demonic790
09-29-2012, 06:38 PM
A quick glimmer of hope halted an abhorrent thought before he closed his eyes to shutter the rays. Blinking to refocus, he found himself ferociously thrashing his limbs about, and, without imprudent planning, he collapsed to the floor. He forced himself not to act upon it. Hope for a wounded bull like him was exhausted and he began to indulge himself in the flavors of absolute sleep. He took another quick glance at the force, a matador of sorts with golden plated shoulder pads, embroidered with thick linings of rosary design. Platinum-like cloth glimmered with every rotation of the cape, bordered by white scores of fabric, and, from a distance, the man shined with dazzling effect. But the bull had been near him for far too long and could see through his glossy veil. A good attempt, but he wasn’t fooled by the façade and mumbled in a gratuitous fashion at the matador’s outward appearance.
It had been the bull’s first time out in the field, jailed by enthralled audience members looking for terrible entertainment. The bull was a savage in the rink and his objection towards the act only aided the claim. He was confident and pierced his gaze at the man adorned in the fashionable attire. There was no waiting, no calmness, and no infatuation with the lavish cape. Patience was left in the cage and freedom was bittersweet for the moment - something that the beast hadn’t felt in a long time. For just a few seconds it was eternally grasped and the world had rendered itself a prison for the man to feast on. An infuriated bull, now with a sudden fascination for the scarlet flow of the material, forced himself to become enraptured with the vigorous movement, and charged towards the cloth. Every muscle; each nerve and vessel driven with vengeance, with blood pumping cataclysmically out of the bull’s heart. Terror was vacant from the scene and each step towards the matador cherished a new beginning for the beast. Time slowed…for just a brief second…where noise couldn’t be explained and nothing but an aspiring heart could be detected. Without fair notice, the bull had gathered his horns around the fabric and shoved with complete conviction and infinite force.
The bull remained annoyed, boring his eyes on the sheet and watching it float up, without but a single scratch. He watched the rays of light peak through the edges, blinding his vision, until the matador gracefully surrendered the cloth on the opposing side of the bull, provoking another rush. Realizing his displeasure with the constant taunting and the uselessness in his previous efforts, the beast stampeded towards his freedom again. This time with greater accuracy and precision, yet, to no avail. The matador now jumping and hitting the bull on the back each time it instigated a rush. Again, the beast had been teased in his own home and blinded by hope, but with more creed, the beast charged again. A relentless force the third time, stumbling over his hooves and growing weary. Until a thought burst into his head. Quickly, the matador was skewered to the bull’s horns like a prawn and flailed around the rink. Control of the field was handed to the bull now and he abused it wildly, slaughtering any confidence the man had in his profession and blinding him by the rays of light that gave the beast, too, a lack of visible hope. The matador had been thrown about like a ragdoll -unconscious now- pressed against the wall of the stadium with screams of terror resonating around the ring. Until suddenly, in an instant, the bull was taken from the man and rendered a subject for experiment again.
The bull began to accept his fate and before he could act upon his thought, the beast was stabbed with a single sword thrust to the neck. The estocada was not complete. Now a struggle for supremacy, the bull thrashed his limbs around in agony and screamed in unexplainable suffering. One final push of the sword through its neck and its minute reign had ended. A blink to refocus, optics began to blacken, and colors blurred together.
Sounds were muddled, but a crack in the void drowned the beast’s voice in silence and engrossed it in automatic cheer. An end to a great rule, but the show must go on…Now bring out the next bull!
It had been the bull’s first time out in the field, jailed by enthralled audience members looking for terrible entertainment. The bull was a savage in the rink and his objection towards the act only aided the claim. He was confident and pierced his gaze at the man adorned in the fashionable attire. There was no waiting, no calmness, and no infatuation with the lavish cape. Patience was left in the cage and freedom was bittersweet for the moment - something that the beast hadn’t felt in a long time. For just a few seconds it was eternally grasped and the world had rendered itself a prison for the man to feast on. An infuriated bull, now with a sudden fascination for the scarlet flow of the material, forced himself to become enraptured with the vigorous movement, and charged towards the cloth. Every muscle; each nerve and vessel driven with vengeance, with blood pumping cataclysmically out of the bull’s heart. Terror was vacant from the scene and each step towards the matador cherished a new beginning for the beast. Time slowed…for just a brief second…where noise couldn’t be explained and nothing but an aspiring heart could be detected. Without fair notice, the bull had gathered his horns around the fabric and shoved with complete conviction and infinite force.
The bull remained annoyed, boring his eyes on the sheet and watching it float up, without but a single scratch. He watched the rays of light peak through the edges, blinding his vision, until the matador gracefully surrendered the cloth on the opposing side of the bull, provoking another rush. Realizing his displeasure with the constant taunting and the uselessness in his previous efforts, the beast stampeded towards his freedom again. This time with greater accuracy and precision, yet, to no avail. The matador now jumping and hitting the bull on the back each time it instigated a rush. Again, the beast had been teased in his own home and blinded by hope, but with more creed, the beast charged again. A relentless force the third time, stumbling over his hooves and growing weary. Until a thought burst into his head. Quickly, the matador was skewered to the bull’s horns like a prawn and flailed around the rink. Control of the field was handed to the bull now and he abused it wildly, slaughtering any confidence the man had in his profession and blinding him by the rays of light that gave the beast, too, a lack of visible hope. The matador had been thrown about like a ragdoll -unconscious now- pressed against the wall of the stadium with screams of terror resonating around the ring. Until suddenly, in an instant, the bull was taken from the man and rendered a subject for experiment again.
The bull began to accept his fate and before he could act upon his thought, the beast was stabbed with a single sword thrust to the neck. The estocada was not complete. Now a struggle for supremacy, the bull thrashed his limbs around in agony and screamed in unexplainable suffering. One final push of the sword through its neck and its minute reign had ended. A blink to refocus, optics began to blacken, and colors blurred together.
Sounds were muddled, but a crack in the void drowned the beast’s voice in silence and engrossed it in automatic cheer. An end to a great rule, but the show must go on…Now bring out the next bull!