The quartz crystal glistened in her hand. She closed her eyes to pray. and released it. And she hoped against all hope that it would work. And that this never-ending thirst, with blood still on her incisors, would go away. And she would get to live until the age of 99.
Eleanor
I envision Keegan in leather harness and chaps standing over me, covering me with his seed. He still has a watch on.
Andy
he hung on
to the pink quartz
in his left hand,
squeezing it tight
for self-love
and whatnot.
he also had carnelian
on his bedside table
so his beauty would
never rot.
all for a broken boy
to drink the glimmer
in his blood
and turn his light
off.
Brannon wore a wristwatch with quartz movement. I loved him.
Matt
She had always been a knockoff. Wood, rather than bone. Water, rather than blood or milk. Quartz, rather than diamond.
She had been told once that she was a ‘clone’, but far too faulty to find any similarities to her original. Her appearance, they explained as they labeled her for termination, was way off.
She had escaped, of course; she supposed her original had a bit of a mean streak to give her such motivation to wiggle free of the restraints and take off into the night, lungs burning with the effort of keeping her upright.
Moxie only got you so far, however. She was fucking starving now.
WyWrites
The quartz clocks on the subway platform clicked.
Synchronized.
For years.
They told the time to countless passengers.
And at some point, their peers were slowly replaced.
A technicolor display, lowly buzzing.
The time is still told.
But the click has gone with the people.
The quartz crystal glistened in her hand. She closed her eyes to pray. and released it. And she hoped against all hope that it would work. And that this never-ending thirst, with blood still on her incisors, would go away. And she would get to live until the age of 99.
I envision Keegan in leather harness and chaps standing over me, covering me with his seed. He still has a watch on.
he hung on
to the pink quartz
in his left hand,
squeezing it tight
for self-love
and whatnot.
he also had carnelian
on his bedside table
so his beauty would
never rot.
all for a broken boy
to drink the glimmer
in his blood
and turn his light
off.
Brannon wore a wristwatch with quartz movement. I loved him.
She had always been a knockoff. Wood, rather than bone. Water, rather than blood or milk. Quartz, rather than diamond.
She had been told once that she was a ‘clone’, but far too faulty to find any similarities to her original. Her appearance, they explained as they labeled her for termination, was way off.
She had escaped, of course; she supposed her original had a bit of a mean streak to give her such motivation to wiggle free of the restraints and take off into the night, lungs burning with the effort of keeping her upright.
Moxie only got you so far, however. She was fucking starving now.
The quartz clocks on the subway platform clicked.
Synchronized.
For years.
They told the time to countless passengers.
And at some point, their peers were slowly replaced.
A technicolor display, lowly buzzing.
The time is still told.
But the click has gone with the people.