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Saturday, September 30th, 2006
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1:13 am
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Alone in the tower they cannot expect her to live for long. Throughout the day they will stop and press their ears against the stone wall that has replaced the tower's only door. They hear nothing but the faint scratching of her fingers against the other side. For hours the scratching could be heard. Then for days. Then for weeks.
After two months a priest was called to exorcise her spirit from the tower for surely she must be dead. After the ritual had been performed they could hear nothing. They thanked the priest and retired for the evening.
That night they awoke to hear a faint scratching on the other side of their chamber doors. Each opened each door, only to find nothing there, and returned to bed. Moments later the scratching could be heard again. They grew afraid and congregated in the hall to discuss their next course of action.
In the morning the priest was called upon once more. It was decided they must take down the stone wall blocking the only entrance to the tower and perform another exorcism from within. After several hours the wall was demolished and they entered the tower room only to find nothing inside.
With torches they scoured top to bottom of the tower, but they could not find her body. Soon their torches began to burn out. They decided to bring in candles and lanterns and search the tower thoroughly for a means in which she could have escaped, but they could not find the entrance. Their torches went out and they felt frantically for the doorway, their fingers scraping against the wall.
On the other side only a faint scratching could be heard when she pressed her ear against the wall. After several days the scratching stopped. After several weeks, she had forgotten she heard anything at all.
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| Tuesday, April 25th, 2006
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4:20 pm
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in the spring of my body
my bones blossom and the bees
and the butterflies flitter in through my eyes
and drink my blood like nectar. creepflitter flying
underneath my skin: rippling the surface as they flutter
in. and my veins grow out my fingertips like ivy vines
and my mouth parts the petals of my lips and columbine and
red rose hips grow from underneath my tongue. twigs inch out from my
fingernails and their moons shimmer of butterfly scales. my hair matted,
twists down my back thick as roots anchoring in me trees of forbidden fruits.
my collarbone pierces through my skin, my flesh like water in the wind
and pushes it aside like the skinny wings of a new bird. my mouth
fills up with dew or tears and ladybirds move in behind my ears,
and my breasts are pillowed nests and my ribs
are little cribs. and my heart is a tulip
that opens only at night, when it is
the spring of my body.
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| Wednesday, March 15th, 2006
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1:47 pm
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some of you may recognize this one. like some other stories yet to be posted, it's made an appearance in one of my older journals.
from Rabbit-heart Girl's Broken Dream Tonic
Every Boy has been the Beetle
Beneath the black tree in the forest there is the part of the chimney that remained.
What housed the fire to safely burn is all that is left after the fire burned the house.
Once there was a wind that blew in a circle. Everything was pulled in and went around & round.
A black beetle tried to crawl in under a screen door. The wind tunneled over and sucked the beetle in.
The beetle was very small and the wind-circle very large. Aided by trauma, time slowed down. The beetle lived many years in the circle of wind, though minutes later rain came and stopped it all.
In the wind
the beetle met a butterfly. The butterfly was in bed.
I was asleep when the storm hit :said the butterfly
I'm tired :said the beetle
Sit on my bed and rest a while :said the butterfly
The beetle crawled into bed.
The beetle and the butterfly fell in love.
Later, the butterfly lay too precariously on the bed and in the blink of an eye the wind had taken her away.
Why was time not slow for her? :thought the beetle
The beetle then realized that in all the years he had lived in the circle of wind,
his time with the butterfly had been only the brief moment
in which he had looked up from the ground and saw her,
wings spread, poised delicately on the bed,
before she was whisked away.
He realized he had only heard a soft buzzing when she spoke. And he had made up all the words she said.
Time was only slow for the beetle.
current mood: sad from last night
current music: the howling wind outside my windows
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(comment on this)
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| Friday, March 3rd, 2006
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1:52 am
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Novel Number Two:
Rabbit-heart Girl's Broken Dream Tonic
a cure-all collection of short stories for the prevention and treatment of broken or lost hearts, dreams, souls, spirits and the like.
penelope
Everyday for four days the branch bore fruit; glistening pear and ruby apple, citrine orange and apricot. everyday for four days.
the branch used to be old and cold, its leaves were never green. even in summer.
even in spring. until one day
the sun came out at night.
she walked smiling, remembering a kiss, brushed lips against her brow. a hand pressed to her heart, she passed under the branch. her hair was sunglow. her eyes were rain.
she smiled
and birds sang.
the branch felt a warm thing grow and flutter through its woody veins and to its little twigs and through its paper leaves. and the tree and other branches, once worried for the branch, were concerned no longer. and were happy.
after that, the branch, which was limb to a tree that did not naturally bear fruit,
bore an apple.
it was red like the cardinals that housed themselves in the tangled nooks deep within the tree. red like the blood of the squirrels that fall prey to the cats. red like the lips of
Penelope
:the branch heard a distant voice call out.
she glanced over her shoulder and laughed at a sweaty, shirtless thing lumbering towards her. they whispered into each other's hair and their rosy cheeks plumped with secrets as they drifted into the sinking sun and gentle hum of the tiny creatures just beginning their nightly escapades. the branch gleamed.
it felt its sap returning, its leaves becoming more lustrous and green,
slowly
but it was happening. happening because of her.
Penelope. as he had called her.
but could he give her something as sparkling pure as this branch's apple? the branch thought not.
and the tree thought not.
and the other branches thought not.
and the tree and other branches weren't certain of what else to think of the branch's selfless, miraculous gift of a so-red apple from a fruitless tree. but they were not so pleased.
the following morning,
the branch saw her. she was slowly making her way toward the tree, her face half hidden by a leather book. as she approached she read aloud, making exaggerated gestures and at one point she looked up, saw the apple and said:
how lovely!
and reached up high on delicate toes and the branch reached down low so she would not fall and felt a twinge of pain
as its gift was joyfully received by its sunshined beauty,
Penelope.
she lay under the tree and read until she fell asleep. and the branch felt a swelling of ecstasy.
as if she were sleeping deep inside of it. as if they were of the same tree. and as she slept the branch began to bear another gift. something larger than the first. when she awoke, it must have been late. she jumped up, forgetting her book by the left-behind apple core and ran until the branch could no longer see her.
during the night, the branch produced a pear.
it was glistening like lime leaves in rain. like a sea of emeralds.
glistening like the eyes of
Penelope
the branch could feel new life flowing. new leaves began to grow. small twigs sprouted. and at the tip, the lowest arch of the branch, hung Penelope's pear.
the tree and other branches were becoming concerned. one apple was one apple, but now it was one apple and one pear, a completely different matter all together. something many of the branches found unacceptable. and a small few found endearing.
something the parent tree was still unsure about.
so they said to the branch that they would let it go, given the branch's uncertain and unhappy history, but it was to bear no further fruit. and the branch acknowledged them and waited quietly till morning.
in the distance the branch heard sounds.
sounds like laughing. perhaps singing? a sweet voice.
unearthly
angelic
Penelope's.
she was with him and they dancedskippedran to the base of the tree. the branch pushed the pear lower as its sap began to simmer. jealousy. perennial monster.
they sometimes embraced. sometimes chased and tickled or lightly slapped and then
he knocked his head into the pear. exclaiming in irritation, he plucked the pear
callously
so that with it came the twig and leaves. the branch was hurt. and hurt again. but
ethereally
she slid to the branch. and reached up high for the place where the pear once hung.
she looked right at it, into it; gazed into the branch. and with her fingers stroked around the open wound
that began to clot with sap.
she turned and said something to him. they argued. and after taking a large bite from the pear, he tossed it to the side and walked away. she yelled, but the branch didn't hear. that swelling that it had begun to grow accustomed too overtook the hurt at her touch.
for she had touched the branch. stroked it.
caressed it. did she know? she picked up the pear and took a bite, looking the tree over. she must know.
but really, she couldn't know.
i love you, Penelope
she looked up at the branch.
do you know you are my sun?
she sat beneath it with her head against the tree as she finished the pear.
do you know i bear fruit for you? Penelope...
the branch had never felt so alive. it was unbearable. it thought it may die. and without any control, without any conscious decision, effort or warning. fruit began to grow.
an apricot and an orange.
they were golden with pumpkin hues like a halloween moon. like the never-forgotten sunset of an island paradise. golden with pumpkin hues like the hair of
Penelope
the tree and other branches were upset. this was not one apple. this was not one pear. this was not a tree whose branches bore fruit and there were many discussions on what should be done about this self-absorbed branch, who was clearly an insult to the well-grounded and respected tree. there were many discussions indeed.
but the branch remained unaware. overcome by long bouts of glee, of joy, of bliss and happiness and hope.
in between which were shorter bouts of longing of worry and jealousy.
was this love?
is this what the people below had gossiped about while passing by?
the branch waited eagerly until morning for a visit from her,
but she never came.
night grew and the branch hoped she would show up as she sometimes did to join the tiny night creatures on those well known escapades. but she didn't. and in its sadness it let go the apricot.
when it was morning, it waited eagerly once more, but time went by and although time is fast in the branch's world, it wasn't fast enough for a branch in love. by the time the night began to grow again, the branch was low enough to drop the orange as well. then it heard something.
Penelope
let it be Penelope.
there was a slight breeze; the branch held its leaves still to hear.
and it was.
it was Penelope.
sun goddess
light priestess
brilliant Penelope.
and the branch pushed down the orange so that she may see it easily in the growing darkness.
but as she came close, she was not alone.
the branch's sap grew hot between each ring.
its bark began to flake and crack.
she was with him.
and they fell together beneath the branch. moving together. peeling layers off one another in a fit of passion. the branch was enraged, or deeply sorrowed, splintering from the inside out. it knew what was happening. it wanted what was happening. it wanted to feel the length of her. her boughs intertwined with its. sap mingling. leaves in lips. just them. only them together.
but he entrapped her.
entangled her.
the branch let go its orange. it fell on him, hitting him between the spine and left shoulder blade. for a moment they stopped,
but then they laughed
and he tossed the orange aside as they continued.
the branch was beside itself.
and in its fury. in its sorrow. it began to tear itself from the trunk with no resistance from parent tree or hesitation from other branches. slowly it splintered, tore itself away
to fall without warning
to crush and to end
him in his lovemaking. in his ravaging of a sad branch's beloved,
while in the midst of a pleasure the branch would never know. but how close it would come when it felt him beneath it, his blood and bones nestling the branch
in lasting slumber.
painful thread by woody thread,
splinter by jagged splinter, it separated,
as quietly as the leaves in the slight breeze. he didn't even notice.
but as the branch began to break free, a sudden gust of wind,
with aid of hosting tree and sibling branches leaning
just a little. just a fraction of a fraction.
just enough
made it so as the branch fell,
missed its target, its envied nemesis
and crashed instead into its very sun,
love and only light,
that bled sap into its veins and green into its leaves.
and before all went black. before it was dark. for a few tree seconds. it lay amongst the gathering cries of others
rustled, pushed and pried by many forceful hands of others
nestled in the broken only thing that ever mattered
its smiling sun goddess
Penelope
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please be honest with your comments.
if there's something you think should be changed, i'd really like to know.
current mood: nimue's comfortyfurry softness
current music: nims licking my finger nails
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