03-13-2017, 05:59 PM
once upon a time;
Her ears perk and swivel at the sound of that angry crackle.
She faces the magician, reeling back and heaving with her own circular and furious momentum. She breathes, smiling and shaking, tip-toeing towards Cordis. Each hair stands on edge. Her brain pinches fear into her nerves, screams it. She is such a silly girl. She is just aware enough to stop before she gets close enough to that lightning to invite it in.
The first time they had met, Alight had almost been kind (or stupid) enough to ask her why the silver women felt so empty—their forsaken hearts, perhaps, had called to each other; but just as the magician holds back disgust now, so had her own loss repelled the slimy, unkind nature of Alight’s own ache.
She’d like to think she has something in common with this women—lightening for fire; love loss for love withheld—but that would be the arrogance. (Father-giveth.) All she has is a temporary power over her, thinly securing their union. It all moves and pulls and pushes towards this moment.
She had promised. She is here.
“Magician,” she repeats, relieved and weak. Again, the title. The utility. (She will never see it; she would never accept it, even if it was brought to her, plain-faced and simple. She fancies herself a kind girl. And she can be—but the princess needs, doggedly and she gets what she wants.) “I’m glad. I need you—we need you.” She licks her lips (that kingdom is dry and dusty).
“I am in love,” (she is a woman possessed), her eyes flutter shut delicately at the sound of her own fables, “but something has come between us. Someone.” (She has never sounded more like her father than now—that word barely scraping through the cage of her teeth).
She pictures all she knows, hold it fast in her mind with a steel grip;
—the black bonnet over her ears;
—one eye is red, but she cannot remember which;
—she is earthy and windy, uncivilized;
Her eyes open again, holding that woman captive if she needs to, “Her name is Spark.” She spits it, her wet, amber eyes reflecting the fire and electricity, “Giver—he is confused, you see. He has strayed,” this is softer, outreaching and loving, her smile wavers, and then it twitches as her eyes narrow slyly, “make me look like her, magician. One night is all I need. I’ll help him find his way back to the light.” Her breath is heavy, her lips wet and quivering.
This moment would be hers.
She faces the magician, reeling back and heaving with her own circular and furious momentum. She breathes, smiling and shaking, tip-toeing towards Cordis. Each hair stands on edge. Her brain pinches fear into her nerves, screams it. She is such a silly girl. She is just aware enough to stop before she gets close enough to that lightning to invite it in.
The first time they had met, Alight had almost been kind (or stupid) enough to ask her why the silver women felt so empty—their forsaken hearts, perhaps, had called to each other; but just as the magician holds back disgust now, so had her own loss repelled the slimy, unkind nature of Alight’s own ache.
She’d like to think she has something in common with this women—lightening for fire; love loss for love withheld—but that would be the arrogance. (Father-giveth.) All she has is a temporary power over her, thinly securing their union. It all moves and pulls and pushes towards this moment.
She had promised. She is here.
“Magician,” she repeats, relieved and weak. Again, the title. The utility. (She will never see it; she would never accept it, even if it was brought to her, plain-faced and simple. She fancies herself a kind girl. And she can be—but the princess needs, doggedly and she gets what she wants.) “I’m glad. I need you—we need you.” She licks her lips (that kingdom is dry and dusty).
“I am in love,” (she is a woman possessed), her eyes flutter shut delicately at the sound of her own fables, “but something has come between us. Someone.” (She has never sounded more like her father than now—that word barely scraping through the cage of her teeth).
She pictures all she knows, hold it fast in her mind with a steel grip;
—the black bonnet over her ears;
—one eye is red, but she cannot remember which;
—she is earthy and windy, uncivilized;
Her eyes open again, holding that woman captive if she needs to, “Her name is Spark.” She spits it, her wet, amber eyes reflecting the fire and electricity, “Giver—he is confused, you see. He has strayed,” this is softer, outreaching and loving, her smile wavers, and then it twitches as her eyes narrow slyly, “make me look like her, magician. One night is all I need. I’ll help him find his way back to the light.” Her breath is heavy, her lips wet and quivering.
This moment would be hers.
PHOTOGRAPHY © TASHA MARIE
![[Image: RS84HN4.png]](http://i.imgur.com/RS84HN4.png)
Pollock x Malis
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