Wow, this place gets dusty when I’m gone for a few days.
Have been wanting to wait until what I’m working on is done before posting it here…it’s much longer than what I’ve posted previously, sort of taking the microfiction I’ve been doing and seeking a whole that’s greater than the sum of its parts. But, then I realized two things: it’s going to take a long time before I’m done, given how little time I have to work on it now; and I started this place up to share what, how and why I’m writing. And that means not having to wait until every last little detail is perfect.
So, here’s a bit of what I’m working on right now. Let me know what you think, and keep an eye out for more bits and pieces to show up over the next few weeks.
Of bleeding stars, and screams, ancient and quiet.
Like that one guy, that one time, who did that thing in that place.
And the temple walls fell.
She shakes, muscles primed and failing. The voices echo, ache in her head. Pictures fly past her closed eyes, dizzying, incoherent narrative of everyone she used to be, and the holes they’ve left behind in her.
She sees sadness with held tears, creases filled with dust, hands unable to find the right movement, and words from toothless mouths that gnaw at her long after they’re gone.
She sees laughter cut short, limbs cut short, Death’s celebratory streamers of red, pink and white.
She sees sweat, and heat, and coughing constriction, knowing the tightness in her chest will last long after she’s unstrapped and removed her armor.
She sees a fly land on an unblinking eye, and can’t bring herself to brush it away, to confirm this place and time.
She sees a vortex, a maelstrom of the half-remembered and half-forgotten, and the shame of both.
Through it all, just one anchor, one solid place she clings to. Before she does it, as she does it, she sees it, the knife taking hold, skin bending, then breaking, can feel the shatter through her whole she, reaffirming it’s there. In that moment, the blinding flash drives it all away, it’s ecstatic, the release, all the tension, the confusion between hateful dreams and dark fantasies and why she can’t tell the fucking difference between them…all of it, fear and doubt and pregnant weeping, pulsing and burning, until finally cut.
She sees it before she does it, and as she does it. She doesn’t see it after…after is nothing, is quiet, is nothing but hands, arms, legs, the core in between, and a soft, gentle, warm caress dripping down.
She hides it from him.