"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
01-17-2020, 07:55 PM (This post was last modified: 01-17-2020, 08:01 PM by Pentecost.)
Do you want to know why I use a knife? Guns are too quick. You can't savor all the... little emotions. In... You see, in their last moments, people show you who they really are. So, in a way, I know your friends better than you ever did.
A silvery glow emerges from dark shadows that play tricks in the setting sun. His mane--a careful mix of reds and purples--flapping casually in the sway of motion, his flattened ears pinned against the brim of his skull; pressed deep like rocks sinking into wet sand. Overly saturated tones of reds and oranges cast over the meadow like splatters of paint, few horses still dotting the treelines as they retreated to their kingdoms or caves.
He wonders if they are like him, as they retreat back into the shadows and he comes out to play. Disappointment radiates from his starkly lit face, glistening a silver sheen in the last kiss of sun before the moon gave him a reflective glow. Does it sing to them how it sang to him on quiet nights, or in lone hours? Does it speak to them how it spoke to him about dangerous faces, horrid names, cursed colours, and the tricksters?
Do you see what I see?
No? I whisper in an irritated fashion, clinging to the inside of my body as the feeling of vulnerability washes over. Like squeezing my sides and feeling for my pulse made things better.
A pretty bird, cries for help,
A soft purr that lingers deep in my ears long after silence fell. I look where I feel IT point--the ache of exhaustion beginning to plea for attention--amidst the whisper of naked tree limbs and banks of snow left tossed from the wind, where a vibrantly unorthodox blue coloured mare stood idle on the treeline, her colours so intensely hit by the suffocated sunset.
Cries for help but we’re in the clear,
The air is more intensifying than the spark of rock against rock, and I gape in attempt to find the words that IT must stop. I trust my mind less than I trust the mountain lion who scouts the mountain passes.
So off we take the pretty bird,
I feel pressure building along my spine, the ache of my frontal lobe beginning to throb as a giant alarm. I need to sleep, it dawns on me as my mind continues to spiral in deafening shrills.
Cage away her fear.
The rake of tree branches against fur whispers to my left, realizing I had only made it mere yards away from the tree line before the signal of an intruder grasped my attention. A blushing glow radiates from the tip of my muzzle through and up my ears before falling back down into the root of my chest, the feeling of sweet relief.
A witness meant peace, and distraction. Perhaps long enough that my mind will grow so tired it falls into a cold slumber before the black heat of words or jingles wafted into the avenue of scrutiny, again.
PENTECOST
WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW WHO WERE COWARDS?
Your sons and daughters will prophesy,
your young men will see visions,
your old men will dream dreams.
- Acts 2:17
She had not meant to wander far.
But then, she never did.
And it was impossible to gauge just how far she’d traveled when she was no longer certain of what place she should call home. If there had ever been such a place. Sometimes she thinks that she must have been picked out of the sky, pressed into the soft folds of her mother’s belly. And there, she had sprouted from all that stardust and she’d burned her way out of the womb too early and her mother had not known how to care for a something that could not be cared for.
Leonora understands now.
She understands that it is no one’s fault.
Long has she wandered. And she has grown, too. And she has learned. She has learned that she cannot touch without destroying and this is an ache that she does not yet know how to navigate. Because she is kind, Leonora, but she cannot express it except for with breathless wonder and temperate smiles. She has shrieked with delight, reveled in unfettered happiness, but has always been careful not to touch lest her companion come away burned.
There, at dusk, she emits a soft glow. It will intensify as night takes hold, it will remind her that she was meant for the sky. As if she could forget. She sees him there, at the edge of the forest, and sucks in a sharp breath. And then, softly, she makes her way toward him, drawn to him by the constellations mapped out down the length of his neck.
She blinks those brilliant eyes, diamonds in the sea of stars scattered across her face, and smiles. “Hi,” she says, breathless, “my name is Leonora.” Because mother may not have been able to kiss her head or offer her anything by way of sustenance (not with the way the child’s mouth burned her each time she tried to drink), but she instilled in her a fine sense of manners and politeness. She plunges onward, a thin, taut line of excitement wrapped tight around her words when she asks, “are you from the stars, too?”
01-26-2020, 04:05 PM (This post was last modified: 01-26-2020, 04:08 PM by Pentecost.)
Do you want to know why I use a knife? Guns are too quick. You can't savor all the... little emotions. In... You see, in their last moments, people show you who they really are. So, in a way, I know your friends better than you ever did.
I watch her come, a warm reddish brown with eye-catching strokes of blues carefully placed. She vibrates a visible energy that glows with demand for attention. A luminescent shine that leaves my eyes motionless, paralyzed in the presence of her. But, is she safe?
A few seconds pass—maybe five or nine—before I hear yes, she is safe, cooing in confirmation.
That’s enough for me, as I twitch my ears to her voice; her singsong tune that lingers with the disappearing sun. I turn to face her—my hindquarters swinging ever so softly—only leaving the whispers of snow as it crushes beneath my weight. I get lost in her doe eyes, watching as they blink with emotion and… care? Is that what I see here?
A child of the stars I hear IT whisper, a place to belong, Pentecost.
She talks as if lost for words and I cannot help but wonder if I may have contributed to that, or if she is just naturally breath taken.
It is because of us, dear Pentecost, us! A definitive answer.
I bite my tongue, the conflict between head and heart taking hold here and now. My mind reminding me that I do tend to see the larger, more long term picture that perhaps felt pressuring to others. That I did cut corners and jump steps because I can be impulsive and unpredictable. I let out an uncomfortable gasp for air, as if caught off guard—or even offended—to be considered a child of the stars.
Dear Pentecost, do you hear what I hear?
“A child of the stars?” I look at her with mouth agape, a cult I had never heard of, yet I sit here thirsting for more answers, more information.
“Leonora,” I whisper equally breath taken, “I am Pentecost,” another exhale before silence bestows us once more. I feel her sea of energy waft over me like a rolling tide of soothing saltwater, getting lost momentarily before coming to surface again.
Tell her we are children of the stars, Pentecost.
I hear IT demand, the lingering tension that cradles my thoughts with extra care and caution—as if I am walking a tight rope, and dare I say the wrong thing… Well, it could go very bad. Though IT’s words still light-hearted and dare I say, warming?
Tell her, friend.
I knew this could not be true, as I am the child of Carnage and Perse and I had never heard of the term prior. But, there is something about her. Something that makes me want to be like her. A tingling sensation that could be mine for the keep if I just said yes, Leonora, yes! I am a child of the stars! We are long lost siblings, but we have found each other now.
But, isn’t that lying? But, we want her to like us.
Yes, but won’t she anyways? No, Pentecost. No one ever likes you.
“I am a child of the stars,” I respond with uncertainty, “at least, I must be.”
PENTECOST
WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW WHO WERE COWARDS?
@[leonora]
Your sons and daughters will prophesy,
your young men will see visions,
your old men will dream dreams.
- Acts 2:17
There is a single pulse of uncertainty.
A fleeting instant where she thinks she’s done something wrong.
Because he merely looks at her and she feels her first warm rush of absolute self-awareness. It makes the nerves sing in a new way she’s never heard before and her heart shudders in the cavern of her chest when their eyes meet and he says nothing. She’s all full of kinetic energy, standing there on the precipice of something, fully at his mercy. It is up to him to turn her away or reel her in, for she finds herself hooked, line and sinker.
And then, finally (mercifully), he speaks. And her smile deepens beneath the weight of her relief. Because she is but a girl, young and naive, but still quite familiar with the bitter sting of rejection. Because sometimes they mistake her for cruel, the way the pull of her gravity coaxes them in, only so that they might come close enough to touch and come away burned. She is careful now to keep her distance so that he will not feel the tug, so that he will feel no urge to come closer.
The heart leaps and twists when he whispers her name, dropping it gingerly into the negative space that separates them. And then his own, which she files away for later use. Pentecost. She does not know what it means, but she likes the shape of it. It fits quite comfortably into folds of her brain, she finds. She will remember his name and she will remember his face but she will remember the stars most of all.
“It’s nice to meet you, Pentecost,” she says and then hastily buries whatever urge she might have to reach out and touch him so that she might know what he feels like, too. She will not burn him, she thinks mightily, she will not risk it. She will keep her distance so as to not scare him away. Because she likes the way he looks at her.
He is a child of the stars, too, he says and she cannot swallow her laughter fast enough. It bursts out of her, unbridled, and the sound glitters in those diamond eyes as she searches his face. Perhaps he is like her! Perhaps he is a thing that draws and scorches, too. She does little to try and rein in her joy, this sweet, sweet relief to have found him. Instead, she beams. She beams and she glows and she chances one tiny step forward. “Do you burn, too?” she asks. And, in it, there is hope.
Do you want to know why I use a knife? Guns are too quick. You can't savor all the... little emotions. In... You see, in their last moments, people show you who they really are. So, in a way, I know your friends better than you ever did.
She is ecstasy to him. He doesn’t know it yet; the thrill, the rush, the vibe, the feel. He doesn’t know that she will set a new standard of high, the petty things previous are and were over the minute her glow touched his ebony eyes. It’s irrational, and dumbfounding. Everything about it screams wrong, but something about the two star-kissed creatures under the oncoming blanket of night sky seemed unfathomably right.
She is ecstasy to him because she has lit a spark of curiosity in an otherwise very dark space. A space where two pieces of him fought over the switch, fought over who he should be that day. It left him awake at night once the thoughts had finally fallen mute, wondering who he really was. Who he was meant to be? And she gives him brief fleeting moments of clarity. The vibrations of touch come back to surface, the depth of sound tickle at his ears.
I notice the influence I have on her as she recoils back into her shell; a second, yes, but she didn’t conceal it well. I feel a pulse of power, a radiation from deep in my chest that spreads across my stomach. It dissipates though as her confidence resurfaces. It falls away, allowing room for a different kind of warmth to boil. A comfortable, confidence that matches her own aura; a savory, unique sort of taste.
“No,” I offer with a softness that awakens the space left between us, “the pleasure is mine.”
Why are you being nice? She will see the real you, soon.
A threat: a coolness drips through my ears and down into my neck, an uncomfortable remark meant to leave a lasting impression. I beg for silence; a break from what I am sure is described as insanity. A feeling of complete and utter helplessness, when not even the company of her—with intoxicating air and a voice comparable to the soothing tunes of piano lullabies—is able to save me.
Her question leaves me speechless, because I do burn. I burn every minute of every day. I burn every time the voice in my head awakes with ferocious flames, inhaling every inch of consciousness and sanity of my mind and leaving charcoaled blackness and death. I feel myself die; I see my views change and shift into things I cannot quiet explain or ignore. I watch as my memories begin to morph, and my paranoia grow with demand for attention. An uncontrollable, unpredictable fire so strong and so vicious it’s taken every last part of… Me.
“I burn,” I nod, a somber cloud of emotion and depth hangs and I feel the weight of my words and how much they mean. She has allowed me to transform, my transparency glowing in how I offer myself to her; vulnerable.
“Do you scar?” I ask sincerely, because I did. I scarred with every insult and every judgement. I could tell you about the scar that stole my confidence. I could tell you about the scar from when I lost my trust. Or, the one from when I forgot who I was.
That one hurt.
But, would she believe me? Would she believe the secret demons that plagued my brain? Would she be able to stand by and watch as insanity ate every last inch of life from me? Can she ignore the mania? The hysteria?
The absurdity?
She will never believe you, Pentecost.
The truth hits hard, an uncomfortable reality bestows me. IT is right, why would she? I am no more familiar to her than the bird sitting idle on the tree to our right. It’s ignorance to our euphoric energy refreshing to me; this is our world, and our space, for now.
PENTECOST
WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW WHO WERE COWARDS?
@[leonora]
Your sons and daughters will prophesy,
your young men will see visions,
your old men will dream dreams.
- Acts 2:17
There is a flash of something brilliant at the very center of her.
It fills her with new warmth. It reorients the pattern of her pulse so that it is quicker, stronger. Heat pools in those star-kissed cheeks and she has to look away. Because it is such a simple thing to say, but it is quiet and it pools in her every uncertainty until she is no longer aware of them at all. There is something secret in it that makes her precious head swim and she has to skirt past it simply to stay on her feet. Because it could knock her off balance if she let it.
She watches him consider the question. She watches, too, as something dark passes across his face.
It is the weight, though, that gives her the most pause. She cannot help but wonder if he means it in the same way. If he were to touch her, if it would scorch her. Or if his burning is something else altogether. She knows the pain associated with the isolation, the agony of having to live in a world without touch, but whatever pain she hears in his voice seems different.
She is not an especially smart girl, Leonora, but she cannot help but feel like their suffering is different. Her smile weakens, fades until it seems as if it had never been there at all. She wants to touch him now more than ever. Perhaps she could make him smile, if she could just wrap him up in the gravity of her embrace. But she does not trust that he would be impervious to the way she burns.
“Oh,” she says, quiet. There is no relief in it and whatever hope had colored her tone is gone now. It is forlorn, though she is uncertain exactly what she is mourning. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs after a beat of silence. Not for asking. But for the hurt in all of it.
He turns a question on her and she turns her head to study her own shoulder. Smooth, unblemished. Every inch of her virtually untouched. And she shakes her head and then smiles ruefully, turning her attention back to him. “No,” she says, plain. “Nothing can get close enough,” she adds. And then rolls those unblemished shoulders in a kind of shrug. “Because I destroy everything I touch and everything that tries to touch me,” she admits, though she’s not sure why. Perhaps to explain the amount of space she maintains between the two of them. Perhaps simply to warn him.
02-02-2020, 03:32 AM (This post was last modified: 02-02-2020, 03:33 AM by Pentecost.)
Do you want to know why I use a knife? Guns are too quick. You can't savor all the... little emotions. In... You see, in their last moments, people show you who they really are. So, in a way, I know your friends better than you ever did.
I know she feels it; like we were meant to cross paths. I feel it as she radiates heat that I swear I can feel from here. I see it as her eyes dart hastily away from my grip, as if one more second might leave her exposed. I hear it in her creamy-smooth voice that purred into my ears.
She reminds me of the doe I saw earlier this morning. It’s delicate frame, lean and athletic with soft features and big, round eyes. How it lifted its head calmly, with poise to observe my intrusion. Her ease in turning away, before disappearing into the fog.
Beautiful, natural, captivating.
I feel my heart pull as her mood shifts to match my own, as if to catch her heart from falling as low—hopeful to save her before her face faded from a shimmering bliss to a dulled somber.
“Don’t apologize,” I whisper in a silvery hum, “you are the reason my spell of overcast has been broken by the shine of you.”
I wonder—momentarily—what she means next, partially lost in her voice that reminds me of pattering rain on a warm day mid-summer. She burns others and I feel for her, my neck desperately wanting to reach out if only to exchange a few short breaths. Though, I do not. I do not cross the boundary of things I am unsure of.
I destroy everything I touch, and everything that tries to touch me.
Oh, I know. It feels so fast. Like only mere minutes ago we were total strangers. But, Leonora, we are not strangers. Call it fate, magic, luck—but, here we are. With stars to connect our paths in ways we were never prepared for.
“Leonora,” I say with the voice of wind humming through a hollow cave, “do you feel empathy for those you destroy?”
PENTECOST
WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW WHO WERE COWARDS?
@[leonora]
Your sons and daughters will prophesy,
your young men will see visions,
your old men will dream dreams.
- Acts 2:17
Her breath has gone thin.
She can feel the edges of her vision begin to soften.
And she does not know what these things mean. They frighten her, certainly, but not in a way that makes her want to flee. No, they frighten her in a way that urges her to venture closer, to investigate further. The nerves ache with their want to touch him and their want dissolves around the sharp edges of need when he speaks next.
Again, heat pools in her cheeks and she smiles sweetly, bashfully. But she does not look away this time. Not even with the way her pulse thunders in her throat. She is something split cleanly in two by a pair of equally visceral reactions. There is one part of her that says to turn and leave before she does something rash, before she burns him, too. And there is a second part, equal in size and conviction, that urges her to stay right here for the rest of her life.
Darkness gathers, puckered, on the horizon. The sun has slipped from its post and, as it descends, that shine of hers intensifies. Where it had once brought with it a flicker of embarrassment, she embraces it fully now. Because she’s looking at him now and thinking that she would do anything to keep his clouds away. She draws away her gaze only long enough to chance a glance up at the sky – clear, the stars winking at them overhead, the only witnesses to whatever magic is transpiring between the two of them now.
He says her name then, pulls her back down to earth, and her heart lodges itself into the narrow space at the base of her throat. Not even her mother had murmured her name so sweetly. She does not grin or tilt her head coyly, just looks at him boldly, stricken. There is a brand new vulnerability in those diamond eyes and he could certainly tell just by looking at her that, in that moment, she is willing to tell him anything.
Empathy. She thinks of the bird she’d leapt into the air to kiss and how it had fallen down dead and how grief had wrapped its iron fist around her heart and would not relinquish its grip for months. She swallows thickly now, thinks there must be a wrong answer. She blinks, slow, but does not look away.
“Yes,” she whispers. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
The voice shakes and she lets out a thin breath.
“Do you?”
Do you want to know why I use a knife? Guns are too quick. You can't savor all the... little emotions. In... You see, in their last moments, people show you who they really are. So, in a way, I know your friends better than you ever did.
Do you?
Her voice is a sweetness that lingers in my ears, and I cannot help but wish to have more than our syllables touch. My eyes trace over her body, when only moments ago it tremored with a radiating heat and energy that begged me to come closer.
It stops now with a soft hum of anticipation, as if maybe my voice is an aged earth-wood to balance the sweetness of a merlot-flushed apple. A match so delectable and crisp, yet dependable, and safe.
We can keep her safe, safe, safe…
I know we can.
I look to her, her hickory carcass illuminating in the softest of glows as the sun dips behind the archaic forest, and I wonder if it has a temperature or if she just naturally emits a warmth that resonates with even the most horrific parts of me.
“You are without a doubt the most fascinating creature I have ever crossed Leonora,” I hold her name in my mouth with hesitancy, as if letting it go might risk never breathing it again. “I would never hurt you.”
It’s true, what I say. I will not ever split a hair on the star-kissed mare, whose face shimmers of a map to forever and whose mane tangles in a mess that I want to get lost in. I hesitate to make promises beyond that, because one day she might need me to hurt someone.
And I might do it. (For her)
I take a step forward, it’s meager In size but genuine in gesture. I cannot help but feel a stronger pull, as if my mind begs please, one more though I dare not. Akin to the biscotti-haired doe exposed in the early morning haze, I fear Leonora might retreat into the mist as if she never really existed after all.
Perhaps a cruel tease, my mind does that often.
“But, I…” My voice cuts into the air, a sputtering doubtfulness that spits into the air before I have time to puzzle-build a sentence, “I cannot lie to you, Leonora. I do sometimes think of hurting someone… Sometimes even, myself.”
I watch her, search her past the map of stars and distractingly-alluring entanglement of black hair. I search for a verdict, will she stay?
Or did the small peak at instability denounce any chance we had at following that map?
02-20-2020, 02:13 PM (This post was last modified: 02-20-2020, 02:15 PM by leonora.)
In that moment, she feels fascinating.
Because he has made her so.
Perhaps there is something to be said for the stars splashed across her face and the way she glows, same as the stars in the sky, when the sun sets, and the way she draws things in with that steady pull of gravity. And she has loved these things, same as she has loved the stars, but she has never felt fascinating. Until now. Until he speaks it into existence and all that heat pools in her cheeks.
He says her name again and it echoes in each hemisphere of her brain and in each of the chambers of her heart. He says her name again and she knows that she would follow the sound of his voice to the edge of the earth. And perhaps this is a dangerous thing to think – for she is young, still, and they have only just met – but she thinks it all the same.
There is something dark and foreboding in his words. He’d never hurt her. The pulse quickens and her head swims but she does not look away. Because there is some thrill to be found in the danger of it, too, and she is but a foolish child but she wants more than anything to reach out and touch him and to have it not hurt either of them.
There is nothing she can think to say. So, the silence stretches thin between them. She understands, she thinks. Or, she can pretend that she does. She can convince herself that she does. Because he has given her no reason to fear him. Even if he did, though, she cannot say for sure if she would or not.
She swallows thickly in the wake of his admission, nods almost imperceptibly. But then something sharp twists at the very center of her. A blade plunged into the meat of her soul. He’d taken a small step toward her, almost as if by accident, and she cannot stop herself from taking a step now. She wants, more than anything, to rush to his side, to wrap him in a warm embrace, to kiss the brow and hold him close. But this is the most she can manage: one teetering step closer still.
“Why, Pentecost?” she asks, quiet, her brow darkened with concern, “why would you want to hurt yourself?”
