Rirakuma
Back light, dim cities drowned in low set smoke, billowing from the chimneys we preach to hate, but consume from. Thousands of cars passing, passing, moving and never stopping for the city lights. The darkness it takes, from souls, turning hearts black.
Squishy Ikea chairs.
The director.
Wise, old tales, she told, her skin old like bark. She smiled, wrinkled, the bark crunching, as she retold tales of her life before she grew.
Returning after the hot, dry and cutting Summer. The leaves were burned brown, and the sand dry, coarse and crusted. They returned. To nothing.
He sent me quiet, sinful signals over the table, his bone thin hands stretching and twirling. All I could do was stare at the paper like skin that threaded over his knuckles and watch with a silent disinterest.
Her hands were weathered and old, like paper and dry leaves. Her fingers, so delicate and wrinkled, so fragile yet precise, so warm in their touch.
She grasped at the empty air, fingers stretching and clenching the nothingness before her. He'd long since left, away from her grasp, into the black depths of the ocean. Gone.
Her arms were flailing wildly as she let the fridge door close by itself.
"Who ate my pudding?!" she screamed in frustration, letting out a feral growl.
Her brother watched from the corner, spoon in hand, feeling particularly terrified.
Limbs like paper, tongue dry and rough with exhaustion, the fatigue was catching up to him.
He was willed into doing his best, but his path was fraught with danger, lust, and summer red wine that dribbled down the chin of men, sticking to their beards. His will was strong, and complete the mission, he would.
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writing since 2013 · 13 entries · 13 days shown up
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drypaperbloodturningnothingnessclaimbestsummerfingersstretchingblackhandswrinkledskintalesbark