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Thread holds the world together. Gossamer strands milked from the spiders of Fate to be plucked at whim by the Great Weaver. Those strands emitted sounds unheard by mortal ears, sounds that created the song of life.

This song was played by the Great Weaver. A being who lives beneath the shell of the earth, deep within and close to the beating heart of the world. Into her spine the threads are tied and out into the world they spread. Her fingers were not used for those strands, but were there to hold her to the stony altar which she was perched. They were there to grab at the stone instead of her flesh, to ground her as the pain of playing the strands of life wracked her very mortal body. Her back was arched toward the sky while her head and rump pressed as close to the altar as they could, keeping her in a constant kneeling position. Her knees were malformed from being on them for so many years. Her hips splayed awkwardly and her shoulders a permanent knotted mass of bone and muscle as they were forced into this awkward position of holding her arms out in front of her and against the altar.

One cheek was pressed against the stone, scarred by her pressing her soft flesh into the stone when the pain became too much to constrict to the clenching of her damaged fingers. Colourless hair covered her face, hid her eyes and restricted breathing, but she knew this would not kill her. As Weaver, she would last as long as was needed until the world needed another severing of the Threads which would be the marking of her death and the birth of the true Weaver.

All Weavers before her had been forced into this position, as punishment or cruel fate for something they had done, were going to do or just were. She was being punished. And as such the pain was triple what a Weaver who had done nothing but fall into Fate’s hands would have suffered.

Her crime?


She had survived three severing of the threads, each time was like being ripped apart and burned in icy fire with all of her nerve endings thoroughly intact. And each time after the severing the tying of new threads and the frantic plucking of renewed life made her wish that her body was her own to writhe and thrash with. Yet all she was allowed was the scrabbling of her broken fingers and the screaming of her torn throat.

The only reason for her survival was for her to suffer her punishment until the soul of the true Weaver came back into the cycle of life. It had been many years since the last severing, so many that she almost forgot the pain that even a single broken thread caused.

So it came as a lightning bolt out of a clear blue sky, lancing liquid agony through her veins when one of the many strands tied tightly to her spine snapped in half. Her scream echoed in her dark prison while the song of life wavered and played off key for mere seconds before continuing on. She expected more threads to be severed but was surprised when none did. Instead the severed strand returned towards her spine and tied itself to it’s other half, causing a disharmonious sound to echo in the room. Her agony began to build as the discordance of the song of life rebounded onto her, as twisted images began to play before her eyes as the twisted knot created twisted life on the face of the world. Blood was dripping from her chapped and split lips, staining the colourless hair that covered her like a smothering blanket.

That single strand began to thrum, vibrating violently and rubbing against the other strands. Slowly the other strands began to curl and kink from rubbing against the tainted strand.

When a second strand snapped, the punished Weaver felt a chill settle in her very soul. This was not a severing. This was corruption, corruption of a kind unknown to those who held the role of Weaver.

Someone or something was finding the strand endings and poisoning the strands themselves, all of that and more from the surface of the world from which she was tied irrevocably to. With that acknowledgement, the punished Weaver gave herself to the pain and the taint and let her pain break her mind if only to make the suffering manageable.

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Take a look at THIS!
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In a world where your fellow nobles may stab you in the back the slightest infraction, beauty was a key weapon. Fairness of face and grace of body were useful tools, used to distract and hypnotize as your tongue sliced and whipped metaphorical flesh off unseen bones.


The more beauty you possessed, the greater your chances were that you would emerge an alpha amongst silk clad wolves. But, all beauty comes with a price. With every day of using this born talent, the risk that the gods might revoke your claim to beauty and wither the very tools you use to gain power grows greater.


Such was the law of the Danaan. Such was the way of life for those who flocked the royal court.


And Dana, a woman named after one of the very gods who watched her fellow nobles silent wars, was very aware of the fact that at any time her face might betray her at the worst moment. Even as she let loose another silvery laugh and fluttered her sooty lashes at her circle of competitors, Dana made sure to keep her amber eyes peeled for any hint of the wolf that hid within the flesh of all those around her. Any scent of weakness would have them instantly surrounding the scented weakling. And she made sure to notice if her person was the new target.


Flicking her golden locks aver her creamy shoulders, Dana continued to pretend to pay attention to Lady Georgette who was currently attempting to bewitch Lord Faron with her long gold dusted lashes and her indecently revealed bosom. Really, low cut busts were so last season.


With a twitch of her crimson skirts, Dana prepared to ream into Lady Georgette about her dated outfit when a ripple raced through the hall.


No words needed to be spoken to tell all of what had occurred. The gods had revoked their gift from one amongst them. A wail of horror and agony only made the unspoken words real. And who else would it be than the Lady Georgette’s dearest sister, Lady Jeanette.


Gone were the rosy cheeks, the plump kissable lips. Gone were the raven locks that had been piled artfully upon her head. Shrivelled was her once golden skin and filmy were the sapphire eyes so many had fallen victim to. Dana felt a cruel smirk pull at her lips as she watched others fight the urge to leap upon the ruin of nobility.


Truly, she thought as the women nearest Jeanette began to close in as their eyes began to glow a hellish red, it couldn’t have happened to a better person.


Raising a baby smooth hand to hide the growing smirk, Dana watched as Lady Georgette lost herself to her base urges to converge on her own sister and steal whatever power was left in Jeanette’s ruined husk to feed her own growing hunger. Her graceful poise and her delicate air were gone as she lost all decorum and raced across the room and tore at the other women feasting on the power surrounding the disgraced woman before gorging herself on it.


Dana was quick to ease closer to the abandoned Lord and try to weave her own spell on him, expounding on the look of faint disgust in his eyes for the feasting Georgette. Georgette had lost her chance to raise herself higher, especially now that her more powerful sister fell victim to the curse and was then sequentially devoured by her own flesh and blood. There would be no more chances for Georgette to rise above her station after this debacle, Dana would make sure of it.

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So, I've been missing for goodness knows how long. My keyboard is slightly effed up from when I plucked keys trying to get a tick out from underneath it. Blegh. I haven't been writing as much, but I have been reading and looking up sculpting tutorials like made so I had something to do. I still don't have a job and my medicine supply is beginning to run dry. Mum's freaked, I'm lethargic and meh about it all and my aunt is a raving bitch on wheels that can't stand up to her own shadow if she knows it's stronger than her.

Gods is it tedious.

But, things happen as they do for a reason, so I'll continue on planting my seeds and hoping my strawberry plant that I recently bought survives my newbie planting skills.

Ghost Pains

Jan. 7th, 2012 05:21 pm
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We just sent my brother home to Sweden. It has been an awesome month, with extra poking and annoying to make up for the six that we were separated. I feel like I have just had a limb lopped off and am feeling the twinges. He's currently in transit while I'm here in Florida, feeling angsty.
My little brother isn't with me anymore.
And it hurts.
Could be because, up until six months ago, we had been glued together at the hip. Or almost at the hip. We had our spats, and our fights. But we also had our laughs, our crazy moments and our 'in synch' moments.
And having a month of that after six months of abstinence is like ripping a hole in your gut and just leaving it there for a while before cleaning it up and sewing it together. Just so you can linger in the pain.

Too Angsty. And yes, that was with a capital A.

Onward and forward into the strange future which may or may not have the gassy aftermath of having fudge death chocolate. Whew.

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Lost, so lost within the sands of time and space. Within the desert of the mind. So very lost, befuddled, disoriented and confused. There is now not a ray of hope to be found. It is all strange to me, this time and place, this general location of myself in the grand scheme of things. Where is the pointer to direct my footsteps? Can anyone describe the sense of floating in a mass of nothing with no up or down, and not be lost for words?
But there above all this, under the bellies of the four elephants carrying the plate that is our world. There. There lies the place in which I have been dumped. It is where I shall begin to crawl my way up and into the world that others know.
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Be afraid little child, be afraid

For when the world begins to fall apart

There is no one there to save you,

Be afraid little child be afraid

When the world starts boiling around you

There is no one there to give you aid

For this is the world’s last parade.

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The darkness of night smothered all earth bound thoughts, cloaking the small room and bringing an end to the constant flow of foreign thoughts bombarding his brain. Narrow black eyes finally relaxed from the squint they had been locked in for three days, while the furrows in the tan forehead finally smoothed out. Tanned lips plumped again from the thin line they had been pinched into before opening to let loose a soundless sigh of relief. The headache throbbing in his temples slowly began to die down, but he expected it to come back once he left the enforced room once more.

Such was the life of the Webweaver, Jacque.

A red light lit up a small circle behind Jacque’s head, illuminating him in a halo of fire through his dark curls. He had only a moment to reinforce his mind shields before the door opened, breaking the bubble of rare silence and letting in the thoughts of the fifty crew members flitting about the ship. A snarl pulled at his lips, even as he forced himself to turn away from the window and look at who had disturbed his peaceful retreat.

Unimpressed blue eyes met his ugly glare, even as a copper eyebrow rose. Emily Heddin, Captain of the Pegasi Daedarius, was a very impatient woman. And right now her patience was thinner than ever when faced with the very unwilling and cranky teenage male who she had to depend on to keep contact between the ships in the fleet.

A snarl began to curl about her lips, even as Emily tried to reign in her temper at the sheer defiance wafting off of Jacque in waves. When the teen turned away from the captain, the woman’s frail hold on her temper snapped.

“Oh hell no! You are going to drag your ass back out there and fix the mess you made, or may the maker help you, I’ll drag you out by your curls and force you to apologize!”

Emily had an unusual deep voice for a woman, but with that depth came the power over people with sheer intimidation factor. But unfortunately, that power did nothing to sway the teen to do as she willed. Emily and Jacque had butted heads more often than not, and were compared to the clashing of hammers against each other.

But this time, Emily was determined to have her way. There would be no clashing, just a full force bulldozing of the petulant teen into compliance. There was no time for anything else except force, not after that stunt that Jacque had decided to pull. Or rather not pull.

Jacque spun around, mouth open and eyes wide with an imprint of anger on his face, but one look at the murderous glare aimed at him made him stop the words on the tip of his tongue. For all the power he knew he had, Jacque also knew that he was no match for the Captain at her angriest. But that still did not stop him from crossing his arms across his chest with a loud huff.

So what if he didn’t show up for the weekly fleet mind link? They could start using flags and old telecoms again if they really needed to. He ignored the fact that such tech had been labelled dangerous due to the wave links that each telecom sent out and could be spied on, while the mind link could not.

It wasn’t as if they always needed to do the meet, and they had other weavers aboard other than him. Again, ignoring the fact that he had been hired for precisely that as the strongest Web Weaver currently on the planet.


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James whimpered. The poor animal, a small puppy, well wolf cub. It was on the bar counter, moaning horribly as things set themselves in motion. When demons meet lycanthropes. The combination is usually something mal-formed horribly and disable. But when they did connect, some serious sick shit did happen. James was a combination of this mating which shouldn't take place. He was suffering internally. Although on the outside he appeared normal, healthy on inspection. He was dieing on inside.

It wasn't a form of radiation poison, or any poison. Or even sickness of the organs and muscle. It was growth, inhumane growth. He was shifting, not from this form to his true, blood hungered form. But from this form to a pivot. The small pup, perhaps the runt of the litter grew large. Like a full-grown wolf, his fur lengthened, and darkened, he wasn't a pitch black; he was a mouldy dark grey. With what might have been green dandruff, more likely mol on the fur. Tufts of hair dropped from his body as if cut cleanly off with a knife.

The hairless parts of his body gave way to the skin to fall off, revealing working muscle and organs underneath. His tranquil blue eyes faded to a glowing yellow, and an extra two eyes opened on top of his head. He was no longer a cut animal, but perhaps a walking corpse of a month old scavenged corpse. You could see his chest move up and down, one of his lungs pump up and down, the muscles contracting as the vacuum sucked air into the lung. His lower segment of his black leg left gave a rip, and all the flesh and fur off fell off with a rip, laving a dirty yellow skeleton.

James jumped off the counter, letting his skeleton leg drag behind him. He had no muscle to manipulate it. A feral growl was ever present from his half visible voice box. Another rip and his right ear just dropped off. He barred his fangs, long and each canine serrated, yellow, the area near the base a deep dark red. His breath stank of festering flesh. Ah it felt good to be true to yourself. He was ugly, disgusting to look at, he was no longer a cute puppy. His face mal-formed naturally and one set of eyes lower than the other. His face was whiley, lacking any cunning air, or sense of nobility.

A croaky call left the beasts mouth, a call most closely resembled to the french word.


blooooooooooooood' in other words.


The blood was running freely from her sliced lips down her pale chin, only to drip onto her black leather clad legs. Her grey eyes, still shining with insanity and temporary happiness stared unblinkingly into space when she heard the voice. A voice that was akin to her own hideous rasping voice. It made her pierced, pointed ears twitch and her grey eyes blink. Slowly they moved so as to look out of the corners at a creature that won her instant and undivided attention.

Her lips, cracked, sliced and blood stained, parted in her admiration and awe of the hideous creature. A carcass, decaying and yet still very much alive. The sheer raw power emanating from it made her eyes widen with wonder, and the stench made the very corners of her lips turn upward. Her head rolled to the side, as if all the muscles holding it up had been sliced, yet her eyes remained glued. Never blinking, never moving away from the sight.

A gasp of awe escaped those wretched lips before the voice that made cats drowning in liquid concrete sound lovely.
"Lenore, oh Lenore! Such a sight I behold, such glory that doth make mine eyes shine. If only I had six more eyes to take in this sight, to print it in my memory. Ack, Lenore, such a gift it would be, for such a one as me!"

Still staring unblinkingly, she rose to her feet jerkily, as if pulled up by puppet strings. And with that same, graceless jerking, she shuffled forward, her short black hair falling in front of her eyes. Her hands, gloved and chained rose just the slightest, as if she wanted to touch this creature. She wanted to touch, taste, see and hear this creature, so as to capture it in her memory for the centuries of life to come.


The almost gormless face of the wolf turned and faced yours. Its eyes blinked suddenly with emotion. If one can imagine it.

'Suspends from chains, tight chains, ones that suspended you in air, but pulled your arms and legs back, so that just the torso was forced forwards. Imagine if you will, a 13 year old, a smart one, a boff, a nerd, innocent, guilty of nothing more than maybe being too interested in Star Wars. Young, innocent, but forced to face agony. Starved, but also thirsty your throat dry, like the morning after a stag night. The sort of cracked back of the throat feel which will just go away with one sip of water. This one sip of water not gifted to this boy.

The boy would breathe heavily, and quickly, desperately. His thin chest rising up and down with each short gasping breath. Pumping up and down like an engine pump. His body in perfect form, it portrayed the desperation perfectly. Apart from one flaw, a rusted metal spike, going in through his back, and coming out the front, forcing aside to ribs to make room. Sweat didn't grace his face, he was thirsty, he didn't have moisture in his body to sweat with. A cry.

'Ah-Ah-Ah-A A.'

Like the first anal experience of a young twink bisexual. Painful, but loving every moment. A second spike had touched his back, and was driving itself in slowly. The slow tedious pain.'

That was what the wolf’s eyes showed. Its eyes slid over to you, they simply glow white, there was no pupil, or iris. But you could tell, if it had them they'd be on you. It was seeking revenge for its inner Childs suffering. Its throat let out another cry.



Ah, the eyes of the beast, a glorious and revealing white. The images that poured so freely were all too familiar, all to close to something that she had known of. Yet they were beautiful in their agonizing horrific meanings. They did not turn a hair on this woman, for they were the images that many others had shown her, yet different in their own way. She admired them, she coveted them, they would be her treasures in lonely times. Insanity had made its mark plain on this woman.

Again, her voice escaped those tortured lips, but a smile bare the several fangs stained in blood that were meant for ripping, shredding.
Oh sweet, deary. A wish for the weary. Oh how you suffer, oh how you long! But Lenore cannot grant what you wish tonight. Lenore will not, and if Lenore will not, then I have no choice but to disobey her."

A smirk, a sneer. A smile twisted and painted red. Her gloved hands, covered in chains that glittered and jingled, rose toward her face. Her fingers, gloved and hidden from the light, ran along her chin and made markings in the blood that stained her pale face. She smiled that dreadful smile, her eyes wide, blank as a doll's, yet seeing everything and everyone she wished to. Six claws, one between each knuckle on the backs of her gloved hands, broke through the leather and shone bright white. Six long inches of death, of pain drawn in the bone, were gracing her long fingered gloved hands.

The lovers will love, the mourners will mourn, and the reaper will reap. Oh the suffering of our mortal hearts, oh how they long for release! Does thine heart long, yearn for that blessed release? The reaper shall hear your prayer.

Her gravely voice tried to portray sadness, but her body was quivering with anxiousness, her eyes having gained a new shine to them. Her question was wrapped in rabble, her curiosity veiled behind the anxiety. It was a still dance of emotions and movements, making her head sway from side to side like a snake.


James was not insane. Far from it, he was the vile product of demons and lycans meeting. He was the excess, the failed prototypes. The thing that didn't quite work out. He wasn't insane. Not even slightly, he wasn't gone. He was hungry; he just wanted to eat fresh meat. He was the genetically faltered. An ugly, decrepit beast. A mongrel, something to shoot for fun on a day. She was his prey, although he was smaller, diseased, and fragile. It was for this form. He was going to consume her.

His muzzle came forwards and he sniffed the air about her, one sniff, before his rotted nose dropped from the tip of his nose to the floor with a light thud. The creature tilted its head to the side, and dispersed. It dispersed as in melted. Its form lost shape, and sank into a black pool of thick goo with tufts of hair sticking out. Than from this, a hand emerged. A hand, cut off from the wrist, a human hand, with the skin peeled off to reveal yellow bone and muscle beneath. The lower jaw of a human, in the same skin peeled fashion was attached crudely to the underside or palm of the hand at the point where the thumb and hand connected, and the opposite side of the hand.

The jaw was suspended there with a few rusty nails and it appeared to be in working order. It was easily capable of clamping and biting stuff. Its nails were long, and it clicked along the floor when it moved. An eyeball, the type of squished eye. Like one thrown against the wall and splattered, most of the inner goo hanging out and the iris and pupil shattered, distorted and broken. This eye was affixed to the back, or top of the hand, by a single staple. The black fluid it emerged from seemed absorbed into the floor.

The hand moved forward, scuttling like a beetle, the fingers were like legs and they pulled the hand along. The meat on the bones of the hand was like biltong, but with each movement it made, you could see muscles contract and bones move.


Surprise flickered in the grey depths of her eyes before the smile widened, the flesh on either side of her lips stretching, ripping to reveal the rows of sharp bicuspids and molars meant for grinding and ripping. She loved surprises, be they ghastly or common. And this was a surprise she wasn't ever going to forget. Her eyes in the light as her leather clothing stretched, her chest cavity broken open to reveal the black smoking mass that should have been lungs, heart and stomach. Short black hair grew incredible lengths and turned rotted grey as a third eye burned its way through her bone and skin on her forehead. A red, burning and rotted eye that smoked and let small dark trickles of old blood run down her pale forehead. Her fingers broke through the tips of the gloves, revealing the dark claw like nails that had grown. Spikes, black and shining burst from her elbows and shoulders, having no particular purpose other then armour. Surprise, surprise, oh how she loved surprises. Both given and received.

Her voice was darker, smoother and had many layers and textures.
"Lenore doth not love and Lenore doth not hate. Lenore hungers, and kills. Lenore, Lenore, my fallen angel Lenore. I do love surprises, young, lovely child. And this is a surprise I will enjoy."

The ichor oozing from the holes in her cheeks and from the huge cavity that was her chest smoked, and dripped in clumps to the ground where they made dark, unwashable stains. Her grey eyes were bright red, and their pupils were like needles. Oh, she was far gone in her insane joy, too far gone to come back. She waited for the gruesome hand, all the while admiring its structure, and wishing for such a hand to call her own.
Like a pet.


The hand was merely an abomination. A Frankenstein in a sense. It was a collection of human parts, mailed crudely together to form a sort of mechanical scout. 'Click, click click' the nails of the hand skittered towards you as the clacked rhythmically on the hardwood flooring. The hand came to the base of your feet. Its distraught and broken eyes seemed to stare, although it was broken and didn't actually work. It just seemed to. It was true; he sought a master or mistress. But not one to serve in domesticity. But one to fight and protect in hopes of advancing in his own evolution. She was far too insane to fulfil his needs, to set him tasks to accomplish like an assassin. Although he preferred less of a killing profession, and more like a pet on leash, drooling, snarling, baring teeth. Ready to just be let go at his owners whim so they could stand back and watch him tear limb from limb.

The hand was no threat. It was just a hand with a jaw, and a useless eyeball. It felt and communicated to the greater essence of its master, by feel. It sent out small waves, high pitched frequencies and created a mental structure of the world around it like that. It was simply a use of the body, like the thumb is a use of the body, or the kidneys. One could easily crush and ruin the hand beneath a foot. It was just as rotted as the dog before it, frail.

The hand made a half circle round the target. She didn't seem so appetising. He was a fault of nature. He had no real need to consume something just as disturbed as him. She almost repulsed him. The hand raised its body to support itself on middle and index finger like two feet. Its thumb curved round behind the knuckle on the back of the hand and it bowed forwards. A sign of lack of hostilities. Before it sank back onto all five finger and pushed off, leaping onto her chest to, hope to delve into the inners of her body through the black cavity on her chest.


Her smile, gruesome and bloody, faded just the slightest as it bowed to her. Intelligence, she had not counted on. It appealed to her calmer side, to the one that wanted a companion, a friend. Her red, insane eyes widened as the third eye flamed briefly, burning the skin and bone that it had erupted through. It was no threat, and it would not cause her any stress. Would the surprises never cease? The jutting, charred ends of her ribs flexed like fingers and the sludge that were her lungs moved briefly, as if she were breathing. But she did not breathe, she could not. What was revealed in her chest was as useless as mothballs. Yet they moved about as if they were still in use before stilling again.

When the hand leaped for her chest, reaction was instant. Her one gloved hand caught it, carefully, carefully, so as not to destroy this admirable toy. She was enthralled by this hand, with its gruesome and vile appearance and intelligent manners. But she had interpreted its intent before it leapt, and with a smile and blink of rotted eyelids, she placed it inside her rotted chest cavity, her nose twitching at the weird feeling of dug about in.

"Lovely are those with friends, hated are those who shun. Am I shunning a friend, becoming a hated enemy? I think not. Lenore may be angry with me, but Lenore cannot do much more than yell. Hear her voice inside me, for there she dwells. Inside my rotted self. Do not dig, for you will find, a cage much despicable in design, for the Fallen Lenore."

Her dulcet multi voice was threaded with bitter contentment as she spoke about her Lenore. A ghost to the gods, a poltergeist to the weary, and her constant companion. She was there within, hiding, plotting, whispering things that would corrupt the innocent. Oh, Lenore of the Fallen was trapped inside. Trapped and screaming. Yet that was of no concern at the moment, for now that the hand was inside her, the woman knelt before the dark pool, curious as to how the awe inspiring carcass had disappeared in that.

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It's a great lump, jumping in the oesophagus and climbing up the throat. Like a see-saw that never ends, it goes up and down.

I don't want to go back. I don't want to hear their false voices and see their lying faces. I don't want to deal with their shallow drama, or have to listen and deal with even shallower adults.

Instead I will drown in apathy pills, and numb them out. Perhaps wait a long while, and just drift while doing physical labour.
This town is nothing but a void, sucking the life out of everyone and giving nothing back.
I want to leave and never look back. I want to live and never regret.
I want to enjoy life instead of hating it.
I want my family back, instead of strangers who pretend and use and use and use and never let up.

What I want... Is like a star. Too far and too bright for me to comprehend having.

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Full moon rising up above the dark pine trees, laced with snow and ringed in blue. Stars are twinkling above, like little diamonds spread about an endless dark tablecloth. Crunching of feet on the trampled ice and snow, the mists of hot breath rising up into the air. Swishing of waterproof and heavy lined cloth against familiar layers, while the quick padding of soft paws bound back and forth.
It's dark in the woods, and cold and breezy. Ice is building on the green scarf, while dry pain is building in the chest. Lungs are beginning to wheeze and cheeks are becoming rosy. But it's a night in a winter wonderland, and every moment suffering is another moment filled with glorious ice art. Big mounds of black and white fur roll about in a snow trench, before bounding off to piss on a bush. Wolf eyes gaze with wonder and everlasting curiosity and ears perk at every sound, both existing and non-existing.
Glasses are fogging, fingers wrapped in leather are getting numb. Time to go back to the warm place, where water for dry tongues and tea for hurting throats await. But it's a slow walk back, taking in all that is about. Everything is covered in miles of snow, and every track is visible. Lazy shuffling steps trek down the trodden paths and up a small steep hill. Silly howls of greeting echo in the courtyard, bouncing off of bricks and glass and through the few pine trees of the courtyard. Others jump and murmur at the sight of the wannabe wolf, but some laugh and howl back.
Open a glass door and climb fake marble steps. Turn a metal knob and release the mounds of fur into the warm place. Greet mama bear and brother pest, avoid the puddles of slick drinking saliva water on the ground while retelling the tale of Outside. Perhaps bake a pie, and enjoy the warmth. The sun won't be up for another eighteen hours.

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Live with the small mice, follow their whispering ghostly trails through unseen areas of your soul. Gnaw away at small but important corners of doubt and strength. We allow our emotions to guide us down the burning path towards hell, which is hidden behind a fountain of wisdom rumoured to be let down from heaven.
Snarling and growling and screaming and raging, raping and pillaging and wreaking havoc. Stealing and destroying.

Yo Ho.

Yo Ho.

Yo Ho.

We shall live forever more.

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Slowly the numbness grows, reaching up from the soil and wrapping around first toes and then ankles. It vines up the leg and digs deep into the knee cavity. Swifter now it immobilizes the thighs and the hips, sending cracking pain up the many connections of the spine. Arms are beginning to falter, shoulders are breaking under the strain, while the teeth are ground into dust.
Never fear, the smith is not here. He will not smithy your teeth and your bones and your joints and your blood and your soul back into shape.
Nope, that's what Gods are for.
And they won't do it, cause we are insignificant.
Just enjoy the bread I broke my back to make you.

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Elbows chaffed and raw, feet numb yet aching. Left leg is throwing in the towel while eyes are trying to lower their banners. Lungs are slowing their high tempo to a deep steady rhythm, while muscles are relaxing into a stand by position. Fingers are moving slower, while brain is taking small trips to la la land.

Yet I want to write and read adventure. I want to write Harry getting banged by Joey, the newly turned werewolf. Don't worry, I've got chocolate enough to try and get through the experience.
Instead, I'll let Bandit soothe me in the background with their guitars and vulgar songs.

Maybe lull me into sleep. Maybe.

Then some Iron Maiden and Guns 'n' Roses. Plus Rammstein.

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The orchestra of tears and wails, the never ending bass of stomping feat of lead weight. Crying out and yelling, tantrums of epic proportions.
This is all battled by my loud opera singing slash failing in the kitchen as I clean dishes. My dog tries to help by howling as loud as he can, but even he cannot combat the two monsters above our apartment. Soon though, I will burst and there will be such a cacophony of screaming that long dead gods will awaken and say, "The Fuck is That?!"
Doomsday approaches, young satan spawn. It approaches with the riff of a guitar and the shrill notes of a alto soprano gone wrong.
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I dream of fields and wheat and cows, sheep and hounds, country light and sounds holding me in. But it's only a dream, one that haunts my weary eyes and hides behind my eyelids.
Falling leaves and burning trees, early nights and late mornings.
Its the present and not the future, perhaps the past and the forever that goes beyond that.
Dreams are simple things, things that flow out of my open fingers and onto the key board.
But right now, they buzz about my skull and make my bones ache.
Soon I will sleep and more dreams will come and taint my existence.


Sep. 30th, 2010 12:57 pm
mckenna: (Default)
Where do the tears run to?
Across seas and over mountains,
They run forever, stretching and molding
Turning silver in the different lights of the days that pass.
Why do my fears grow?
They feast on my insecurities, my hopes
My dreams are in danger of being swallowed whole,
The whale that haunts the deep seas with its songs and dance
It comes to me, it sings in my deaf ears.
My lips are formed to say the words of Unknowing
But the sound never escapes my throat.
The world keeps turning, never knowing the danger it holds
It caresses and folds in its great arms.
The words of unknowing will forever be within my grasp
Stitched fast with thread of souls and death.

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