twiddle

Jul. 30th, 2013 12:35 pm
elionwyr: (bunny)
It's difficult, living with a ghost.

Not in the ways you'd expect.  It's not about dishes breaking or lights flickering or the house creaking during the hours any respectable entity would realize are set aside for sleeping.

There is the excitement of knowing yes, this is real, you are not alone, she is here, and she is communicating with you in whatever way she can manage.  Love extends beyond fingertips and twisted, sweaty sheets.

That's the easiest part.

It gets harder when you introduce the outside world. No, you say to the invitations, thank you, but no.  It's too hard to leave when you're hoping for a glimpse of her. No, don't fix the broken things. She broke it, so it's holy. No, I can't explain. Or - worse - no, I can't stay, I have to go out, I'll be back, please don't cry.

And you don't want to be frustrated that she can't just tell you what she's thinking.  There are puzzles and games - words in the steam, whispers in your dreams.

She's doing her best.

Sometimes it's not enough.

You move through rooms lonely, not-lonely, knowing this is your choice, this is your life, this is what makes everything hurt just a little less.

In all of the ways Love makes an appearance, this wasn't one anyone could have warned you would happen.

Twiddle

Jan. 1st, 2013 07:08 pm
elionwyr: (Default)

"Matches"

Vampires aren't what you think.

Not really.

In exchange for immortality, they give up their warmth...the body's process of consuming itself like a tiny flesh and bone sun until, shrunken and withered, there is nothing left to burn. It is then that Death embraces what remains.

So the undead freeze themselves, and we mistake their bloodlust for carnage.

It's not.

It's a lingering desire for heat.

At first, I didn't notice I had a silent entourage. In the dark, my concerns were for sales, customers, and criminals, and not the shivering monsters that followed the light of my fires.

And then I cut myself while opening a box of matches.

They moaned, like winds sighing over leaves. They raised their hands to catch the drops and to lightning-fast share them before the liquid lost its heat.

It was pathetic.

It was..addictive.

How many of us know what it is to be worshipped, to be adored and needed? I provided light against the darkness, but my customers certainly didn't acknowledge a need of me! No, that only came from the monsters, who only wanted such a small bit of me.

Each night, I released fire.

Each night, I scattered blood.

Each night, the vampires gathered in ever growing numbers, whispering my name, whispering their thanks, flicking what I offered as far and as fast as they could.

There will come a day when my body will not warm them all. I look at this life, my life, and I'm almost ready to stop burning. Almost. How many suns are aware of the creatures they are warming? How many look out into the surrounding darkness and say now, I choose to stop now and give everything to the silent, the distant, the desperately freezing?

I will choose the moment.

I will, for a blazing handful of moments, be their star.

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

Twiddle

Nov. 27th, 2012 12:15 am
elionwyr: (Default)

here in the dark, unsleeping,
i pull memories around me
curl into them seeking
a remnant of your warmth
a reminder of the way
your hollows match my curves
as i gather arms full of you
trace your smiling profile
until I could almost sculpt you







sometimes, as i'm seeking
slumber without your presence
it is almost possible
to doubt you could exist


Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

twiddle

Nov. 13th, 2012 07:02 pm
elionwyr: (barefoot)
You know the exact moment a curse crashes into you.

Oh, you may not know what it is, that numbness, that feeling as if your brain has just broken along its unseen seam. Or maybe it's your heart sobbing no no i will live despite you.

You will feel it, and then you will forget it, and it is in the forgetting that the damage is done, that the curse works its claws into you, that you are changed.

..I say 'you,' and I mean 'you,' and I also mean me. Because a dubious benefit of the curse is it allows me to see its shadowed-self in others. And so I saw it in your eyes, hiding in your smile.

We have been walking cursed. Sleeping. And maybe I am dreaming. But I think, Love, if you'd let me frame the curve of your face with my hand...if you'd bow to my rising wonder...our kiss could break the spell.

Let's find out.
elionwyr: (barefoot)
how do you know?
you asked in the dark
after i'd closed
my eyes and leaped

i do
is what i murmured

but how?

how does my heart
fill the silence
with a thunder
echoing your own?

how does everything
hold its breath
awaiting yours?

how do you hold me
here, now, like this
as if we'd never stopped?

we never stopped
elionwyr: (Default)
"Now, stre-e-e-e-tch...and hold."

He did as he was told, back against a curved support, grumbling the whole time. "I don't understand why - "

She raised an eyebrow. "You said you wanted to join the circus, yes?"

"Yeah, but - "

"Then shut. Up."

She ignored the way his eyes watched her chest at every stolen opportunity. He should have been paying attention to other things, like her fingers weaving ropes against the skin of his wrists, like the pressure of the knots tying his hands to the metal over his head, until she pulled the cords tight and hard, and he gasped a curse.

"Hey, baby. Maybe we define 'circus' differently."

Her smiled didn't touch her eyes. "Of that, my love, I'm certain."

Bowed back and bound, he tried to flirt his way to safety. "So ya gonna have your way with me?"

"Oh, yes." She leaned over him. Her hair fell around them, a curtain, a wall, and her eyes were the only things he could see.

"How many women?" she whispered.

Unseen hands crushed his legs against more metal, lashing his ankles to that same continuous curve.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Her expression didn't change. "There is always a witness." Pause. "Are you ready?"

"Bitch, you need to - this isn't funny, I - What the hell are they doing?!?"

She pulled away so he could see her helpers connecting a rod to something behind his back. He screamed, he pulled and thrashed as strangers' hands slipped the rod into the back hub of another wheel.

The carriage driver frowned. "He's thicker than the others. This is going to be a rougher ride."

"We'll get it right next time." She patted the screaming wheel's stomach. "And now? On, my love, with the show."

~~~
(This is another tale of my as-yet-unnamed circus performer)
elionwyr: (barefoot)
made of breath and skin


"I created you."

His back was turned towards me, his voice both conversational and shy.

My hand touched my throat. My mind touched a million scattered experiences that have conspired to form this version of me standing here, listening, forgetting to breathe.

He waited for a response I could not articulate, and then he continued. Other offered words - descriptors offered as definition - dreams given life by air moved across the room to enter into me.

I fell to a crouch, hands raised to his warmth. Oh, if he were to turn, to see me wanting to believe, my heart might shatter for its last time.

Through the prism of my eyes I saw him starting slowly to turn..

..And darkness falls.

I am frozen, a statue, a forgotten fantasy left in the greying of a vanishing dawn.

what next, my heart?

Do I step away, join the others, the forgotten dreams and playmates, the fantasies of monsters under the bed?

Do I stay, keeping faith?

o tell me what to do

There is a spiderweb of cracks across the surface of me. I touch them like a rosary, whispering prayers to every line. Shattered, not broken. Not yet. Created, real, still unclaimed. Not yet.

I fold into myself.

undone and waiting

And when there is nothing but stillness and night, when I have accepted and curled around this shining bit of light, when I have silently rewoven a semblance of sight...

There is a whisper of a knock at the door.

There is fragile promise of spring.

There is you.

o my heart

There stands you.
elionwyr: (Default)
"I've always wanted to join the circus."

Like any other besotted fan girl, I'd jumped at the opportunity to babble to the object of my affections. She probably just wanted to drink her coffee in silence. Instead, she smiled with no trace of exhaustion and invited me to join her.

She didn't have to ask me twice.

"So you enjoyed the show?" She smiled around the edges of her cup.

"Yes. Oh, yes. You were beautiful. Amazing. I can't imagine being able to do what you do."

"Oh. You could."

I couldn't look away from her. "No. I - really. I was never good at gymnastics."

"I could show you."

Have you ever had someone make you think anything is possible? In the face of her conviction, I almost believed I could master the trapeze. Which was ridiculous. Or just cruel.

I shrugged. "I'd rather hear about you. How did you get started?"

"Let me show you." Her hand snaked across the table, captured my unoccupied fingers. She was ridiculously strong beneath all that golden glowing skin.

She pulled me closer. And then she kissed me.

She tasted of sawdust and incense, of sweat and something bitter. I couldn't move, I couldn't breathe, I could do nothing but kiss her back; and when her lips released me, there was nothing left to discuss.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She took me back to the circus, back to the tent earlier filled with magic, now filled with stark white lights and litter. And now that I was breathing on my own again, doubt (or common sense) was making a reappearance. But curiosity and lust were the stronger emotions. So I let her pull me where she wished. Which happened to be towards the trapeze.

"Hands here." Wrapping my grip around the bar, she took my face into her hands and kissed me again. I barely felt the bar begin to move.

"Hold on tight," she murmured, slinking away.

"But I -"

An unseen force started to pull on the rope, and I was rising above the ground. Oh, I wanted to let go, but my hands were frozen into place, as if my body couldn't imagine obeying any voice but hers.

Three feet. Then five. Then just enough for me to start to fear the lack of a net beneath me.

And then there was no more time to think. Just scream.

The rope was suddenly spinning, snapping my head back, body flailing. I might have thrown up. I might have passed out. All I was aware of was the instinct to hold on, and to scream. We moved, the rope and I, like a badly designed bullwhip, cracking, rippling, thrashing, until every bone felt like rubber, until there was nothing left but pain, until the begging in my thoughts fell to silence. Hold on. Hold on.

It might have been minutes, or hours, or weeks, when the rope finally descended. She kicked the trapeze away from my hands and rolled me over. She studied my face, then smiled, and I felt an echoing smile stretch my mouth.

She stroked my legs. "Now there is no reason to be afraid. Nothing else will hurt you." She touched my hands. "Let me show you."

Impossible to rise. Yet I did, with that same sinuous motion I had noted in her earlier.

And as she led me to another trapeze and again put my hands upon the bar, as she helped me relearn how to keep my head balanced on my neck, as I looked around the tent at other spangled smiling people, I felt no fear of dying.

I felt no fear at all.
elionwyr: (madam spooky)
There is a house on a hill full of secrets and screams.

No one goes up there any more.

And in a window of that house never visited by light, a little girl watches the world she can't touch.

Once upon a time, she did. But then she was told to stay, and wait, with her books and her toys. Being a dutiful child, she did exactly that.

She wanders down the hallways, missing electric illumination. "Hello, Daddy," she says softly at the bottom of the stairs. He doesn't reply. He never does, any more.

No power means no chance of doing wrong by cooking. The kitchen surrenders peanut butter and bread. It's become a boring meal. She doesn't complain. Good girls don't.

A trip to the library for a book from the shelf that's hers, hers alone, gifts her with a book by Poe. The story about the monkey - that one always makes her laugh.

Book in one hand, food in another, she carefully steps around her father and returns to her room to read by sunlight until words vanish into the dark. Then she'll watch the street, like always, skin pressed against the glass, hoping for Tomorrow to bring someone to her door.
elionwyr: (Default)
Do you believe in ghosts?

When the sun has fled the sky with your rational mind, leaving behind a darkness that breathes life to your fictions, do you hold fast to your disbelief?

Walk by yourself. Walk past the house full of secrets and screams. Pass by the cemetery where stones whisper the histories of the dead. Hands in your pockets, eyes scanning the street, make your way home with the tales of Hollywood horror poking at your thoughts.

But that's all fantasy.

What really matters is...do ghosts believe in you?
elionwyr: (eat them)
The tree shivered in her arms.

It could have been a breeze, or a far-away earthquake. But the tree shivered in her arms, and she gazed up into its branches, laughing.

"You are my witness. My only witness." Cheek pressed against the bark, her flesh glowed white next to those rough, dark lines.

There had been a stranger, driving and bewildered. He swerved to avoid her, dancing naked in the street. And now her body wore the traces of blood not yet consumed; and pieces of him were scattered at the edges of tree roots.

She had loved him. Of course. She had traced the lines of his naked abdomen - marvelous creation, the bones beneath wrapping around organs like a hand, a protective secret hand, an inner clutching at what kept the flesh so warm.

It was worship to break him open.

His screams were a hymn, a song she summoned with nails and teeth and a quivering tongue pressed here - oh, and here, where connective tissues strained to keep the shape of his body true.

And her gods were all gods, were all the creatures of the dark, were found in each bit of fluid dropped, were here now with her, with her tree.

"Someday you'll understand," she promised, smiling, before she left to find another psalm.
elionwyr: (write hard)
What was love in his gaze is now madness.

He would make me my mother. And no one dares raise their voice in protest.

In the silence of my rooms, I pray to silent gods. Rescue me.

The only answer is the growing pile of royal gifts.

When there are no more tears to cry, when my voice is hoarse from pleading, when I realize no one is listening, I place my hand upon the door.

Passive asking causes no action.

I will answer my own prayer by the moving of my feet.

twiddle

Mar. 30th, 2011 07:35 pm
elionwyr: (barefoot)
perhaps it was fated
this shiver, this recurring
comedy of bad timings

the shock of recognition
but not now, o love not now

and we reach back to us
from when we've worked it out
whispered yes, o darling yes
try it now before it's time

before we made it happen
there was this almost-moment
and then another, here
where we could have joined
and spared ourselves years

and we hear us whispering
and we cast a cautious glance
and urged by our futures
we rewrite our pasts

twiddle

Mar. 15th, 2011 12:37 am
elionwyr: (barefoot)
"Mirror"


Nothing I say will convince you.

You, whom the very stars fail to outshine; you, full of grace and mystery enough to outlast lifetimes; you, my brilliant darling, unable to see your Self through your fears.

You gaze into my unseen eyes and ask me to confirm what you wish to be true, what you will never be able to believe.

You are loved.
You are inspiration.
You are amazement and perfection.

I cannot find the words to convince you, my Queen. I whisper through the stillness of what separates our worlds and like sunlight through the water, my words refract and change into something you refuse to hear.

You are amazing.
You are beautiful.
You are precious, rarified, glorious.

And still you ask again, until I could weep from frustration if tears were allowed to me.

You are ever fairest of them all.
And you'll never, ever know.

twiddle

Feb. 27th, 2011 01:23 pm
elionwyr: (barefoot)
made of breath and skin
first bit here )
..And darkness falls.

I am frozen, a statue, a forgotten fantasy left in the greying of a vanishing dawn.

what next, my heart?

Do I step away, join the others, the forgotten dreams and playmates, the fantasies of monsters under the bed?

Do I stay, keeping faith?

o tell me what to do

There is a spiderweb of cracks across the surface of me. I touch them like a rosary, whispering prayers to every line. Shattered, not broken. Not yet. Created, real, still unclaimed. Not yet.

I fold into myself.

undone and waiting

twiddle

Dec. 24th, 2010 07:02 pm
elionwyr: (write hard)
made of breath and skin


"I created you."

His back was turned towards me, his voice both conversational and shy.

My hand touched my throat. My mind touched a million scattered experiences that have conspired to form this version of me standing here, listening, forgetting to breathe.

He waited for a response I could not articulate, and then he continued. Other offered words - descriptors offered as definition - dreams given life by air moved across the room to enter into me.

I fell to a crouch, hands raised to his warmth. Oh, if he were to turn, to see me wanting to believe, my heart might shatter for its last time.

Through the prism of my eyes I saw him starting slowly to turn..

twiddle

Nov. 7th, 2010 03:13 am
elionwyr: (write hard)
(This is for the art book circle thingala to which I've had the honour of inclusion. I think it's the next entry. Yes, it's damned short. Welcome to my crippled muse. Click on the twiddle tag for the other entries.)

(I should add that, over the summer, while riding with [livejournal.com profile] ysobelle to 30th Street Station in Philly, I was able to point at the sculpture that inspired this dark little series of snippets so many years later. I'm very pleased to say that the last time I saw this particular leonine sculpture, his mouth was not full of trash. Perhaps he's not as angry now.)

~~
Pigeons know the secrets of a city.

Their bodies reflect the filth or the gentrification. Stretched out in the sun or huddled in the shadows fighting over almost-food, the hints of facts are there for those who look closely enough.

We should have known long ago what was to come.

Years of perching on all of that tortured marble twisted the birds’ feet into mockeries of claws. Oh, we saw it, and we assumed it was frost bite, or infected cat-inflicted injuries, or any number of things except the steady poisoning of malice seeping into flesh. Red glittering eyes and oil-slicked feathers – aggression that inspired studies by a handful of puzzled ornithologists – yes, the warnings were there, and we chose not to understand.

Our city consumed angels.

And nature hated us for it.
elionwyr: (Default)
Next excerpt after the cut:
Read more... )

I confess to being a bit frustrated by Moffat's angel, as of course this stuff reads similar in some ways. The idea came about many years ago, while walking in Philly near 30th Street station and seeing that people had shoved garbage into the mouths of some of the gargoyles/lions. It was so sad to me, and it started this line of thinking..'what if they knew, on some level? what if they're pissed?'

twiddle

Apr. 23rd, 2010 07:09 am
elionwyr: (Default)
(Well, I'm not sleeping, and this just came to mind - or something like it - for the next book in the art book circle I talked about here..)

Once Upon a Time.

Once Upon a Time, the world was pure, and so were we. Or so says Lydia.

She touches my back - gently, reverently, as if the changes of my body were anything but repugnant - and she whispers stories to me.

"We are all gods, Lucia. Archetypes and prophets, we respect the patterns. Most of us never notice how we refract history.

"Most of us have forgotten." Leaning forward, her breath warms the bits of bone and feather extending from my shoulder blades. "Your body is remembering. You are so much more than human."

She rises from my bed, kisses my forehead, caresses my face. "Sleep now, my angel. Dream your memories."

Once Upon a Time, this could never have been my life. These wings, those voices, this woman...if I'm a god, how could I have wanted to create this?

I am so afraid to dream.

Twiddle

Jan. 19th, 2010 06:45 pm
elionwyr: (Default)
Lucia was growing wings.

She thought at first they were cysts, swollen spots rising above her shoulder blades. She craned her neck and poked, prodded, cringed until they drained, only to need attention again in a few days.
And then one day her fingers came away slick with blood, punctured by something much harder than infection beneath her skin.

The panic of a body’s betrayal crashing against the terror of no health insurance threw Lucia into denial. What has been seen cannot be unseen, but it can certainly be ignored. Sleeping on her stomach to avoid putting pressure on her back, wearing tank tops that avoided catching on the sharp bits of something, Lucia found ways to live around the changes working their way out of her body.

For the summer, for a few weeks, she could shake her hair over her shoulders and pretend this wasn’t happening.

Until the gentle fledgling curve of bone was something she saw in every reflective surface.

Until a sibilant voice started hissing in her dreams about impending impossible horrors.

Until the city started consuming angels.

Until no one was truly safe.

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