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 Posted: Thu Jul 23, 2009 2:35 pm
❝ and she was like mournful bells blowing in the wind; the way they would break everyone just to retain that corner of her heart ❞ xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxWritings
i. Kiss ii. Run iii. Rust
iv. Fly v. White vi. Room
vii. Wings viii. Those Dearest, Suffer
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Posted: Thu Jul 23, 2009 2:37 pm
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxKiss Cold lips pressed against her forehead, breathing ice into her skin, creating a mark to show that she was dead in their eyes. It came slowly, glowing blue around the edges, starting as a faint white outline that solidified into pure black. An elegant cross with soft round edges and a dagger like point falling south like a drip of blood.
She was not welcome, so close to becoming prey. And the kiss not only placed upon her the symbol of death proclaiming to all fae that she was now solitary but took from her dreams. Whenever her eyes closed, whether in rest or sleep, no dream would ever enter her mind or bless her with images so sweet. She had no other choice but to live her fantasies; each day a new dream come to life. All because of a kiss.
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Posted: Thu Jul 23, 2009 2:38 pm
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxRun The stones were sharp against her bare feet. The hedges were ripe with thorns that reached out to hold her. The sky was dark, flashing with jagged lightning and rumbling with thunder as clouds fought, over her head. The rhythm of hooves danced behind her with shouts growing into an army. She could not hope to vanish or be overlooked, no doubt she would be found soon.
She gave into fear, running forth like a frightened deer. The thorns tore at her face and arms; the stones tore at her feet and toes. A trail of metallic red seeped against the ground announcing her path to the hungry horde behind her. There was no hope to get away. It took far longer for her to fall, tripped by vines wrapping around her ankles and thorns tearing into her thighs, than it took for them to find her.
They converged on her, lifted her high into the air, laughing shrilly as they took her back to be presented to the Queen. It would be complete now, her eternal damnation, from the court. She could not be raised up from this humiliation. She was charred white, heart too much like a mortal's beating inside her chest, by letting the ice melt. She could feel empathy now. The Queen would have the honor of tearing off her wings. She would be solitary, nothing would be able to save her, and forced into the mortal realm. No iron stake would be placed through her heart; that would be kind and the Queen was anything but kind.
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Posted: Thu Jul 23, 2009 2:39 pm
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxRust It's black and cold but it burns her. It has no sharp points, no metal shaving that would puncture her flesh and dig under her skin like a splinter, and yet it is entirely deadly in it's cold blunt form. It gives no hint of danger except when it ages.
It reminds her of coral, red orange rusting over like the sun is setting in the thin piece of metal. It's a secret proclamation that it'll make her hurt. It's foreshadowing her blood on that iron pike. After all, iron rusts red.
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Posted: Thu Jul 23, 2009 2:42 pm
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxFly She's a silhouette, fairy fire lighting her from behind, as she stands at the threshold of the open window. The air is cold and brisk as dead autumn leaves swirl before her. It reminds her so much of the hidden fairy tales that she wants to step out and hope the air will cradle her body and lift her high...
She feels the jab of pain below her shoulder blades, wispy stubs of once splendid wings poking through her magick and flesh. And she doesn't know whether to cry, they're growing back because she has moments where she wants to go back, or beam with hope and jump into the wind's awaiting arms.
She's like Wendy, waiting for Peter to return, her mouth perfectly pink and kissable but bestowing no real kiss on anyone because it belongs to the one boy who doesn't want it. She isn't sure if Flan is Peter, she doesn't love him like that, or the Court, they'd kill her, or maybe it's the wind, oh how she'd like to fly again... Her kiss lingers, mouth swiftly falling prey to the blue cold, and then she's melting away...
She throws her arms wide and jumps from the window, laughing in sheer delight as she seems to hover, before falling down into the bramble vines of swamp brown and leafy poisonous green. She lands on her feet and falls onto her back with a giggling smile on her lips. Her soft brown waves splay about her head like an old halo and her blue eyes sparkle so so bright. And she can pretend, for just a moment, that her Peter (any Peter) is hovering above her oblivious to anything but her sweet mouth and offering her a thimble.
For if she could dream, she would dream of flying and thimbles. She doesn't care to be kissed. She just wants a thimble from a boy because she nevereverever wants to grow up. She wants to forever and always fly. Fly with Flan holding her hand and a thimble between them of sibling love. It's all she'll ever want, ever need. Flan, a thimble, and dreams of flying. Sweet, sweet Little Darling.
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Posted: Sun Jul 26, 2009 7:03 pm
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxWhite She's pretending this moment. She's sitting on the old merry-go-round that's fallen into disrepair. The colors are faded and stripped with a sanded off texture. It doesn't move so much as groan in protest against being turned. Occasionally it swivels like it's getting ready to fall down, but it doesn't.
She's out of place in her white nightgown. It's plain and long, fabric brushing her ankles when she stands and getting caught around her calves when she sits. The surroundings of muted life on the verge of death conflict with the vibrant form of the young woman who pretends she is a child but chooses not to look it. The blonde hair has not dulled to sweet mouse brown and the silver eyes have not turned to quenching ocean blue.
But it's the white that sets her apart. The white says she's alive and whole and innocent, when not even she can pretend that is true on this day. She's only waiting to slip into the other realm where she promised, because she's supposed to, that she'd meet her newest toy. The other realm where she'll have to be grown and serious and fae, never child. Never white. Always red and black and gray.
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Posted: Sat Aug 15, 2009 6:10 pm
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxRoom The door was broken off the top hinge, falling outward and leaning against the wall like a drunk vagrant. It had once been fine oak but now was muted sand riddled with graffiti etchings. The crooked door was dusted with dishwater gray cobwebs trailing down and blowing in the wind. It creaked and groaned calling out to be righted, fixed, saved, but was greeted instead with oft displayed tolerance, transformed into a simple antique that was paid no mind.
A potted tree sat just inside the doorway branches wilting under an invisible weight. Barren soil rested around a thin trunk of brittle bark, a dusting of silver leaf chipping off in clumps of dull foil, wishing to be fertile and nurture dying seeds. The leaves were colored bright, catching autumn in nutrient deprived veins, as they scattered like a broken rainbow upon the floor. Red, orange, and brown crashed down crunching against wood trailing towards the open window despite the wind pushing them back. It created a walk of wanting out into the world, a path of freedom built on fragile dying life.
The window was timeless. It started a hand width beneath the ceiling and dropped to the floor. It was more like oddly placed French doors, once fresh white paint peeling to reveal weathered wood, pulled inward and forever left open. No curtains blocked the setting sunlight of orange tinged pink from cascading inward. The light shot in, reflecting off and refracting through glass panes that were powdered with dirt that had been crusted into corners of the trellis type frame. Small circles dotted the glass as though someone had tried to wipe some dust away but not cared enough to fully clean it.
In the center of the room, the drowsy sun played with the translucent mosquito netting falling from the ceiling and splaying out like a veil. A mattress was tucked inside with moth-eaten pillows piled up and tattered quilts twisted up into braids of cloth. Threadbare cotton sheets of palest pink crinkled against the foot of the bed with a forgotten book filled with yellowing pages bound between ink blotted covers.
An almond painted porcelain hand peered out from an exceptionally eccentric quilt of plaids, checkers, flowers, and polka dots in once neon colors now dulled by a film of age. It was connected to a china doll, a salmon pink colored smile on her scratched face, with empty green eyes. A frilly collared blue nightdress covered the stuffed body but accented the jagged slivers of the back of the doll's head. It had been found, empty skull stabbed with an old rotting plank of wood, in a room on the other side of the house that had once been a nursery. It apparently had been decided worthy to keep despite it's faulty existence.
Groaning bookcases of wormwood resided against the wall opposite the entrance. One was rough with splinters, the base collapsing in one corner pushed it crooked, mud splashed against the sides. The shelves were awkward resting all helter skelter with books shoved without order on any surface they fit. The other was caving in with the force of gravity. A fine sheen of sawdust covered it as boards cracked in two sending an odd collection of books to the floor. At least one bound in black leather with the golden words "Holy Bible" emblazoned on it, while the others consisted mostly of silly fairy tale titles that had been rescued from mold and water with the utmost care.
The walls were bare except for one picture. The frame was a stripped black and the glass was suffering from clay and twisted ivy that refused to budge. A fuzzy image of a horse could be seen through the muck, white mane tossed to the side as it's body reared up on strong hind legs. A silver armored knight held on tight, a sword thrust in the air, and most likely proclaiming to save a damsel and slay a dragon. It hung by a thin piece of wire over a nail lost in a fantasy that the room seemed desperate to capture.
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Posted: Wed Sep 09, 2009 10:19 pm
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxWings xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxI'm safe
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxUp high
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxNothing can touch me
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx-- "Sober" by Pink She was crying. Opaque pearls of hurt pooled at the corner of her eyes, smearing under her lashes, before falling as translucent rivulets that shimmered on her cheeks. The paleness of her skin was flushed with a red tinge like soft rouge and it was apparent she had been in some sort of confrontation that ended in pain. A puff of breath escaped her mouth, throat closing tightly as lumps formed in her windpipe, and she wondered if this was what it would be like to have an iron pike thrust through her flesh, blood of unknown color seeping down her naked body as she was paraded around like a misfit horse that had failed to win a race. She shuddered, body feeling so fragile, like a crystal chandelier poised to fall to the hard concrete floor. Why, why didn't he understand?
The jagged filaments of membrane peeked out from just above her shoulder blades with a sickening unevenness that spoke of vicious cutting. She could feel them aching, trying to breathe the embrace of wind as it curled underneath and lifted her high into the sky. She could feel them twitch and brush against her skin, leaving cold trails of broken idyllic peace behind like a trail of shedding belief, and it hurt like rust driven under her skin. A shuttered breath signaled a brief ease of pain as her tears began to dry, thoughtless air brushing them away into dust but leaving glitter running down her cheeks like mascara. It made it no easier, the lapse of pins sinking into her body, to bear the horror that he thought it was nothing.
It had been a deliberate sacrifice on her part to show her solidarity with her brother, Flan should have known that she thought. He should have realized how important wings were to her. He should have taken her into his arms, proud of his little sister for her bravery, telling her that he was so glad that he wouldn't be taking the journey alone. She had done it for him but apparently it meant little, it meant nothing. She wondered why she felt clenching in her chest, cold water splashing through her veins, the organ known as a heart speeding greedily inside of her. The empathy and sympathy had been beaten out of her, leaving apathy in its wake and now she could hardly remember what heartache felt like.
She imagined dark black and blue marks swelling around the stumps of her wings, peppered with yellow and purple, and wondered then if that would make him realize that it was no easy task to take a knife to herself. They were not flirty appendages without feeling, they were part of her and so very sensitive to everything. She could rarely ever wear clothing that had a high back to it, cloth no matter how soft would grate against the fine membranes and snag against gray tubular veins. How was it that he thought it was so easy?
And for what? For uncertainty? For belief in some being known as God? For weakness of solitude? For nothing that made any sense! She didn't understand this new and sudden need of his to learn about religion. She didn't know what to think of it. She all at once wanted to curse not only the Court for their assignment but the priest for his spouting flowery speech that meant nothing. It should have meant nothing to him, to her, to them. Instead she found herself forced to consider it for him. She could remain, she had thought about it, but she knew it was a lie. She could not stay without becoming a target. She would be lucky if in staying she didn't end up as the newest prey in the hunt. And there would be no Flan then to protect her.
So she had taken a blade to cut off that what showed she was fae. She had stripped herself that of which she valued most, of that which were so often praised by the Queen. All through the ordeal she had felt the feminine strokes of admiration from the Queen against the translucent wings. It had become a habit for the Queen to take pride in her young lady-in-waiting's wings. To the Queen, the fine appendages spoke of proper breeding and beauty, of future power and royalty, of all that she valued. And she only minutely regretted that she had no wings herself whenever she would look on the being she had chosen to eventually become her heir. And Líle had felt that, in every fiber of her being as the blade ripped through fragile membranes, through fine wrapped cord of veins, through eventual bone. And it was so much harder than anything that she'd ever done before.
Wings were not nothing, they were her life. She could not be expected to flourish in the Court, being repressed into a package of beauty that was never appreciated and forced into a fray of sexuality that could never relish her power. She was lost in that world. She was misused and abused and completely useless. And worst of all, she knew nothing such as happiness. That only came when playing games, when being with Flan, when escaping to the other realm, but never when she existed in the Court. So it should have been easy to break away, cut off silly useless sproutlings from her back. Instead it was the opposite. She had ever known the Court as her home. Yet in having wings, she could flee from it. She could fly away. And in leaving, in proving to him that she was becoming solitary, she had to severe the one thing that could make her happy.
What Flan could not understand was that often she rose into the sky like a comet. A crowning jewel that was coveted and lusted after until she became a worthless piece of dust. She could not outshine the sun nor the moon. She could be a piece of fluttering nothing upon the wind's breath, floating up high where nothing, no one, could touch her. Not even the Queen, with all the fae at her feet could reach her. Not even Flan, the only one who touched her heart as though sown together with a fine piece of silk. She was free up in the sky, with wings that said fae, with a soul that said safe. But that had been then, now she had nothing. No wings, no Court. She was unsure of if she still had Flan.
She breathed in. Her magick spun like a spider web, strands spiraling out from her chest to slink against her body. She felt the transformation, the walls falling down into rubble, as her long ebony hair shortened and colored to a soft honey oak brown. The irises of her silver eyes melted into liquid sapphire pools. A soft apricot blessed her normally green skin and her long lithe figure turned into that of a young girl. She looked normal except for the stubs of once glorious wings flattened against her bare back. And with determination in her eyes, she stalked off to find Flan. She would make him understand. They could hurt her now.
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Posted: Thu Oct 08, 2009 10:37 pm
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxThose Dearest, Suffer xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxShe seems to have an invisible touch yeah
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxShe reaches in, and grabs right hold of your heart
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxShe seems to have an invisible touch yeah
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxIt takes control and slowly tears you apart
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxShe don't like losing, to her it's still a game
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxAnd though she will mess up your life,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxYou'll want her just the same, and now I know
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxShe has a built in ability
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxTo take everything she sees
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxAnd now it seems, I've fallen, fallen for her
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx-- "Invisible Touch" by Genesis Edwin glowered somberly at the merlot colored wine, his hand clutching the stem of the wine glass as he clumsily swirled the liquid within it's confine. His eyes were the color of wilting celery leaves. His face was drawn and pale, a faint flush of pink left on his cheeks from his earlier bourbon drinking. A week's worth of ebony stubble scattered across his firm jaw, dimming in comparison to his long straggly black hair falling to his shoulders. He looked a wreck.
A breeze caressed his once flushed face, the sounds of a soft rain beating against pavement lulling him into a savoring mood, as his mind filled with visions of her once more. She was never far away from his thoughts. In fact, every day she seemed to invade them more and he was soon forgetting he was married. Truthfully marrying-what was her name again?-hadn't been his best idea especially when he was so entranced by that other woman.
Wendy. The name, accented by the popping of raindrops outside the window like stars bursting in front of his eyes, tantalized his senses. His mouth twitched into a half grin that resembled a leering smirk. Oh, he wished she would float right into the dismal unlit room he was drowning in. He couldn't seem to give a damn that the wretched sobbing from the next room kept rubbing against his thudding heart, asking him in whispers too soft to hear to come and love his beautiful wife. All he could think of was the bewitching young woman he had met less than two months ago. And now, she was all he could think of.
He spent his days floundering in a job he no longer cared about. In fact, he'd been asked to quit before they had to fire him. He supposed that was nice of them but he really couldn't care less. At night, he barely managed to greet his wife with a kiss on the cheek and eat dinner before seeking refuge in his study. Now it was little more than a bar where he drank until he could no longer keep his eyes open. He became soused to the extent that going to bed meant slipping off his stool and crumbling to the floor. He no longer took notice of the pounding pain that awoke him in the mornings when his angry bride opened the blinds to allow the vengeful sun to blind his entire soul. He needed help, an intervention that would drag him back to the respectable gentleman he'd been, and yet all he imagined was her. Yes, his beautiful Wendy would come and take him into her arms. She would save him from this wanting, needing, her.
It had been almost a week since he had last since her and while any normal woman would have slowly faded from his mind until he built her into perfection, a model that the real woman could never live up to, his Wendy never fell pray to that. For it seemed no matter how long he was denied her presence, his mind retained her image and it grew in detail, casting an undying flame in his heart, the longer he was without her. At just under a week, five days, three hours, eighteen minutes, he could see everything about her in his mind. That sweet brown hair that in the rising moonlight reminded him of cinnamon sticks, with each tendril curling into gentle waves that started at her cheeks and fell so gracefully to her shoulder blades. He knew it must feel like imported silk that he would never grow tired of touching, combing through while his fingers brushed against her scalp with such care. The eyes of a pale sapphire gemstone not yet polished to the deep blue of an endless sea, a fine palette of moonlight trapped in irises that made his heart race. Those eyes that would see into his very soul and know that he could not bear to live without her. And he would feel the rose tinged porcelain skin under his hands, hands that were too course to be allowed such an honorable moment. Just thinking of it set his face to flames, cheeks burning with the thought that he, only he, would be able to touch the exquisite creature.
He was tempted, in the not quite drunk state of his current existence, to seek her out. He was tempted to be deceitful and take his wife to their marriage bed only to think of the woman he really wanted.Only before he could go any farther in such sinful thoughts, delicious as they were, he heard the back door open and allow a gust of chilled wind to calm the raging heat that threatened to over take him. He downed the last of the wine, slamming it down on the bar, before turning to see who it was. A growling remark was poised on his lips as his blurred vision settled on a figure shrouded in the cape of moonlight hitting it from behind. The slender beams of white slid against the form making out the feminine body and he knew, even before his eyes adjusted, that it was her.
"Wendy!" The black cloud that had hung over his head since his last meeting with her, steadily growing blacker and more dismal, was brushed aside. He stood up on legs that seemed likely to bend swiftly at the knee and send him to the floor. Now that she was before him, so beautiful, so perfect, so real, he felt his mind rebel. The heaviness of addiction clawed within his chest, the lucid sanity of his mind slipping into a downward spiral, and he needed her. The intense desire to rush to her, pin her to a wall, capture her lips in a fire searing kiss overwhelmed him and yet he found he could not move. He needed to draw her into him, not take her. She was too special to not be wooed and won. And though he was far from a poet, his mind filled with words and with a steady step he moved towards her.
"Oh, fairest, dare I ask you to grant me respite from the constant longing that you inflict me with? Would you, most beautiful, even dream of allowing such an unworthy suitor to approach? Can you see through my eyes the desire I have for you? Might you think less of me if you could see all that I want," it sounded thick and husky to his ears. A voice that could not possibly catch her attention. For he was, after all, nothing at all without her presence. He knew it was quite wrong, backwards, to descend into such drunken antics when she did not come but she was his sun.
"Edwin, you are always a boy," she laughed like the soft note of a soprano. She shook her head at his antics, finding them amusing, curious to see what else he would try. It was always fun to watch Edwin try to woo her, always flailing and floundering, until he was close enough before she put it a stop to it. Sometimes she wondered if it was cruel, the way she pressed them to want her and then let them drown. The corner of her mouth twitched up, perhaps it was cruel but who was she to deny her ancestry? It was her birthright, her nature, and really they didn't seem to mind in the end.
"Boy?" he asked. His breath hitched uncomfortably, his long legs carrying him to her in a moment. "If boy is what you ask of me, then boy I shall be whilst I grovel at your feet! But please, please allow me to be man!" He stared up at her with his now bright green eyes, down on his knees like a fool, spouting nothing more than flowery words he made up off the top of his head. "For if I was man, if I was man I could give you happiness. I, as man, could and would take your face in my unworthy hands and look into your crystal eyes of ocean. I would press my lips to yours and taste the sweet wine residing in your mouth. Would you deny that you find yourself curious about a kiss between us?"
"I don't need to deny what isn't true, Edwin. I need not be curious about a kiss, not from you, or have you forgotten? You are married. I cannot think of you as anything more than boy, no matter how you wish to woo me. Or do you suggest that I should be your mistress?" she asked, no hate or anger in her voice. It was instead soft and flirty, as though she didn't need an answer because she knew. Or maybe because she didn't believe him. Whichever of the options it was, it only made the man before her keen to redouble his efforts.
"Never! I would never wish to hide you away to fulfill only physical needs! Any man who would think such a thing I would gladly kill with my bare hands to make sure your honor remains intact. You, my lady, are a woman that should never be placed in such a place of sin. I commit a great folly in allowing my words to be so misconstrued. For you I would free myself of that woman, for she is but a dying star and you are the sun. And as mere mortal I cannot help turning my face to you, hoping that no matter how long you are away I shall always awake to find you return to me. I truly am nothing more than man for even though you are not mine I wish you to be and think of you as, for you are to me as oxygen is to my lungs," his breathing was growing rushed and shallow. He felt the hope in his heart burn white hot, turning to crumbling ash, for no matter how he spoke he feared he could not convince her of his utter need for her, of his absolute devotion.
"Enough Edwin. Poetry doesn't suit you and you are far from Shakespeare."
"Then how should I speak?"
"How shouldn't you speak. I only came to visit, to see how you are. You really don't look well, how is your wife?" It sounded so perfectly innocent from her that he shrank back, what the hell was he doing?
"I wouldn't know, though I'm sure you can hear her sobbing though I don't know why," he sighed, running a hand through his black hair. When did everything get so complicated? "Why must you ask about her? Are you trying to make me feel guilty?"
"I was simply making conversation. Why shouldn't I about your wife? She is a lovely woman. Don't you love her?"
He was tempted to cry out that no he didn't, couldn't, love her when he was in love with another. And yet he felt as though he had already ruined all chances with the woman before him. He groaned turning away from her before he made a bigger fool of himself.
"Edwin?" she spoke softly, watching him sink into the despair that always followed her visit. How in the world did mortals falls so effortlessly in love with someone they didn't even know? It baffled her, amused her, that they were so completely trivial. Although in some manner she liked Edwin, she could hardly ever love him. She was still undecided on whether or not she would grant his wishes true when he died. There wasn't a reason to let him in yet, not only because he stilled lived, but because he hadn't nearly suffered enough to be with her. No, this was simply the beginning. There was no doubt in her mind, he would go the distance of suffering, forcing it on himself with every waking breath until he drowned. It would be beautiful, she decided. She smiled, absently, walking forward and slipping around him so that she could place the final nail in tonight's visit. She reached her hand out, brushing her fingers against his cheek with a familiarity that was not deserved. "You are allowed to hope," she whispered, a smile in her eyes that she did not allow to touch her mouth, "but despair has always been the mark of real love, has it not?" she teased.
He closed his eyes, leaning into her palm, then before he could get his bearings and reply, she was gone. He wilted instantly into a heap on the floor, heart breaking into pieces, as the waters of love engulfed him. With a whispered, "Wendy", he slipped into a sleep filled with her. Always her. Forever her.
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