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Silks and SnakesShe moved through the Bombay marketplace with some sort of ancient secret hiding behind her lips. Her eyes darted like the arrows of Apollo about the crowded space. She was jostled and bumped, pushed aside and shoved forward. Her nose was thrust towards exotic spices that tingled with special purpose within her flesh.
She eyed silken fabrics and plucked at them with longing fingers. Her feet stepped over unsavory piles of dirt and dung and her body turned like a snake to move between the tightly packed people. Merchants saw her eager eye and prodded her with their wares, were then disappointed when she sprinted away.
All around her was the hustling and bustling and cheerful sounds of the bazaar, and it pressed against her skin like milk in a goatskin till it was granted entrance. She was overwhelmed with it. And then through it all, she heard the low growl that signaled his presence. Between turbans and out of place Westerners hats she saw his face.
He was a man oft
Blackest NightmareShe could feel it. A quiet but malicious presence at the foot of her bed. Its dark essence was the strongest there. It was coming closer, black and ugly with rotten breath that rolled like magma over her prone form.
She knew it was hesitant, but determined to achieve its goal. She felt the trudge of its heavy feet on the cold wooden floor. She struggled to open her eyes, finding them weighted, as if large bags of fine sand hung from them. The sand dripped onto her body, progressively and steadily slowing her movements. Her uncomfortable twists and turns.
Her hand was heavy as she lifted it, brushing though the watery air to feel nothing but the monsters heavy stare. The sheets of her bed were sticky with what felt like blood, though she knew it was nothing but the sweat dripping down her limbs in droves. Its presence was hot and irrefutable and she knew its eyes were the same, gasped when they appeared beneath her closed eyelids.
They were a bright, sticky yellow with wide black
The Longest MomentsCool and smooth, the hard wooden barrel beneath her fingers provided her only support. The grasping waves of the fierce ocean were tearing at her, but the barrel was a safe, fragile haven. Screams were ripped from her throat in a desperate and entirely futile attempt to save herself. They were unnatural, painful, and blood curdling.
As she bobbed from side to side, fingernails griped the wood so that splinters dug painfully into her hands, and something brushed her bare foot. It was smooth and soft, in the way that silk was after being soaked in rose water. She choked helplessly on another scream when the salty water violated her throat. It brushed her leg again, this time sharp ridges countering the silkiness with painful jabs. Her own blood was beginning to well up in the water, surrounding her, turning the world a terrifying red.
The tempest above her was in no condition to let out. The lashing winds, the furious waves, claiming their debt from mankind. She just hopes that she will
IowaIf you visit Iowa,
you'll call her fields empty,
but she wasn't born that way.
A part of her was carved out
when she was ripped between Virginia
and the purple mountains of New Mexico.
Her gold hair, she tore it out when she realized
it didn't make her a princess.
She laid her locks strung along every road
leading somewhere else.
White hairs on her cheeks
are scars from winter.
Her hair darkens with the dampness
of summer rains.
The storms are never silent,
but neither is life when there's a tear
in your childhood where
a parent ought to be.
I've been flooded by Iowa's sorrow.
The only way I can distract her from her own voided landscape
is if I hate myself harder than she cries.
She just wants to fly
and I want to bus or train,
not because I fear death, but because
I want to take living slow.
It's the only way I ever feel.
From the air it's hard to watch Earth's hips move.
But Earth can't compare to the country.
That's my girl.
Full grown even when harvesting season's j
To depression, for creating days without endWake up to the realization that you've been awake
for seconds, minutes, hours.
You've been awake in this warm, dark room
and you don't know how long it's been
but now you're conscious
and it starts again--
the pain, strong and steady, in your chest.
You gain consciousness in this too warm morning
and your thoughts whir in endless loops
because it's either that or face the weight in your chest.
Light breaks though the window, soft and unwelcome
but you take it as a reluctant gift--
a new distraction from the feelings awake in your chest.
Awake, but not conscious.
So you think yourself in circles a little while longer
waiting for those quiet pains
(the constant reminder)
to gain consciousness.
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More