10-09-2018, 12:52 PM
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(A river. A mermaid. A hazel.)
(A bloodied shoreline. A sunset. A beacon.)
From nearby in the shadows she can hear the distinct sound of glass as it shatters.
She stops singing in that moment to listen. An eerie stillness settles in around the river - the water seems to quiet, and the wind doesn’t roll through the branches of the trees anymore. The fog is still everywhere, but the sunset has been eaten by a darkness that envelopes everything. Glass leans forward intently, straining her eyes as she peers out into the darkness to see if she can catch a glimpse of the shoreline from the safety of her rock, her island.
She doesn’t expect the frenzy that follows.
Because fractions of seconds after she leans forwards there are hundreds of simultaneous beeps that sound off from the darkness all around the river - and then <i>they</i> come.
Almost instantaneously <i>they</i> pour onto the shoreline, decimating the beautiful trails she’d made of the plucked pearls she left behind (a mistake, she knows now). Looking like everything and nothing all at once, <i>they</i> are impossible to describe. They begin almost as shadows, like the utter absence of light, and in random, amorphous shapes but then they flicker into and out of the shapes of things she’s only seen in her stolen memories. They can’t seem to settle on any one thing, and so they loop the images over, and over, and over again.
Some become ships, and others lighthouses. Some become beacons, while others collapse into tiny rivers that bleed down the shore. Some clatter into piles of bones, and others resemble spilled innards against rocks (a cacophony of horror). Some change into nothing at all, scrambling off into the opposite directions of their comrades, and others are too busy devouring pearls to take a true shape, and so they linger, scarfing pearls like delicacies, half shadow and half horse, or bone, or river, or hazel.
Then they reach the ‘X’ and one of them looks just like Him; Isami, no, Carnage, hiding his fangs behind a mask with a painted smile.
Then they reach the ‘X’ and one of them is Spyndle, with her swollen belly and eyes blind from the poison He brought.
Then they reach the ‘X’ and one of them is Cordis, silver and beautiful and sad.
They don’t stop, but they slow down momentarily to flicker in and out of these shapes and recreating memories along the ‘X’. Glassheart watches in horror as the vivsection unfolds before her eyes - how nameless children are ripped from their mother’s womb, how Cordis reaches inside herself to find the lightning and guide Spyndle out of the fog, how her torn apart pieces bring themselves back together as though the whole act was being rewound.
Glassheart stops watching and turns to flee. If she can swim to the opposite shore she can disappear into the woods there before these <i>things</i> are able to cross. But when she turns and squints into the blackness she can see them lurching forward on the other side, too. This time they flicker into the shapes of things that she’s actually known - of Loveliar, and Warden, and Sunday, and of course, Cordis.
Her mother, beautiful and covered in a frothy sweat, pulls her features into tight lines and says: “You should have kept running.”
Sunday, lovely and kind, with a smile on her face says: “I could never help you.”
Warden, with his large, innocent eyes looks at her coldly, and he snarls: “You don’t belong.”
Cordis, silver, and beautiful, and sad, says: “You’re not important.”
And finally, together they say: “Let the memories have you, they’re bigger than you are.”
And then they come for her, frenzied and manic, contorting their shapes from monsters to friends to memories and back again as they barrel into the river from both sides. There must be hundreds, and they come toward her on the rock from every angle. There is no escape. There cannot be. She watches them thrash, and lurch, and crawl toward her. Some are carried away by the rapids, some that look like Spyndle are drowning (and dramatically), but too many still are suddenly up against the sides of her rock and reaching for her with gnarled, hooked fingernails that don’t make sense when all she sees are their crying, wailing faces cycled on repeat.
“No,” she says, as one bony black hand grasps her ankle.
“Please,” she pleads, as another finds her wrist.
They grab her then, from everywhere, and hold her body taut against the rock in the middle of the river. She’s screaming, and thrashing, bruising against the firm grip of all of these monsters. Nothing helps. One shadow rises up and takes His form. She’s never seen him human before (Isami, no, Carnage) but she can tell by his snarl, and the cold, steely glint to his empty eyes that this is who stands before her ready for another river vivisection.
In the frenzy she’d forgotten her song, but she remembers it now. She starts to sing, and she stops thrashing against the bony hands, because she knows as she sings that if this is the river vivisection it still is not the end.
Cordis and Spyndle didn’t end.
Cordis and Spyndle would never end.
(A river. A mermaid. A hazel.)
(A bloodied shoreline. A sunset. A beacon.)
</p> <p class="glassheart_name">Glassheart</p> <p class="glassheart_quote">i'll always love you the most </p> </div> </div> </center>
XImageTransform.Microsoft.gradient(startColorstr='#00140606', endColorstr='#140606', GradientType=0); } .glassheart_image { position: relative; z-index: 1; width: 500px; border-radius: 200px 200px 0 0; } .glassheart_text { position: relative; z-index: 3; width: 490px; background-color: #c9ccce; margin-top: -200px; border-top: solid 10px #556671; border-left: solid 1px #556671; border-right: solid 1px #556671; } .glassheart_container p { margin: 0; } .glassheart_message { text-align: justify; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; padding: 30px; color: #333535; } .glassheart_quote { text-align: center; font: 11px 'Source Sans Pro', sans-serif; text-transform: uppercase; padding-bottom: 10px; padding-top: 2px; padding-left: 35px; letter-spacing: 2px; color: #556671; } .glassheart_name { font: 60px 'Parisienne', cursive; color: #556671; width: 55%; line-height: 0.4em; border-bottom: dotted 1px; } </style> <center> <div class="glassheart_container"> <img class="glassheart_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/63wZwjyX/Glassheart.jpg"> <div class="glassheart_grad-bg"></div> <div class="glassheart_text"> <p class="glassheart_message"> (A river. A mermaid. A hazel.)
(A bloodied shoreline. A sunset. A beacon.)
From nearby in the shadows she can hear the distinct sound of glass as it shatters.
She stops singing in that moment to listen. An eerie stillness settles in around the river - the water seems to quiet, and the wind doesn’t roll through the branches of the trees anymore. The fog is still everywhere, but the sunset has been eaten by a darkness that envelopes everything. Glass leans forward intently, straining her eyes as she peers out into the darkness to see if she can catch a glimpse of the shoreline from the safety of her rock, her island.
She doesn’t expect the frenzy that follows.
Because fractions of seconds after she leans forwards there are hundreds of simultaneous beeps that sound off from the darkness all around the river - and then <i>they</i> come.
Almost instantaneously <i>they</i> pour onto the shoreline, decimating the beautiful trails she’d made of the plucked pearls she left behind (a mistake, she knows now). Looking like everything and nothing all at once, <i>they</i> are impossible to describe. They begin almost as shadows, like the utter absence of light, and in random, amorphous shapes but then they flicker into and out of the shapes of things she’s only seen in her stolen memories. They can’t seem to settle on any one thing, and so they loop the images over, and over, and over again.
Some become ships, and others lighthouses. Some become beacons, while others collapse into tiny rivers that bleed down the shore. Some clatter into piles of bones, and others resemble spilled innards against rocks (a cacophony of horror). Some change into nothing at all, scrambling off into the opposite directions of their comrades, and others are too busy devouring pearls to take a true shape, and so they linger, scarfing pearls like delicacies, half shadow and half horse, or bone, or river, or hazel.
Then they reach the ‘X’ and one of them looks just like Him; Isami, no, Carnage, hiding his fangs behind a mask with a painted smile.
Then they reach the ‘X’ and one of them is Spyndle, with her swollen belly and eyes blind from the poison He brought.
Then they reach the ‘X’ and one of them is Cordis, silver and beautiful and sad.
They don’t stop, but they slow down momentarily to flicker in and out of these shapes and recreating memories along the ‘X’. Glassheart watches in horror as the vivsection unfolds before her eyes - how nameless children are ripped from their mother’s womb, how Cordis reaches inside herself to find the lightning and guide Spyndle out of the fog, how her torn apart pieces bring themselves back together as though the whole act was being rewound.
Glassheart stops watching and turns to flee. If she can swim to the opposite shore she can disappear into the woods there before these <i>things</i> are able to cross. But when she turns and squints into the blackness she can see them lurching forward on the other side, too. This time they flicker into the shapes of things that she’s actually known - of Loveliar, and Warden, and Sunday, and of course, Cordis.
Her mother, beautiful and covered in a frothy sweat, pulls her features into tight lines and says: “You should have kept running.”
Sunday, lovely and kind, with a smile on her face says: “I could never help you.”
Warden, with his large, innocent eyes looks at her coldly, and he snarls: “You don’t belong.”
Cordis, silver, and beautiful, and sad, says: “You’re not important.”
And finally, together they say: “Let the memories have you, they’re bigger than you are.”
And then they come for her, frenzied and manic, contorting their shapes from monsters to friends to memories and back again as they barrel into the river from both sides. There must be hundreds, and they come toward her on the rock from every angle. There is no escape. There cannot be. She watches them thrash, and lurch, and crawl toward her. Some are carried away by the rapids, some that look like Spyndle are drowning (and dramatically), but too many still are suddenly up against the sides of her rock and reaching for her with gnarled, hooked fingernails that don’t make sense when all she sees are their crying, wailing faces cycled on repeat.
“No,” she says, as one bony black hand grasps her ankle.
“Please,” she pleads, as another finds her wrist.
They grab her then, from everywhere, and hold her body taut against the rock in the middle of the river. She’s screaming, and thrashing, bruising against the firm grip of all of these monsters. Nothing helps. One shadow rises up and takes His form. She’s never seen him human before (Isami, no, Carnage) but she can tell by his snarl, and the cold, steely glint to his empty eyes that this is who stands before her ready for another river vivisection.
In the frenzy she’d forgotten her song, but she remembers it now. She starts to sing, and she stops thrashing against the bony hands, because she knows as she sings that if this is the river vivisection it still is not the end.
Cordis and Spyndle didn’t end.
Cordis and Spyndle would never end.
(A river. A mermaid. A hazel.)
(A bloodied shoreline. A sunset. A beacon.)
</p> <p class="glassheart_name">Glassheart</p> <p class="glassheart_quote">i'll always love you the most </p> </div> </div> </center>