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Re: To G. Tolleson; a Missive from Afar

PostPosted: Sat Sep 08, 2018 12:59 pm
by Tolleson
Several things happened in short order: Genny had offered her trust in exchange for a demand, Gloria charged, and the sword vanished. There was something else. What was it? It was there, it was somewhere, right on the tip of her tongue. As if she’d walked into a room and forgotten why she’d come; Elliot’s touch was gone and she stood as if fending off sleep, dumbly watching the enthralling illumination, the thorns, and blue roses as they came into existence.

“Keep her,” questioning, sing-song words fell out of her, as if she were trying to remember the next line in a childhood lullaby she hadn’t heard in years. Her hand reached out to the space between, slow as if she moved through tar, with straining fingers, grasping for the wrist of that tattooed arm. Perhaps all she’d catch were tendrils of smoke and imagination.

‘...wake up now,’


The words drowned as familiar, small bells began to chime. Their merry warning initiated glistening ripples like water drops onto the fabric of the dream that had been the floor. The sound distorted to hearty tones that built into a gentle melody as lucidity lost out, the hand that had gripped the sword relaxed, and focus fell away. The horrors Gloria reflected were captured upon the surface, an undulating reality that became like water.

The sword had been a thread tethering Genny to memories, to the control of her slumbering body’s conscious mind. The sword ought to have been just an object, merely a memory pulled with purpose into a lucid dream. It was as foreign and as out of it’s own time and place as the deformed creature. With it yanked free, as though it were the only thing holding her upright, she collapsed. Or rather, she inverted. Folding into herself and through what was left of the floor until she stood below them both, a curious reflection looking down, up at them from below.

The floor, as unstable as it might look could easily hold Elliot. His mind wasn’t quite so easy to enter, after all. But for Gloria, it might be as though the water rose, or perhaps she fell. The dream below the turbulent sea surface, beckoning and pulling her under.

Re: To G. Tolleson; a Missive from Afar

PostPosted: Sat Sep 08, 2018 5:50 pm
by Rance
Thorns. A figure, as quick to come into being as it was to disappear.

Thousand-Eyes vanished; that was life, and that was death.

Genny reaching out, then crumbling like powder, or perhaps like a melting wax figurine, sinking down, down, down...

Pain. But brief. Blinding, deafening, so great that it could hardly register in anything but noise and whiteness. Then there was water, rushing up to devour her.

Her blood suffused the depths of the sea, coiling out in dark, cloudy billows from places where sharp edges had chewed canyons into her. She was the carriage of the Glass Sun, boiling the water around her in a torrent of heat and sulfur and salt, until at last it filled her swollen lungs and the murky blood transformed like any substance must when at the will and pressure of a force far its greater: its color and weight became sound and fury, the spilling stuff of veins morphing into the spillnig stuff of mind, an uninterrupted deluge of the storm constantly raging underneath that bristling bounty of hair, that brown scalp, that thick, thick skull, pouring out into the dream—

elliot brown
could raw his mar'dak's nipple red underneath the constant
gumming of that arrogant jaw but you cannot silence him cannot
bring sense to him cannot tame him with a bit between the teeth


genny tolleson
could move a mountain and a kingdom with her mind and you
weave whole gowns from that red hair wrap yourself inside of
it and hope she doesn't mind glour'eya (j'uk'ad, j'uk'ad)

soodsy
will grow old and she will be far better left to the
happiness of a lie (you've but one parent, a knight

so you fear him because you could not fix him could not save
him could not be anything more than spit and promises and stupid
foreign girl (never myrkenite no myrkener myrkener myrkener)


and you find yourself tumbling into old burnt libraries to find
silent words buried like brilliant jewels on her lips and the
stutter left behind finds a rhythm like a song in the hearbeat
of your mind there you are dancing dancing dancing

named catch, who kissed the moonlight and breathed
out a vapor and so you came to be like a moonbeam
dream cast alive through the fog)

you just tire him with all your screaming and your stubborness
and stupid smashing rock glour'eya (j'uk'ol, j'uk'ol) he has
all he needs and all he wants with ink etched into the skin and
thorns on the edges of those fingertips—


to its charm before you drift off to sleep and how cruel you
are you stupid sand-scarred girl that for all the sharp-edge
beauty of her mind you just stare at that curve of her
collarbone burnt into your vision and wonder if she looks back—

than a very ugly truth too afraid
to look
you straight
in the eye—

—swimming, drowning among the violence of clumsy metaphors blowing profusely out from underneath her skin. And thorn-riddled, her dark face wearing the bulging, airless terror of a corpse cast off from a ship, she tried to swim, but failed, for she could not; she tried to sluggishly batter her useless hand against the frozen top of the sea, but her arm swung like lifeless ribbon and possessed no strength. Drowning in the water, falling apart, peeling off from the bones, strangling in the remnants of her own dress, it was all she could do to keep from going limp and dead in the blackness.

Driven by fading effort, that spasming hand lashed out, tried to snare the edge of Genny's gossamer hem floating mist-like in the suffocating sea.

Don't go. Don't flee. I'm here, I'm here...

Elliot Brown was a lost cause. Genny Tolleson could not be.

We're not so different...I, too, am fighting with every—