soggyclockwork
Bound to - . Bound to - for fear. Bound to - for fear of. Bound to - for fear of rejection. Bound to you.
Ordinary people everywhere, extra-ordinary each one of them. They each have a light, a god, a name, given to themselves. Rejoice, for freedom comes in the naming, which straps you down and ties you down and strips you down.
Mr Wrong was an Asian. He had lived in a little apartment his entire life, smoking rolled tobacco and growing aloe vera plants to sooth his bad acne. He didn't have any enemies, or that many friends either. It was his smoking that killed him - he couldn't smell. Outside his door someone left a poisonous plant that looked remarkably liked an aloe vera plant. It didn't smell like one, but Wrong didn't know that. He died that night in bed, the plants toxin eating his face.
Stitched by a witch from the branches of an old willow that crew in through the cracks of her house. He stumbled about like a newborn foal, unsure of his wobbly wooden legs. His eyes were coal and his mouth was sewn up shut, and even if it wasn't that willow body of his didn't have much to say.
Collects them in a bag, carried at the waist. Stumbles around in the snow, plucking them from plump mouths. You never see his sharp, knotted fingers until it's too late. He plucks them with a grin, a grin of a million teeth.
Six in a row. Six little rat skulls speared on them like pikes. The children from the neighbourhood put them there to keep guard over the street, the hollow eyes watching passer-by's every move. They watched and kept guard. If anything unusual were to happen the children would be sure to know before anyone else.
The final time before you step into the blue abyss of ignorance. Forever endless, forever continuing. Rowing there, drowning, lost, looking for your last foothold.
She reached through the bubbles. She reached up to where he was standing, letting the water gently wash through his feet. Her green, tangled fingers wrapped round his ankle and he shook her off. She retreated to the depths, washed away by the tide.
White disguised in red. It would never have worked. Had he not forced it down her throat. The glass almost shattered in her face in a process. She screamed as she died. Screamed and squirmed, wriggling about like a rat caught in a trap.
They would dance and waltz forever until they died. The lacquered floors, the polished marble, the satin cases poured in rich profusion. Round the room span. Round and round. The colours blured. The lighting swam in an endless whirlpool.
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writing since 2010 · 12 entries · 11 days shown up
each square is a day—lit means Darren showed up.
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11days written
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the words Darren reaches for
boundroundhappenedhappeningforeverdiedfearoppositeworkedunhappyendlessfacescreamedratreachedfingers