02-03-2016, 08:55 PM
Some gory-ish detail. Some bad language. And if you don't know, now you know.
I called you to announce sadness falling like burned skin
I called you to wish you well, to glory in self like a new monster
And now I call you to pray
“Shhh,” he spits between tight lips.
And though she is not here, he thinks he can hear her voice echoing in his greathall of bony birch trees; her scent—
(the one he knew, that is: horsehair, and blood, in even mixture)
His nostrils flare, and he pulls in strong draughts of cold air. Spring (dirty and rotten, faintly nauseating), and that musk of her death. Blood. Horsehair. Maybe whatever bone smells like. He spins around, shifting out of sight. “Where are you?” he mutters, spittle draping over his quivering lip.
“Where are you!”
He hears the scraping of something on earth and the upturn of a stone and he launches himself forward. He thinks he can see something black and half-faced, but shadows rush in around the spaces between pines and naked wood and he thinks, maybe, he can see nothing at all. “Come here, woman!” He whips through the forest, dodging frozen trees and puddles of brown slush, shifting from sight and unseen—uncontrolled, he thinks. Uncontrolled, for the first time in a long time. This angers him.
He does not lose control.
He did not fall through ice and snow and space (and snow bear country) just to devolve.
—to be be undone by some uppity, clingy, dead bitch.
The forest blows by him. A blur of black and steely green, brown and grey-blue light. And then the open: silvery and swaying, wetted down by spring. He spills into the Meadow and runs until the air stings his lungs and is too cold to fill up on, expelled before it hits the back of his throat in a heavy, white cough. Until his thigh and shoulder aches so deeply that he stumbles, spraying meltwater up his knees and across his heaving belly. “Bitch,” he breaths, closing his eyes tight.
He cannot hear her anymore.
But he can hear something.
Inhales and exhales. Ribs expanding and depressing, Forceful breathing, and one heavy, sustained moan. His lip curls and he flickers out of sight, turning towards the sound.
In a crook, damp and unprotected, she glances over her her skin and bones, dropping her head back down in exhaustion.
A smell like old blood, tissue and fluid… Gold and pale off-white. He squints, his gut clenching, but he sees no wings folding over her hips. “But I know you.” the palomino whispers, taking a few steps forwards. “Hey!” he tests. And she does not react to him (as he knew she would not) but shifts to try and get up to her feet and tend to her newborn.
“Such a shame,” he murmurs. She lifts up to her knees, then to her feet. She is sway-backed and thin, he snorts in disgust, her udders painfully out of place on her hard, aged body. “This is a mercy.”
He breaths deep, stepping over the damp, red mound and rearing into the air, angling his headgear like a ram in combat. Eggshell-like. Crack.
Blood stains the whites of her wide eyes until they too are indescribable from the rest—jellied and strange. Remade and refashioned, he molds her like a careful artist.
Like a god.
POLLOCK
Lone Artist and Phina's
I called you to wish you well, to glory in self like a new monster
And now I call you to pray
“Shhh,” he spits between tight lips.
And though she is not here, he thinks he can hear her voice echoing in his greathall of bony birch trees; her scent—
(the one he knew, that is: horsehair, and blood, in even mixture)
His nostrils flare, and he pulls in strong draughts of cold air. Spring (dirty and rotten, faintly nauseating), and that musk of her death. Blood. Horsehair. Maybe whatever bone smells like. He spins around, shifting out of sight. “Where are you?” he mutters, spittle draping over his quivering lip.
“Where are you!”
He hears the scraping of something on earth and the upturn of a stone and he launches himself forward. He thinks he can see something black and half-faced, but shadows rush in around the spaces between pines and naked wood and he thinks, maybe, he can see nothing at all. “Come here, woman!” He whips through the forest, dodging frozen trees and puddles of brown slush, shifting from sight and unseen—uncontrolled, he thinks. Uncontrolled, for the first time in a long time. This angers him.
He does not lose control.
He did not fall through ice and snow and space (and snow bear country) just to devolve.
—to be be undone by some uppity, clingy, dead bitch.
The forest blows by him. A blur of black and steely green, brown and grey-blue light. And then the open: silvery and swaying, wetted down by spring. He spills into the Meadow and runs until the air stings his lungs and is too cold to fill up on, expelled before it hits the back of his throat in a heavy, white cough. Until his thigh and shoulder aches so deeply that he stumbles, spraying meltwater up his knees and across his heaving belly. “Bitch,” he breaths, closing his eyes tight.
He cannot hear her anymore.
But he can hear something.
Inhales and exhales. Ribs expanding and depressing, Forceful breathing, and one heavy, sustained moan. His lip curls and he flickers out of sight, turning towards the sound.
In a crook, damp and unprotected, she glances over her her skin and bones, dropping her head back down in exhaustion.
A smell like old blood, tissue and fluid… Gold and pale off-white. He squints, his gut clenching, but he sees no wings folding over her hips. “But I know you.” the palomino whispers, taking a few steps forwards. “Hey!” he tests. And she does not react to him (as he knew she would not) but shifts to try and get up to her feet and tend to her newborn.
“Such a shame,” he murmurs. She lifts up to her knees, then to her feet. She is sway-backed and thin, he snorts in disgust, her udders painfully out of place on her hard, aged body. “This is a mercy.”
He breaths deep, stepping over the damp, red mound and rearing into the air, angling his headgear like a ram in combat. Eggshell-like. Crack.
Blood stains the whites of her wide eyes until they too are indescribable from the rest—jellied and strange. Remade and refashioned, he molds her like a careful artist.
Like a god.
Lone Artist and Phina's
![[Image: kkN1kfc.png]](http://i.imgur.com/kkN1kfc.png)