"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
08-16-2015, 06:11 PM (This post was last modified: 08-16-2015, 06:12 PM by Kirin.)
SO RICH, SO PRETTY
A spot of purple soared over the meadow, making long looping figure eights in the sky. A shadow passed over the summery fields of green grass and wildflowers, much too big to be a bird. It was a stain upon the shining gold sun, using it as a shield against the squinting eyes below.
Kirin was a scene, drifting with movements of powerful feathered wings. He was an Eggplant purple fading already into patches of Violet in its place. The marbled effect canvased his frame, even into his feathers, each one that molted returned the new shade. The colt liked being purple, he felt it set him apart, made him more desirable. Having wings was his pride and joy though, he never missed the opportunity to show them off, to stretch them wide for others to see. He enjoyed primping and preening, looking his best for everyone, women and men alike. Gender didn’t matter when you were only in it for you, they both made the same delicious sounds when you tickled them.
It was all a farce, a suit and tie to disguise the monster within. He swooped down to the terra below, tucking his wings into himself, a small cloud of dust billowing around his fetlock. For a moment he stretched and shook the feathered appendages, creating a display of their glossy iridescence. A crisp scent of salt and sea clinging to his pelt, he’d have a look around the meadow for his siblings. Or perhaps he would just have a look around, there was bound to be something to peak his interest.
— A D A L I N E —
your mouth is poison; your mouth is wine
(you think your dreams are the same as mine)
Few things made her heart pound with jealousy more than seeing another with functioning wings; there was little that could make her skin prick with agony more than watching another enjoy the freedom that her own should have offered her—a gift that was, instead, stripped away so viciously. So she does not bother to hide the envy in her wide, pink eyes as the stallion looped lazily in the sky and dropped to the ground; she does not try to deny the ache in her chest as he stretched them wide for her to see—as if he knew just how much the sight poured salt into the wounds of all her darkest desires.
Turning her delicate head away, she pulls the tattered edges of her wings closer to her sides, feeling little warmth from the gossamer edges as they trailed her flesh. She supposes that it was generous to call what she had wings; they were merely a shadow of what wings should be—glass bones suspending the papery, torn edges. Hardly strong enough to stand up against a gale, let alone lift her delicate body into the air.
They were simply there as a reminder of all that she would never have, all of the life that she would never live. Like in all things, she was trapped and caged—forced to live as a meek, mild mare. One day, oh, one day she would tell someone of the passions that rattled in her breast—of the adventures and great loves she wanted to seek. One day, she would be brave enough to tell someone that she sometimes crept to the edges of the challenge ground and dreamt of being strong enough to collide with another. Watching as the horses flung themselves toward one another, froth and blood flying, she lived a thousand lives.
But not the life that she was meant to live.
Instead, she kept her head down and her voice soft, walking quietly amongst those who took pity on her. At least enough pity that they did not openly attack her. For all of her aspirations, Adaline knew that she would not stand up to a fight. It is on thus on the outskirts of the meadow that she stands, close enough to glean bits and pieces of conversations nearby but far enough to feel somewhat protected, openly admiring the stallion as he preened for all to see. Exhaling, she dropped her chin slightly to her chest. Some day.
Oh dear, what a sad little thing. His gray glance falls over an unusual female. Her eyes grab at him, hungering for that which she does not herself have. She tries to pull the papery appendages close, tries to tuck them away, as if that could hide them. He supposed they might have been wings, they probably were intended to be, but they weren’t. Not hardly. A joke, a laughable attempt at something that might take flight, a deformity.
They were crudely built, probably to match the glass figure that made up her body. See through, giving him a grand view of her insides. How curious, he wouldn’t even have to break her open to see them, all sport had been lost. Well, perhaps. Perhaps, he would just have to see if there was anything left to play with. Any way to watch her descent as he cut the thin strings of her pride and meager confidence. She isn’t anything magnificent, but she might do to appease his boredom.
He smugly tucks his own purple plumes, gently folding them against his sides. They were perfectly in place, creating an appealing line to his silhouette. Finally he speaks, smooth like a fur rug in front of a crackling hearth. Dim lights over iced bourbon, ”My word, what has happened to you?” He is all butter, trotting up to the glass spun female. He could feign concern, he could fill her head with nonsense, how else would he know just how much he could play with this one?
— A D A L I N E —
your mouth is poison; your mouth is wine
(you think your dreams are the same as mine)
She does not expect his attention, not when he shone so brightly and she so dimly, so she is caught off guard when she looks up and realizes that the voice was his. It takes her a second to respond, to do anything other than stare up with her wide, pink eyes, and she just takes a deep, rattling breath. Finally, she composes herself, drawing her head up so that she could stare him in the eye. “N-Nothing happened to me,” she finally murmurs in her breathy voice, the sound as unsubstantial as the material of her wings.
Glancing back at the sheer, torn edges of them, she pulls them tighter. There they served to blur out the pink and chestnut of her sides where muscle peeked through her nearly translucent flesh. She had never felt so vulnerable—and she was not sure why. After all, he had been nothing but handsome and kind so far. So she forced herself to shake it off, telling herself that she was being silly for even thinking it.
“I have always been like this,” she finally says with an attempt at a smile. Hoping to remove the attention from herself, she noted her head toward his own wings. “Yours are beautiful,” a soft sigh that is laced with jealousy—they were so vibrant and strong. “And your color is…” her voice trails off as she realizes her obvious admiration and if she could blush, she would. Instead, she draws her head close to her chest and looks toward the ground, embarrassed into silence and wishing herself anywhere but here.
He takes pride in her unsure response, the look in her carnation-colored eyes brings him more joy than she would ever know. She tells him that she was made this way, that nothing of any significance, magic or otherwise created this disgrace. Disgusting. The thought is a red marquee, rolling continuously along his mind. One would never truly know though, could not discern his hate mixed love for it all, his face would not betray him. His features remain artful, brimming with sentiment, as she hugs herself even tighter. He only wants to look on her strange form even more, to brush away the wisps of her frail appendages to make better his view.
Hazel eyes lift away from her flesh when she makes to compliment him, her intentions hint at envy, but he accepts them without hesitation. Not a falter in his display, an award winning performance undoubtedly. He twists his head and neck slightly downward to his side, his shoulder rolls forward and up. A gesture of bashfulness, something the true Kirin has never felt, but he makes good on his display of the emotion. Looking down to the ground before up through his rather long, full eyelashes. ”That’s kind of you, thank you.”He offered her a small, but no less brilliant smile. ”My father never liked my color. Mother says it’s like the sky before the Moon swallows up the Sun. Nice, but not the same as coming from dear old Dad don’t you think?” He is gazing at her side as he finishes speaking, lusting to touch the frail encasing of her skin. He reaches a purple wing out with what could be unexpected gentleness, if you knew better of course. Tracing the fine feathers along the length of her battered limbs, if she were to look up he would catch her gaze. As it were, he felt the broken thing in a sense, his mouth parted slightly. Slightly. Something appearing to be hanging on the brink of interest and release.
your breath is poison; your breath is wine
(you think your dreams are the same as mine)
“I think that is a beautiful time of day,” she says with earnest, because it is true. She had always thought that the sky looked stunning during the in-between hours—the time before and after night. There was something truly wistful during that time, as if it was suspended between realities. She liked to imagine that anything could happen in those moments—as if she could somehow shake herself lose of her own truths to grasp at the ideals that she so wanted. She liked to think during those moments that she could fly, that she could fall in love, that she could have adventures of her own. All impossibilities.
She is so caught up in her thoughts that she startles at his touch—badly. Jerking to the side, she stumbles on a rock and falls to her knees. Without prompting, she makes a harsh sound, her breath ripping from her lungs. The pain is both familiar and instant, the flesh on her legs ripping at the sudden impact with the ground. She closes her eyes as she stays in her fallen position for a moment, burning bright with both embarrassment and physical pain.
Finally, she sighs and then gathers herself to stand.
Adaline forces herself to look him in the eye, giving a weak smile. “I’m sorry.” She tries not to look at the blood that she knows is slowly dripping down her legs, making her fragile skin even more delicate. “I sometimes scare easily.” It would be but one more barely noticeable scar—just one more mark on a body that so easily told a story of her injuries. “I heal quickly though,” she lies, because she is used to the ripped skin and the bruises.
The last thing she needed was for him to pity her.
