The blanket of night drapes over the trees as stars peek through the moth-eaten sky. Air, chilled and heavy, will pull you down as it did me, into the damp grass and creeping creatures of the dark. There you will stay, clutching at some sense of reality while the stale air crawls across your skin and settles for the night. As you realise that he will soon be here, your throat will become tight and shivers will crisscross down your spine. You hope this time he will be kinder, that he will take you with him as he took me. It is an empty hope. For there will be no more choosing, no more partiality, there will be no one else but him and I. And we are not kind.
Our first encounter was on my sixth birthday, in the garden of the churchyard. The tall grass brushed against my legs as I picked flowers for a crown. Spotting an opportunity, a snake made its way towards me and sank his teeth into the smooth flesh of my calf. As the numbness began to course trickle my veins, tears and whimpers dribbled down my face. He slipped through the back gate with purpose in his step and coolness in his grey eyes; the air that surrounded him seemed a few degrees colder and goosebumps formed on my skin. Shortly thereafter, I felt a pair of arms lift me up cradling me, and I turned towards their owner.
“Thank you for coming to my birthday, mister. I really ‘preciate it,” I said leaning against his chest. And whether it was the slight lisp in my voice, or the smile when I said it, I still don’t know, but something in that man’s eyes softened and he exhaled as if conceding defeat. He set me down and looked at my leg, removing the poison with strokes of his slim, tender fingers. The snake lay cold and still in the grass and feeling began to creep back starting in my toes. Though I did not know his identity or intentions, the chill that arrived with him slowly began to fade.
I heard the distant sound of my mother’s voice, calling my name. I looked towards the windows of the church and saw my family waving me inside, entirely oblivious to my present company.
“Happy Birthday, Isobel. Take care of yourself,” he whispered with a soft brush against my arm and a hasty retreat.
Smoothing out my dress, I ran up the stairs to the arms of my father. He placed me on his shoulders and we continued the celebrations with no other appearances from the strange man.
* * * * *
We did not meet again for ten years.
We were obliged to find a prettier place
amongst the lands of the savage glens;
A place where the perfume of flowers
would not burden the air that filled our lungs,
And we could walk forward in the fields
without the fear of falling into ourselves.
There the surface of the earth was firm beneath our feet,
and we were no longer shackled to the sea.
But where are the people?
(their whispers waft through the willows)
Where is the breath that breaks the silence?
(a crack in the illusion of security)
Where are the voices that call our names?
(I can’t imagine they hear the beast beside them)
The girl was rage and pity; a young animal with meagre flesh,
quite thin and frail, consumed with an audacious spirit.
The brute paused for a mouthful, salivating at the scent of her heart.
(there is nothing so wonderful as a daintily fragrant and delicious girl)
touch of grace - olivia serio
sitting on the windowsill as heat spilled down his spine,
the young man wondered to himself if the sea below would cradle him
as it did his ancient brother. closing his eyes, he almost felt the air
kiss his brow and the sun lash out across his back. above all,
he longed to taste the exhilaration that one step
forward could bring.
from a rock amidst the sea, a siren screamed for her lover
to step back inside. her wails echoed across the ever-shifting tide,
but her voice was drowned out by the demons screeching
in his head. their claws cut into his shoulder blades and ichor
trickled down his spine, dripping across the carpet. the trail
led to his perch above the rolling waves of viewers, frothing
at the spectacle, the sight of blood, and the possibility of fresh meat.
the warmth of apollo spread across the ledge as he made his choice.
falling forward with his arms stretched towards the sky,
his lips moved in silent prayers to the gods,
so that the last thing he felt was the freedom of flying,
a relief when he knew that there was nothing left for him
but the tattered wings on his back.
a red light district.
the florescent lights thrum with whispered
prayers to ancient deities and filter
through eyelids fluttering frantically
in attempts to escape the eternal expanse
of an eight-am class. a lulling voice disrupts her
half-remembered dreams and with herculean effort
her hand stretches towards the heavens searching for an
street parts like a sea while a mother
(who isn’t there) whispers her child’s name.
the ceiling’s tide rolls in and laps
at the melted wax of broken wings that
sink the ship of her sanity. the lights pulse
like her broken record heart, sirens wail
and call their sister home. strong hands
hold her back and pump out the poisonous seawater
burning her throat as she stumbles through
a maze of medication with thread bleeding out
like the christmas lights in the window
and the marks on her skin she taps lightly
with her fingers. as the sun fades,
she raps on the window of a clear cut agreement
and what started as a stolen glance becomes something
with a name neither could pronounce. winter turns to spring
and she refuses to return her mother’s calls. her heart nearly
comes out of her mouth but she shoves it back into place
with careless words and a shrug as he turns out the
storm clouds prowl the sky outside the window
fogging her judgement as she looks over her shoulder
at the steadily blinking exit sign placed one door to the right
of the room where she swore she encountered something
holier than heaven. her fingers ghost across bruises long faded
and remember to strum the lie that petrified her pulse.
as she glances out the glass the light shifts from permission
to denial then back to the sanctification of a red light
art history meme | 3/6 themes or series or subjects: (daedalus and) icarus
Archetypes: ORPHEUS + EURYDICE (requested by drowninglovers)
He stumbles onward, ever upward, but his body is in wrack and ruin; a burnt husk left in the wake of the song. He trembles. The song that made dread Persephone cry; the song that set the dead howling and his lover a-stumbling after him; such things are not for mortal bodies to bear. With blood in his mouth and thorns in his knees where he knelt to beg, he makes a choice. There is no doubt nor terror left in his heart. He turns to look upon Eurydice because there is nothing left of him now but her.
1. Are her lips like the hot chocolate your mother made
During the winter months when you were seven?
Or have you not tasted her well enough to find the fine granules of cocoa that lightly come with each kiss?
2. Do you know her favorite songs?
Not when she is happy, but when she is sad.
What music reaches inside her ribcage and softly consoles her heart?
3. When she is sad, are you on the phone or are you at her door?
Words do not wipe away tears, fingers do.
4. Do you know all the things that keep her up at night?
Do you know why she has gone three days without sleep?
Do you know of the insurmountable waves of sadness that wash over her like a tsunami?
5. Do you know the things to say that will calm her heartbeat? The places to touch? The places to love?
6. Everytime you see her do you kiss her like it’s the last time but love her like it’s the first?
7. Do you love her?
8. Do you love her?” — “Things I Want To Ask Your Boyfriend”, Nishat Ahmed (via excrutiate)