06-16-2017, 09:28 AM
make me pay,
like the devil i am
like the devil i am
The chill of autumn hangs precariously in the air, the heat from summer still simmering quietly as the sun rises. There is no wind to rustle the branches of the evergreen trees that protrude out over the river, a somber silence filling the early morning. A mist, hauntingly white and thick, slowly moves in, shrouding the many rocks that line the river with its vaporous cloak. The sunlight begins to spill through the dense canopy of trees, mostly a mixture of thick spruces or thin, spindly branches of birch. The leaves had hardly began to change their colors, but the bite that the air brings seems to make the trees shiver in anticipation for the colder months. The morning mist continues to grow and swirl, the steam and spray from the rushing river mingling with the evaporation. The sunlight is not strong enough to begin to burn away at the fog, as it would in the warmer seasons. It continues to hover over the bank and its whispering waters, as if drawn to the rumble and boil of the gentle rapids.
Within him, it simmers and churns, meticulously lying in wait in the dark depths of his soul. Hours before, in the dim light of the sun’s first light, where even the crickets have stopped chirping, an evergreen and lavender colt stands upstream, staring down at the frothing and hissing water. His large, dark eyes bore down into the clear and crisp water as if he is under a spell, ears listening to the murmurs and hushed voices that call to him from the water’s depths. The river croons to him, the gentle pull of its current tugging encouragingly at his fetlocks, beckoning him to join in its treacherous path as it winds downstream.
The ocean, the rivers, the lakes, and even the rain will call to him, a familiar voice that serenades him almost incessantly. Its voice clouds his thoughts, allowing nothing but thoughts of the deep, dark abyss that hums to him with such a sickly sweet sound.
Young and inexperienced in appearance, the colt was now rounding his second year and was more skilled in his gift than he had ever imagined; the water bends to his will easily now, almost lustfully, wanting nothing more than to please its master. The water was his lover and he, its puppeteer.
The cool and damp air of the morning sticks to his painted skin, the sunrise beginning to paint the sky with oranges and pinks. His skin shivers, cracked and dry lips quivering as he lowers his head to the water’s surface, letting the frigid waters dribble delectably from his pearlescent chin. He steps in further, the cold water pulling at his knees with fervent, icy kisses. Fluidly and without interruption, the water begins to trace upwards on his legs, erasing the color of green and pearl that cling there to a point where it was impossible to tell where the water began and where he ends. It moves methodically with expertise, slowly climbing upwards to his chest and haunches, growing and pulsing with a life of its own.
In the dim morning light that begins to peek through the treetops, the shape of a young horse glitters perfectly, entirely made from the river’s water. It is there only a moment before the figure shatters like glass into droplets, falling into the rushing waters with a soft and gentle splash.
A bird calls sweetly in the distant forest.
It is here, moving and flowing as water itself, where he feels the most at ease. He feels himself moving with the current, rushing over smooth rocks and splashing against the ones that protrude from the surface. He does not know how long he will continue to let the river take him downstream; maybe he will stay here forever, never emerging from the dark abyss.
That is, unless, something interesting catches his eye.
Within him, it simmers and churns, meticulously lying in wait in the dark depths of his soul. Hours before, in the dim light of the sun’s first light, where even the crickets have stopped chirping, an evergreen and lavender colt stands upstream, staring down at the frothing and hissing water. His large, dark eyes bore down into the clear and crisp water as if he is under a spell, ears listening to the murmurs and hushed voices that call to him from the water’s depths. The river croons to him, the gentle pull of its current tugging encouragingly at his fetlocks, beckoning him to join in its treacherous path as it winds downstream.
The ocean, the rivers, the lakes, and even the rain will call to him, a familiar voice that serenades him almost incessantly. Its voice clouds his thoughts, allowing nothing but thoughts of the deep, dark abyss that hums to him with such a sickly sweet sound.
Young and inexperienced in appearance, the colt was now rounding his second year and was more skilled in his gift than he had ever imagined; the water bends to his will easily now, almost lustfully, wanting nothing more than to please its master. The water was his lover and he, its puppeteer.
The cool and damp air of the morning sticks to his painted skin, the sunrise beginning to paint the sky with oranges and pinks. His skin shivers, cracked and dry lips quivering as he lowers his head to the water’s surface, letting the frigid waters dribble delectably from his pearlescent chin. He steps in further, the cold water pulling at his knees with fervent, icy kisses. Fluidly and without interruption, the water begins to trace upwards on his legs, erasing the color of green and pearl that cling there to a point where it was impossible to tell where the water began and where he ends. It moves methodically with expertise, slowly climbing upwards to his chest and haunches, growing and pulsing with a life of its own.
In the dim morning light that begins to peek through the treetops, the shape of a young horse glitters perfectly, entirely made from the river’s water. It is there only a moment before the figure shatters like glass into droplets, falling into the rushing waters with a soft and gentle splash.
A bird calls sweetly in the distant forest.
It is here, moving and flowing as water itself, where he feels the most at ease. He feels himself moving with the current, rushing over smooth rocks and splashing against the ones that protrude from the surface. He does not know how long he will continue to let the river take him downstream; maybe he will stay here forever, never emerging from the dark abyss.
That is, unless, something interesting catches his eye.
m a u g r i m.