THE SETTING SUN shone as if held in place by hand. It sent a band of light down the narrow slot that remained between a low layer of clouds and the flat horizon. The pastel light fell at an oblique angle, gleaming on the wet street, the car roofs, and the windows of buildings.
I walked home from class, the sun at my back. Traffic was brisk and the sidewalk was clogged with weary pedestrians, most carrying bags or packages. The people looked straight ahead and walked with purpose. I was an exception, my eyes scanning theirs as they walked toward me.
“That’s how you tell the country people from the city people,” one of my U of W classmates had commented as we had walked home a few weeks ago. “Country people make eye contact.” (more…)
we are not the same
you will hear
i am the harpy of your nightmares
will tear away your sunsets
until all they do is bleed
i am not your
but i am the one you should have
instead you took me for granted
so you’ll pay the consequences
i am a daughter of the
i will not be
told you once that i had a temper
you laughed in my face
told me that i
but my claws disagree with that notion;
i hope that you’re ready narcissus
to face the music
so many nightmares in this world
you’re just another monster
whose masks i will
if he comes too close because i am
a dreamweaver full of love, hope, and peace;
but i will not forget how you broke
me to pieces just because you
because you mistook my kindness for weakness
i will show you the insecurities that bubble
and froth beneath your own skin their
you are the dark witch looking for hearts to devour,
and i am the light one;
until one day there will be a moment where one of us can
be no more and since you’ve already killed me
i will not die again
my arrows will fly and they will strike you straight through your masks
into the heart of you and you will fall to your knees—
you’ll try to say something to curse me
so i’ll cut out your treacherous, lying tongue before you can;
and you will stare at me in wonder as you fall
wondering where my mercy went
i only give mercy to those who wish to repent and those who deserve it,
but monsters who hurt others will not be given any consideration
when i fell them. (more…)
A ship is designed to carry only what it is meant to carry, for exactly as long as it meant to carry it. For to have even a hair out of place could mean tearing open the tightly sealed hull, or scrambling the control unit, or distort navigation, or throw off the air pressure. If a ship is damaged in flight every human being would die in seconds, still strapped to their seats in the empty vacuum, the one-way travel tickets frozen against their breasts as the open wound of their ship drifts into infinity.
Miki was twirling atop an ice cube when Vida first saw him. Each time he leapt off the edge with his fist in the air, her heart followed. Perhaps it was too soon, but she couldn’t help it.
She’d heard the stories about the children from Hiemslandia. The ice thieves. The giants. And the rescue—of course the rescue. Even with the condensation droplets in the way, Vida could see Miki’s wounded eyes that shone through the chilled glass.
Vida sat down at his empty table and smiled. And Miki sat down on the ice and looked back at her. He extended his arm to the foggy covering and polished it with his sleeve. His action was nothing—not really. But Vida, seeing his openness toward her, giggled and loosened her shoulders.
I like my hands—small, translucent. As I look at them now, I see that my fingertips are pink with cold. Strokes of black soil are embedded beneath the fine slivers of pearl. I touch the bark of a tree. I can’t feel it.
On my feet are red, satin slippers. I always wear them, even in the woods, even when it’s cold like this and pebbles press painfully through the soles. Droplets of blood mingle with the seeping dye. The cold has burnt all feeling away so that my hands and feet are no longer mine. I dance through the woods on numb toes.
“Red,” I called her. It was because of the red, hooded cape she always wore. No one else could have worn that cape. Anyone else would have looked ridiculous. But my little Red could never look ridiculous. Maybe it was the thick, straight eyebrows, the simmering, liquid-gold eyes. She was such a dark, little beauty, the eyes stood out in sharp relief. Looking at her then, you would not have believed she was only fourteen.
Perhaps that’s why no one ever worried about her, not even when she walked alone in the woods. The mother was awful. The grandmother was worse: all day in that musty bed, in that hideous nightgown buttoned all the way up to the grotesque glob of chin. They took advantage of poor Red. The girl had no childhood at all. And, like a child, she stuck religiously to that path.