Monday, 27 April 2009
20.
The hedgerows are blooming, vibrant and bursting with spring greenery. Along the verges pale primroses cluster in ragged rugs and the wood sorrel blinks white flowers from its trails of heart-shaped leaves. Bright anemones scatter the rounded banks, starred with chickweed. Red campion blushes the roadside and violets are strewn in secret gaudiness, hidden among the proliferation of grasses. In the woods, straight Douglas firs shelter tumbling rushes of bluebells, springing from the whispering mulch of the forest floor. Mushrooms grow softly among the roots and scatter, rotting, across the path. The sun cuts through the leaves, turning the dust motes to diamonds and flakes of gold.
Saturday, 18 April 2009
19.
Don't go into the woods, she was told, her mother anxious and whispering as she brushed her hair and fastened her pretty dresses. Don't go into the woods, murmured low, there are beasts who will devour you, crunch on your bones and lap up your blood, there will be nothing of you left for the ravens to feast on. Don't go into the woods, she said, you will be lost on the tricksy paths, the roots will trip you and the vines will bind you.
The woods, the woods, the threatening woods, the dark ranks of trees with beckoning limbs. The leaves that flutter and hiss at the window when the storm whips the clouds at the moon. Mother's quick breathing in the next room, the creak of the bed and the groan of the branches shifting restless. The moan of the wind and the haunting hoot of the owl; her head is full of echoes of words and the wood and half-remembered tales.
She treads lightly, sure-footed in the ragged light. The woods break over her like a wave and she drowns in the sudden hush. There are no tracks here and she skirts round the great black trunks, tracing their grooves with her fingertips. In a clearing she stops. Her skin is on fire and each sense screams as she swims unshackled through this night.
There is something here in the silence, lurking in the shadows. It has waited for her forever, shouting the pain of its heartbeats, chest heaving with torn breath. It falls on her with heavy hands, howling at the smoothness of her skin, the silk of her hair. She sinks into the embrace, the rasp of teeth at her neck, the scorching eyes. You would eat me up, she says. Her eyes are as still as forest pools. I have come, I am here, I am yours.
The woods, the woods, the threatening woods, the dark ranks of trees with beckoning limbs. The leaves that flutter and hiss at the window when the storm whips the clouds at the moon. Mother's quick breathing in the next room, the creak of the bed and the groan of the branches shifting restless. The moan of the wind and the haunting hoot of the owl; her head is full of echoes of words and the wood and half-remembered tales.
She treads lightly, sure-footed in the ragged light. The woods break over her like a wave and she drowns in the sudden hush. There are no tracks here and she skirts round the great black trunks, tracing their grooves with her fingertips. In a clearing she stops. Her skin is on fire and each sense screams as she swims unshackled through this night.
There is something here in the silence, lurking in the shadows. It has waited for her forever, shouting the pain of its heartbeats, chest heaving with torn breath. It falls on her with heavy hands, howling at the smoothness of her skin, the silk of her hair. She sinks into the embrace, the rasp of teeth at her neck, the scorching eyes. You would eat me up, she says. Her eyes are as still as forest pools. I have come, I am here, I am yours.
Saturday, 11 April 2009
18.
This girl, they say, drives men to despair.
He says, I can't come too close or you will burn me up; I would halo you with ashes. He wants to hold her but the heat of her body repels him and he dances at the edges, a moth attracted by the false moon.
When she speaks the flames spew from her lips and floor him; he shields his eyes against the blinding brightness of her regard. His face is hot and his heart beats fast, forcing his sluggish blood through starved capillaries, reddening his cheeks and beading his forehead with sweat.
He says, I am scared of you, sorceress, witch, with your burning skin and your heart of ice.
She is radiant, bathed in her own light.
She says, my heart would shatter against your bones. You would cage me and stamp out my flames; you would diminish me for the sake of your pride.
She walks away with the sun in her hair.
He says, I can't come too close or you will burn me up; I would halo you with ashes. He wants to hold her but the heat of her body repels him and he dances at the edges, a moth attracted by the false moon.
When she speaks the flames spew from her lips and floor him; he shields his eyes against the blinding brightness of her regard. His face is hot and his heart beats fast, forcing his sluggish blood through starved capillaries, reddening his cheeks and beading his forehead with sweat.
He says, I am scared of you, sorceress, witch, with your burning skin and your heart of ice.
She is radiant, bathed in her own light.
She says, my heart would shatter against your bones. You would cage me and stamp out my flames; you would diminish me for the sake of your pride.
She walks away with the sun in her hair.
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