing. Such was existence, plain and perfect.
SHE WENT TO HER JOB, talked to her eloquent friends and listened attentively to talks far removed. And, for what seemed like a millionth time, someone had confused her with someone else. But this was different — perhaps a special little milestone. For this confusion was capital, gravely malformed, and delivered on a shining silver platter. A personal invitation, with her full and hard to pronounce name, to that very obsidian Tower that stood guard above the sky. She was to ascend its endless floors and join a mythical Loyalist party, a grandiose bouquet with life-changing ramifications. In its stable ranks it would lead a procession of every face of importance, bowing, shaking hands and smiling wide to the unsuspecting arrival. For the first time in a while, the long shadow danced around her and quietly whispered of the coming trouble, reminiscent of her old stenotype. One key for the start, another for the end. And this time, the Tower itself was dictating her fate.
II.
IT WAS ONLY AFTER her gradual ascent up the Tower that the Stenographer truly understood the strange ramifications of her sudden invitation. It was true, of course, that she was inexperienced in the matters of jovial festivities — and this likely played a role in her obfuscation — but throughout the woman’s day to day life, her mind stubbornly insisted that something was heavily amiss. On the invitation was the date of her admission, but for some reason, it never occurred to her that the number correlated to any particular day. She knew, of course, that she was expected; she knew as well that reclusion was not an option; but the simple understanding that this event would happen somehow eluded her. The Stenographer thought it a harrowing feature of the unknown and tumultuous future — one that often worries the minds of its admirers, yet remains far too muddled in the current of time to truly understand and comprehend. It sat in the back of her head quietly and unheard until it was too late to mentally prepare herself for what was, really, supposed to be an incredibly auspicious occasion. It was due to this very unpreparedness that she shuddered at every announcement and shielded her eyes from every mention of the upcoming party, as if such would somehow pluck the information from her ears. At times, she would think of old stories and their clear allegories; it was evident that she felt as if scheduled for some metaphorical gallows. The Stenographer knew what would come and, despite already having resided herself for an unfortunate demise, could not feel anything but worry and forgetfulness. And what other feelings could paint her more as the trialled, the judged and, soon, the executed?
WHAT MORE COULD BE SAID that did not already writhe in her brain? What more could be written in thought that, for all means and purposes, was obviously unthinkable and unaccountable? It seemed to her, in rare times of clarity, that there was nothing to truly be afraid of. But, as always happens to those who judge the future with the air and sanctity of the present, she would soon find herself utterly betrayed. Her feeling of solemnity, if already only partially present, left quickly after the announcement’s gust had reached her, and the business of the outside world did little to ease her inner tensions. For all the expectation, which she had not too long ago branded her mortal enemy, the streets did not lay dormant even for a moment, and walking through the ranks of blue was discouraging when her plight was so unnoticed by the others. At that very moment, trotting, turning and remembering the way, a strange wave of disappointment would cloud her head — how preferable it would be if she walked upon, instead, an empty, gloomy road filled to the brim with shattered glass and swirling dust; a road to nowhere, in her mind, except the towering unmaker — for what could wait above the clouds except the weight and shadow of the endless sky?
WHEN THE CROWD HAD PARTED, it was the sight of the Tower’s gates that finally silenced her inner philosopher. When the iron shutters parted, the Stenographer found herself stepping into a world unknown and uncharted, yet the search that followed after her entrance, as short as it was, confirmed she was no intruder. As she looked about in the stampeding traversal of the guests, the halls seemed wide and coarse in their composition — they would follow step after step, unchanging in texture nor width, and looked as if no human had ever touched them. Indeed, it seemed strange, at a glance, to see the browns and reds of the coats stroll past them, and she could feel verily that the cacophony made her eyes heavy of stress. She thought herself sure that, before this belated occasion, this was a palace of blue in which no man had lived — an obsidian skeleton of a strange beast, slain and mastered above a cemetery of dead concrete. Yet, just as the thought had passed her head, she noticed the sudden stop of the arrivals and their attentive glances up above. For that moment, the echo would overtake their meagre talks and leave only awe at the endless space up above. She, herself, could hardly keep away from observation and, at many a moment, would merely look up and stare and wonder childfully how far the vortex grew above.
A RUSTIC ECHO FROM THE GROUND interrupted the Stenographer’s amazement before it turned into obsession, and perhaps she would have even thought of thanking it profusely were it not of human origin; the echo came from a voice under heavy strain, evidently trying to make itself heard. “Gentlemen, gentlemen! Attention!” The cold air of the gigantic shaft had made it sound much louder than it was, but not in any way imposing. What followed after was an easy instruction, or perhaps, more-so a clause for preparation. The lifts would only take a few groups of guests at a time, apparently under scrutiny from ‘safety measures’ and ‘organisational concerns.’ The Stenographer, blocked from the speaker by the back of a rather chubby man, guessed that the lifts would somehow collapse if too many people got up on them. As such, the terms were verily agreeable, and when the speaker silenced himself, she nodded enthusiastically. They were all to make neat lines and, ideally, form their fancy groups from there. It was only reasonable that she should hunt for her exquisite acquaintances amid the newly formed savanna of coats and colour bands, but the notion of staring into someone’s face for too long made her queasy. It was extremely fortunate, then, that she was immediately spared from her woes by an old familiar.
SHE KNEW HIM WELL at one point in her career, but in the moment of meeting his brown eyes, couldn’t tell well enough from a gaze so dead and empty. Perhaps she had somehow caught the man flustered by the turn of her head, but then again, it did seem that he was staring directly at her the moment his countenance entered her vision. When the man’s expression finally broke and a high smile started forming on his face, the Stenographer knew she had the pleasure of meeting one of the city’s finest orators. It was most unfortunate, then, that his name had somehow eluded her mind in the moment, and, ever quick-witted, the poor woman could return only a half-smile before prompting a strange greeting.
“I re-mem-ber you.”
“...A lot of people say that,” replied the Orator, now having come to re-examine the engagee from top to bottom with his eyes. “I did not expect to see you here, I’ll admit.” Suddenly, his eyes changed form and perked the slick brows forward. “You must be here to write down the speeches, yes? Hah, silly, silly me!”
“Oh, I su-pose so,” the Stenographer continued, ever cautiously examining the chattering crowd around her.
IN TRUTH, THE THOUGHT never crossed the woman’s mind, but now she was evidently startled by the notion that she was supposed to bring something. At this moment, the Orator’s gaze started to make her uncomfortable, and she tried to ignore the signature face of Loyalist rhetoric that now placed itself right beside her. The first lifts had begun to lower themselves, and the ever-removed party somewhere upstairs still occupied her mind patiently. Perhaps it would’ve been better to ask someone what the occasion was about, but in the moment, everyone seemed too preoccupied and forlorn for conversation. It was thus decided chiefly that the Stenographer will take the next elevator with or without the Orator, although the former option seemed much more natural — and she would rather prefer to go with the flow. On that thought, perhaps, the question of further proceedings found itself a perfectly fine answer. The traitorous waves of life will surely take and thrust her violently from the coast of safety, but at the same time, they would just as likely return her to shore — one must simply harden the skin against the sharp and freezing waters.
LOUD PROCESSIONS began dominating the hall and the noble men of the iron carcass eventually turned into waves of their own, parting and connecting at ease when needed. When the great storm subsided, everyone seemed to have settled nicely within their respected group of acquaintances. Just as the Stenographer now chiefly hoped, the Orator happened to keep himself nearby and, if one was to maintain their fascination with water, served greatly as something akin to a heavy boulder that broke the continuous flow of the river. His natural aptitude at staring down familiar silhouettes from behind earned a couple quaint dialogues, but most importantly, it earned their yet malformed duo a third member, thus chiefly cementing it as a fully fledged group. The new figure, joining their line fresh from reserve, was a man visually imposing and, at the same time, awfully disheveled. His face was of ungraceful aging, camouflaged with wrinkles and darkness, but most unnerving in his appearance was that it veiled a perfectly healthy body. The Orator seemed to know who the figure was from first glance and quickly extended his hand.
“Have you come to join us, Vexillum?”
“I suppose I did,” the man replied in a rather blunt manner, putting emphasis on the last word. “You’ve got anyone else with you, or is this a modest operation?”
“Operation? Ha!” the Orator picked up with a little chuckle and clenched his signature smile. “No-no, sir. I have a perfectly fine, brave… soldier, right here.” At this point, he stepped to the side with the subtlety of a theatre curtain, revealing a full profile of the Stenographer’s unimpressive frame.
“...That’ll do,” the Vex confirmed with a small, modest nod.
THEY WERE NOW NOT TWO BUT THREE, each with their own stories to tell of that confusing and harrowing evening. But until the curtains dropped and gave them ample room to breathe and collect their embellished accounts, the lift was already lowered and quietly waiting for them. For in that long ascent would arrive and leave questions plenty of the upper house, unspoken in good part due to common etiquette and in less so, fear of quiet reprimanding. The invisible cogs of the giant mechanism that now carried them invaded the soundscape with strange churns and rattles, and dozens of floors must’ve met their blunt gazes in the endless ascension. Across and beyond ran the hundreds of feet of the Tower’s inner bowels, but as with most things in life, such sights remained obscured behind the metal hulls of obsidian that delegated them to this mock-up of a breathing track. Perhaps they were heading straight to the brain of this construct — but in all likelihood, it was simply another boring room — just set high above the clouds. Or perhaps, it had no windows and would be as dark as the innards of cosmos.
THE AIR BECAME COLDER with each passing theory, and the gradual dimming of the lights suggested to the Stenographer that their party was heading only to the most unwelcoming of places. Such was the binding power that waiting had over her mind — she could feel her heart beating like a strained drum of a triumphant parade. It was her own musical crescendo, an accompanying stinger that would stop only at the height of tension. And only when this sickening ascent had slowed, and small streaks of light broke through the suffocating blanket of the surrounding darkness, that she felt she'd fall on her knees and surrender to the Tower's will. Yet in these final moments, she found it in herself to muster what remained of her waning courage, and when the metal doors of the lift began to unveil a path of yellow light, became the first of the three to move further into this new, alien world. Through the Stenographer’s cautious glances, there came not fear, but something else — a grasp of much missed serenity.
WHAT MORE COULD BE SAID that did not already writhe in her brain? What more could be written in thought that, for all means and purposes, was obviously unthinkable and unaccountable? It seemed to her, in rare times of clarity, that there was nothing to truly be afraid of. But, as always happens to those who judge the future with the air and sanctity of the present, she would soon find herself utterly betrayed. Her feeling of solemnity, if already only partially present, left quickly after the announcement’s gust had reached her, and the business of the outside world did little to ease her inner tensions. For all the expectation, which she had not too long ago branded her mortal enemy, the streets did not lay dormant even for a moment, and walking through the ranks of blue was discouraging when her plight was so unnoticed by the others. At that very moment, trotting, turning and remembering the way, a strange wave of disappointment would cloud her head — how preferable it would be if she walked upon, instead, an empty, gloomy road filled to the brim with shattered glass and swirling dust; a road to nowhere, in her mind, except the towering unmaker — for what could wait above the clouds except the weight and shadow of the endless sky?
WHEN THE CROWD HAD PARTED, it was the sight of the Tower’s gates that finally silenced her inner philosopher. When the iron shutters parted, the Stenographer found herself stepping into a world unknown and uncharted, yet the search that followed after her entrance, as short as it was, confirmed she was no intruder. As she looked about in the stampeding traversal of the guests, the halls seemed wide and coarse in their composition — they would follow step after step, unchanging in texture nor width, and looked as if no human had ever touched them. Indeed, it seemed strange, at a glance, to see the browns and reds of the coats stroll past them, and she could feel verily that the cacophony made her eyes heavy of stress. She thought herself sure that, before this belated occasion, this was a palace of blue in which no man had lived — an obsidian skeleton of a strange beast, slain and mastered above a cemetery of dead concrete. Yet, just as the thought had passed her head, she noticed the sudden stop of the arrivals and their attentive glances up above. For that moment, the echo would overtake their meagre talks and leave only awe at the endless space up above. She, herself, could hardly keep away from observation and, at many a moment, would merely look up and stare and wonder childfully how far the vortex grew above.
A RUSTIC ECHO FROM THE GROUND interrupted the Stenographer’s amazement before it turned into obsession, and perhaps she would have even thought of thanking it profusely were it not of human origin; the echo came from a voice under heavy strain, evidently trying to make itself heard. “Gentlemen, gentlemen! Attention!” The cold air of the gigantic shaft had made it sound much louder than it was, but not in any way imposing. What followed after was an easy instruction, or perhaps, more-so a clause for preparation. The lifts would only take a few groups of guests at a time, apparently under scrutiny from ‘safety measures’ and ‘organisational concerns.’ The Stenographer, blocked from the speaker by the back of a rather chubby man, guessed that the lifts would somehow collapse if too many people got up on them. As such, the terms were verily agreeable, and when the speaker silenced himself, she nodded enthusiastically. They were all to make neat lines and, ideally, form their fancy groups from there. It was only reasonable that she should hunt for her exquisite acquaintances amid the newly formed savanna of coats and colour bands, but the notion of staring into someone’s face for too long made her queasy. It was extremely fortunate, then, that she was immediately spared from her woes by an old familiar.
SHE KNEW HIM WELL at one point in her career, but in the moment of meeting his brown eyes, couldn’t tell well enough from a gaze so dead and empty. Perhaps she had somehow caught the man flustered by the turn of her head, but then again, it did seem that he was staring directly at her the moment his countenance entered her vision. When the man’s expression finally broke and a high smile started forming on his face, the Stenographer knew she had the pleasure of meeting one of the city’s finest orators. It was most unfortunate, then, that his name had somehow eluded her mind in the moment, and, ever quick-witted, the poor woman could return only a half-smile before prompting a strange greeting.
“I re-mem-ber you.”
“...A lot of people say that,” replied the Orator, now having come to re-examine the engagee from top to bottom with his eyes. “I did not expect to see you here, I’ll admit.” Suddenly, his eyes changed form and perked the slick brows forward. “You must be here to write down the speeches, yes? Hah, silly, silly me!”
“Oh, I su-pose so,” the Stenographer continued, ever cautiously examining the chattering crowd around her.
IN TRUTH, THE THOUGHT never crossed the woman’s mind, but now she was evidently startled by the notion that she was supposed to bring something. At this moment, the Orator’s gaze started to make her uncomfortable, and she tried to ignore the signature face of Loyalist rhetoric that now placed itself right beside her. The first lifts had begun to lower themselves, and the ever-removed party somewhere upstairs still occupied her mind patiently. Perhaps it would’ve been better to ask someone what the occasion was about, but in the moment, everyone seemed too preoccupied and forlorn for conversation. It was thus decided chiefly that the Stenographer will take the next elevator with or without the Orator, although the former option seemed much more natural — and she would rather prefer to go with the flow. On that thought, perhaps, the question of further proceedings found itself a perfectly fine answer. The traitorous waves of life will surely take and thrust her violently from the coast of safety, but at the same time, they would just as likely return her to shore — one must simply harden the skin against the sharp and freezing waters.
LOUD PROCESSIONS began dominating the hall and the noble men of the iron carcass eventually turned into waves of their own, parting and connecting at ease when needed. When the great storm subsided, everyone seemed to have settled nicely within their respected group of acquaintances. Just as the Stenographer now chiefly hoped, the Orator happened to keep himself nearby and, if one was to maintain their fascination with water, served greatly as something akin to a heavy boulder that broke the continuous flow of the river. His natural aptitude at staring down familiar silhouettes from behind earned a couple quaint dialogues, but most importantly, it earned their yet malformed duo a third member, thus chiefly cementing it as a fully fledged group. The new figure, joining their line fresh from reserve, was a man visually imposing and, at the same time, awfully disheveled. His face was of ungraceful aging, camouflaged with wrinkles and darkness, but most unnerving in his appearance was that it veiled a perfectly healthy body. The Orator seemed to know who the figure was from first glance and quickly extended his hand.
“Have you come to join us, Vexillum?”
“I suppose I did,” the man replied in a rather blunt manner, putting emphasis on the last word. “You’ve got anyone else with you, or is this a modest operation?”
“Operation? Ha!” the Orator picked up with a little chuckle and clenched his signature smile. “No-no, sir. I have a perfectly fine, brave… soldier, right here.” At this point, he stepped to the side with the subtlety of a theatre curtain, revealing a full profile of the Stenographer’s unimpressive frame.
“...That’ll do,” the Vex confirmed with a small, modest nod.
THEY WERE NOW NOT TWO BUT THREE, each with their own stories to tell of that confusing and harrowing evening. But until the curtains dropped and gave them ample room to breathe and collect their embellished accounts, the lift was already lowered and quietly waiting for them. For in that long ascent would arrive and leave questions plenty of the upper house, unspoken in good part due to common etiquette and in less so, fear of quiet reprimanding. The invisible cogs of the giant mechanism that now carried them invaded the soundscape with strange churns and rattles, and dozens of floors must’ve met their blunt gazes in the endless ascension. Across and beyond ran the hundreds of feet of the Tower’s inner bowels, but as with most things in life, such sights remained obscured behind the metal hulls of obsidian that delegated them to this mock-up of a breathing track. Perhaps they were heading straight to the brain of this construct — but in all likelihood, it was simply another boring room — just set high above the clouds. Or perhaps, it had no windows and would be as dark as the innards of cosmos.
THE AIR BECAME COLDER with each passing theory, and the gradual dimming of the lights suggested to the Stenographer that their party was heading only to the most unwelcoming of places. Such was the binding power that waiting had over her mind — she could feel her heart beating like a strained drum of a triumphant parade. It was her own musical crescendo, an accompanying stinger that would stop only at the height of tension. And only when this sickening ascent had slowed, and small streaks of light broke through the suffocating blanket of the surrounding darkness, that she felt she'd fall on her knees and surrender to the Tower's will. Yet in these final moments, she found it in herself to muster what remained of her waning courage, and when the metal doors of the lift began to unveil a path of yellow light, became the first of the three to move further into this new, alien world. Through the Stenographer’s cautious glances, there came not fear, but something else — a grasp of much missed serenity.
