Tuesday, August 7, 2012

Reading: Preservation [Stint 1] Formation


The magick was fresh, raw dreams raised within awakening.  The smell was of sun-baked seaweed.  Every breath increased, then briskly faded into the sunshine.  Bursting lungs tortured none, yet the thought lingered.  Imaginary starfish screamed in delight.  Suddenly, ironically, redundantly, all was calm.

The residue of temptation faded and the memories were no more.  Rebirth.  Coconut milk filled the void of the empty soul.  It was sweet.  It was also terrifying, yet there was no room for that.  The silence was thick, encased within the newly formed shells.

The fire was wretched, an awkward soothing seasick illusion.  It was time to cook the lobsters.  The witches eyes were art, committing hate crimes with precision.  There was no God here, the engulfing riddles to intense.  The lobsters never made a sound.  Then they were devoured.  It was not the first, but somehow the only food they had ever tasted.  The boat rocked.

Bees buzzed nearby.  She tended them with grace.  Her captives ate quietly .  Their gaze lingered briefly, carefully upon her back.  They were more than reluctant to meet her eyes.  They may end up like the lobsters.  They thought in unison.  One abruptly snickered, disrupting the hive mind, somehow contemplating would she eat him, should her stare sear him.  The answer was a very quick no.  She made the others toss him overboard.  The sharks could have him.  No more disruptions.

Too fresh.  This odd last meal was over.  They must be subdued into eternity. Enchanted, the bees began to swarm them, numbing all that remained of their humanity sting by sting.  This magick was old, ageless.  There was no goodness within the drones, no evil either, just simple submission, unity.  These bees were the keepers of men.  The magick ripened.

A circle formed, hands embracing hands, welts rising to the sky.  They howled.  It rained.  Like the bees, she retreated to her own comb, a loft, carved, stained, sticky.  This freshness was acceptable.  She began to lick the blood.  Splinters.

No pain of which to speak, not for her, not for the men. Never again.  Placid serenity.  No complaints.  It was strangely beautiful.  A hollow wonderful, willfully free from the trance that laughter brings.  There was no room for something so big here.  This was a small operation.  They sailed onwards, the wind guiding them home, yet keeping them abay.  When land was sighted the they would have to row, row, row.  God’s breath would not enter their auras, nor would it take them to land … and he would never welcome them home.

The men, though, were unaware of this.  They just obeyed, thoughtfully, blissfully, ignorant of salvation.  Their souls removed, captive within the pearls on her neck, were not missed.  She was their mother now, and the milk she had provided was fickle, yet completed them.  They were family.  They were hive.  They considered themselves happy.  The howling continued.  This was normal.  This was music.  She began to sing.  So did the bees.  The men, eyes glazed, danced.

After the song she pulled out her list.  She crossed out one of the words that comprised it.  It was incarceration.  That concept was no more.  She was punishing no one.  There would be no release.  That was implied.  What they were was her favorite word: Grateful.  Thus, the fishing went well.  They were eager to please.

The lust for lobster long gone, they thought not to eat the fish.  That door was closed.  She had found a more enticing handle within their mind and tugged at it frequently.  It was her second favorite word: Duty.  Now they were hungry only to serve, any recollection of the loss of their near brother far removed.  Just milk.  Filled with milk they never drank.  Something about the coconuts.  Before she found them they all had the dream.  Coconuts.  No more sleep.  No more dreams.  Service.  They thanked her daily.  She cried once, so pleased.  This perplexed them.


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