I Tried To Tell You
"My hyperboles are all too understated to be true to these feelings." Her deep eyes warm and liquid.
He leaned in closer, touched his nose to hers. "Surely you exagerate."
Pavlov's Ring Tone - WIP
The familiarity of contempt:
Bitter taste,
Drawn cheeks,
Notes ringing flatly
at the bottom of my voice;
An old hoodie
I haven't worn
Since the last time you called.
Going To Meet The Fallen Archons - MG
She felt Corrs hand take hers in the dark, his voice soft in her ear as he leaned close.
"This is real, Maggie, but not as real as I am. Nothing here is capable of hurting you while I will otherwise, and I very much will otherwise. Close your eyes. Breathe slowly. If you must be afraid of darkness, be afraid only of your own."
They walked down the rough stone corridor, barely more than a natural tunnel, for most of a mile.
Corr said nothing as he led her, and Margaret was afraid to disturb his silence, afraid for what he might reveal next. This world of his, hiding like muscle and sinew beneath the skin of her own, was impossible. That her quiet life sat atop this seething mass of myth and mystery, that she had never seen or suspected any of it, was a block in her mind keeping her from acknowledging and processing this cataract of impossible reality even as she felt herself drowning in it.
The passage finally opened into a small cavern lit sparely by glowing growths of lichen and a pair of small braziers. Shadowed alcoves pocked the chamber walls, and Corr crossed to the largest of the spaces, standing before it's gloom.
Margaret stood back from him, afraid to get too close, more afraid to find herself too far in that dark place. She shuddered as the alcove started to breathe.
At first, just a sense of pulsing respiration, then the shadows themselves seemed to move, like dark, satin curtains shifting in a languorous wind. Finally something rose against the shadows, took them as covering, pressed them into shape.
"Mirror, Mirror, in the words . . ."
Bouncing between stories tonight, getting nothing actually written, I realized how in so many of them the monsters win. I'm not sure what that means about my character or my world view, but I should probably take a bit of time to figure that out.
Visage - WIP - UPDATED
She had the face of an angel.
She kept it carefully folded in the right rear pocket of her jeans having cut it from the Seraph Anadial with a bone knife the night he came for her youngest son.
She had angel wings as well, but she usually left those at home.
Haling
"There are two parts to breathing," he said holding her in the darkness, "and you make both parts better."
Gleaning
Bringing fruit from the blooming
Of dark, hopeful lips;
From a pause,
To a purse,
To a soft airy phrase;
Pushed past rose
in the simplest prose:
A question,
An answer,
A sweet imposition;
Tongue between teeth,
Such a brief composition:
All petals and nectar
and fluttering pulse;
A harvest presented and gently presuming.
Infectious
The viral nature of our affair,
The defeat of serendipity with rage;
We declined gold
for Fortune's ore,
Refined whim to arrogance
and spent it
on a sensual and crimson beast.
The hunger of illusion -
Ravenous, insatiable,
Driven by poisoned surety
in broken selves.
Draining truth
of vital substance,
Trailing husks and lies
like fetid bread crumbs
to this haunted tomb:
Our names carved here
With that first careless step.
Trading - WIP
She wanted him to give up what he was
To become what she couldn't
Freshly Roasted
He liked his coffee too sweet,
His words too bitter;
She believed in milk and kindness.