03-10-2021, 12:28 PM
Spectra
She is oblivious to the storm beneath the living sister’s skin, the thunder in her chest that tells her to move, the effort it takes to quiet it. The ghost is such a weary thing, laying the weightless head on the hip and releasing such a thin breath, spectral breath. (She does not need to breathe, but it is a comforting thing.)
And Tirza sister asks if the ghost wants to rest and she lifts her head, meeting the real eyes with her transparent ones. How does a ghost rest? She has tucked herself into the shadows, away from the bones, and closed her eyes but she has never woken feeling refreshed. She has always woken feeling like nothing has changed at all. She has always woken feeling like an hour could have passed or a thousand years and none of it made any difference.
She shakes her head now with a kind of mournful smile. “No, Tirza sister,” she murmurs. It is such a kind thing to offer, she thinks, to protect. But a ghost cannot be killed or harmed any more than it can die. There is no danger for her here. The only danger is in being alive. She is older now but this terrible darkness has killed whatever vegetation might have sustained the viper (and she is no longer a viper, is she? No longer has the fanged teeth. Only the blunt teeth of an equine made for eating the grasses that wilt around them now.)
“It is so wonderful just to have you here,” she says and means it. And then asks, “are there others? Other sisters?” She means siblings but she doesn’t know the word.
And Tirza sister asks if the ghost wants to rest and she lifts her head, meeting the real eyes with her transparent ones. How does a ghost rest? She has tucked herself into the shadows, away from the bones, and closed her eyes but she has never woken feeling refreshed. She has always woken feeling like nothing has changed at all. She has always woken feeling like an hour could have passed or a thousand years and none of it made any difference.
She shakes her head now with a kind of mournful smile. “No, Tirza sister,” she murmurs. It is such a kind thing to offer, she thinks, to protect. But a ghost cannot be killed or harmed any more than it can die. There is no danger for her here. The only danger is in being alive. She is older now but this terrible darkness has killed whatever vegetation might have sustained the viper (and she is no longer a viper, is she? No longer has the fanged teeth. Only the blunt teeth of an equine made for eating the grasses that wilt around them now.)
“It is so wonderful just to have you here,” she says and means it. And then asks, “are there others? Other sisters?” She means siblings but she doesn’t know the word.
ALL I WANT IS BEACHES FULL OF DEAD BIRDS. A FLOOD OF LIMBS
WASHED UP ONSHORE. SEASCAPES SPARKLING BRIGHT WITH BONE
WASHED UP ONSHORE. SEASCAPES SPARKLING BRIGHT WITH BONE
@[Tirza]