How the Angel Drowned My Spark

Since 2DT’s away in Canada (WOOO!!), I guess I’ll write some shit using this random sentence generator. I’ll generate ten sentences randomly, and write three sentences of my own between each of them to try to make them make sense. Each paragraph will begin with a randomly generated sentence.

Except, wait!! 2DT just got internet. So, here’s his image and here’s mefloraine’s compilation, and, wait!! Random sentences and 2DT’s theme aren’t mutually contradictory. So, yep, I’ll still be doing the above; it’s just one extra sentence to insert, right? Can’t be too difficult…

Why won’t the vessel fume an incorporated stiff? The problematic question crossed Manacole’s mind more than once as he walked by the murky streets by the abandoned sock factory by the docks by the sea. He was a cemetery engineer by profession, but a sailor at heart; he exhumed by night and dreamt by day. Dreamt of the sea, and the clouds, and the joy of sailing, and of running by the seashore as a little boy, waving with puerile exuberance at the grandly majestic hull of the RMS Spark drawing into port.

A daft sock jams across a waving cinema. Night arose, dusk as quick as the dawn, monotonous, unchanging. The blue of the sky into the black of the sea, a lone pulsing orb of light illuminating the horizon above his view. Manacole solemnly trod across the macabre lands surrounding the graveyard, the lone sock mirthfully fluttering about, a wistful simile to the joys of death from the ghosts of life.

The customer stalls a fairy radar throughout a factory. It rings, loud, hard, piercing; but Manacole hears nothing. A one-two, one-two; with a push, a shove, a pull, a yank, the coffin, released from its peace. Suddenly, the lights turn on in the abandoned factory, a frenetic whirring of machinery, the low hum-hums of age-worn devices and contraptions, the graveyard luminous, outshining the moon in spectacular splendour and scurrilous sins.

Can the mere western quibble? Or must a breadth of intelligence lead the way? Whatever the responses, Manacole runs away, a one, one, one, one. He never wanted this.

How does any moral shy away? A shriek; pain, and was this how? His bloodied leg, remnants of the pirates’ scoundrel strikes, the whole of the Spark severely slaughtered. The memories flooding into his meagre mangled mind, once damaged near death but miraculously, somehow, surviving, slipping surreptitiously seaside. The only.

The pump reacts. Surviving, to what avail? Formal discharge. Immoral behaviour: twenty years.

A swept tennis frowns. There was a reason none ventured near the socks, remnants of an ancient age too powerful for mere men to ‘magine, unlimited unrest, uncontrollable, as the tide went towards and the dikes went down. The pump fails. A spark of life; yet, his heart and mind and soul were dead.

How will the bias referendum button a brave axis? Thoughts of politics, and engineering, but not of the sea swiftly sweeping away first the decrepit docks, then the cursed cinema, then the lone sock still dancing in the wind. Slam! Into the walls of the factory, its doors screeching of stress, tired of tides, finally giving in.

A racket laughs with a cooled missile. The hills by the horizon, safe and sound; what were the dikes for but the protection of an abandoned factory and a neglected cemetery, where an insane exhumer would sinfully release the ancient ghosts of the past into the unrelenting, restless road of revenge? Corpses, one after the other, cremated, cremated, cruelly cremated, a one-two-three one-two-three with his left leg left to linger on, lost in the languid lake of loss. A laugh, spreading far and wide, yet not reaching Manacole’s ears, drowned under the water and sand and pressure; of water, of life, of death, and of failure, of failure to protect his wife, his children, his friends, his family, and his Spark, scuttled sadistically in the dank depths.

The substitute star tanks the lisp. How can the vessel fume an incorporated stiff when the stiff was himself and himself was the vessel? It was simple. And Manacole’s body and soul and mind fused and infused and -separated-, as he became Manakel, the Angel of Oceans.

It’s how the angel drowned my Spark.