he remembered the first time he had undressed her. so carefully, as if he was afraid he would break her, somehow. his fingers tracing her porcelain shoulders, nails digging ever so slightly into her skin as one hand crept, slowly, up the back of her neck, and the other found her spine.
she fell easily into his silences, and he enveloped her, intensely; and things were good, for a while, as such things are.
she once told him that he wrote like he made love. he only nodded his head slowly, flicked the end of his cigarette, and told her she was wrong. he made love like he wrote.
it was the dancing, in the end, that always got them into trouble, of course.
*
still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he turned to her one morning, and asked why.
she arched her eyebrows, in that particular way of hers, meaning etched in every crease, and asked him what on earth he was talking about.
why, he repeated. why us, why now? why like this?
why anything, she asked, shrugging her shoulders ever so slightly.
i haven't written anything, he said, suddenly. not since i first touched you. why.
should i know?
well, i don't know, he said, slipping another cigarette out. empty, now, almost. what i do know is- my silences refuse to turn back into sentences.
when there was anguish, there were always her arms, wrapped around him.
i don't know, baba, she said, abandoning her two-step. i don't know where your syllables are hiding.
and he may have believed her, if they hadn't circled around and around each other, so often. the same old ground, the same old fears.
you act, he said.
you act, and i'm supposed to write. but all we do . . . all we do is dance.
- its so erotic when your makeup runs -
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
half dressed and pacing, the scent of sweat rising ever so gently off his body, he asked her if this was what became of life.
he didn't like the cool air, in these moods. sometimes she thought he wanted to swallow the world, to consume it so that there could be none left.
he liked the heat his body generated, it's temperature rising rhythmically as he circled his room once, twice, a hundred times.
it is a sort of life, he said, out loud, to no-one, recalling Greene, and then Fanon, Maugham and Heller, Chesterton and Irving, Updike and Plath.
There were times when the words drowned him. they were too much.
- the scent of his sweat -
he didn't like the cool air, in these moods. sometimes she thought he wanted to swallow the world, to consume it so that there could be none left.
he liked the heat his body generated, it's temperature rising rhythmically as he circled his room once, twice, a hundred times.
it is a sort of life, he said, out loud, to no-one, recalling Greene, and then Fanon, Maugham and Heller, Chesterton and Irving, Updike and Plath.
There were times when the words drowned him. they were too much.
- the scent of his sweat -
Tuesday, August 04, 2009
the walks didn't help.
more and more often, these days, she found herself haunting the streets and paths around her home, late at night, searching, perhaps, for the answers to her compulsions.
she didn't know if it was his violence which drove her away, or his great love for her. they were, ultimately, the same thing. but her appetite for violence had waned, over the years, and now she had, more frequently, only silence for his words.
there is no feeling more startlingly empty than not hate, nor loneliness, but indifference. she had become, quite suddenly it appeared to her (though she knew, of course, that it had taken years of careful progress) irrelevant. she lived on the edges of her children's existences, patiently tidying the borders of their lives.
and, somehow, after walking for miles around the twisting alleys and safe streets of her organised, neat, little housing colony, she always found herself at the steps of her own driveway. and always with the same, inexplicable, question.
'what if,' he had whispered into her ear.
*
he had told her so many stories, once, and she, being young and fond of the violence inherent in the telling, had loved him. and they had made love, in the moonlight, madly, her skin being pushed into the cold, red earth, her fingers clutching at the night as he made her scream.
she still remembered feeling the cold air on his warm skin, the taste of his syllables as she carressed them out of his mouth and into her own. the-
*
and, every night, she took that question, and placed it, neatly, in the back of her mind, for another night. for a night when she felt, perhaps, a little stronger.
- auntie em's story -
more and more often, these days, she found herself haunting the streets and paths around her home, late at night, searching, perhaps, for the answers to her compulsions.
she didn't know if it was his violence which drove her away, or his great love for her. they were, ultimately, the same thing. but her appetite for violence had waned, over the years, and now she had, more frequently, only silence for his words.
there is no feeling more startlingly empty than not hate, nor loneliness, but indifference. she had become, quite suddenly it appeared to her (though she knew, of course, that it had taken years of careful progress) irrelevant. she lived on the edges of her children's existences, patiently tidying the borders of their lives.
and, somehow, after walking for miles around the twisting alleys and safe streets of her organised, neat, little housing colony, she always found herself at the steps of her own driveway. and always with the same, inexplicable, question.
'what if,' he had whispered into her ear.
*
he had told her so many stories, once, and she, being young and fond of the violence inherent in the telling, had loved him. and they had made love, in the moonlight, madly, her skin being pushed into the cold, red earth, her fingers clutching at the night as he made her scream.
she still remembered feeling the cold air on his warm skin, the taste of his syllables as she carressed them out of his mouth and into her own. the-
*
and, every night, she took that question, and placed it, neatly, in the back of her mind, for another night. for a night when she felt, perhaps, a little stronger.
- auntie em's story -
Friday, July 31, 2009
her screams woke them all, that night.
'good god,' mother said, gathering the folds of her nightie around her, defensively, as she opened her door. 'is she at it again?'
uncle q burst out of his bedroom, as if propelled by the weight of his own paranoia. 'who is it?' he asked, breathless. 'what's happened?'
baba, long gone, may well have woken up, too.
'it's k,' i said. 'she won't want you all inside. please, let me talk to her.'
'are you sure?' said uncle q, never quite sure of words.
'yes. please.'
mother had already shut her own door, with a not altogether quiet slam.
i opened her door, gently, and asked if i could enter. i only saw her shadow move, but entered anyway. even terror has patterns.
'kya huwa, jaan,' i said, touching a shadow's hand in the darkness.
she just rocked, back, and forth.
'arey baba,' i whispered, careful not to jar the cobwebs of her dreams from her eyes.
'what makes you scream so,' i didn't say.
in hindsight, that was the night the summer really ended. ever after, she accused me of hiding behind fiction. i told her she only really believed in fiction.
'you've got to get out of here,' she said, as i left the room, watching the sunlight stream in.
- keep me in your heart for a while -
'good god,' mother said, gathering the folds of her nightie around her, defensively, as she opened her door. 'is she at it again?'
uncle q burst out of his bedroom, as if propelled by the weight of his own paranoia. 'who is it?' he asked, breathless. 'what's happened?'
baba, long gone, may well have woken up, too.
'it's k,' i said. 'she won't want you all inside. please, let me talk to her.'
'are you sure?' said uncle q, never quite sure of words.
'yes. please.'
mother had already shut her own door, with a not altogether quiet slam.
i opened her door, gently, and asked if i could enter. i only saw her shadow move, but entered anyway. even terror has patterns.
'kya huwa, jaan,' i said, touching a shadow's hand in the darkness.
she just rocked, back, and forth.
'arey baba,' i whispered, careful not to jar the cobwebs of her dreams from her eyes.
'what makes you scream so,' i didn't say.
in hindsight, that was the night the summer really ended. ever after, she accused me of hiding behind fiction. i told her she only really believed in fiction.
'you've got to get out of here,' she said, as i left the room, watching the sunlight stream in.
- keep me in your heart for a while -
Thursday, July 23, 2009
'hm,' he said, thoughtfully. he had never really liked children.
there was nothing, of course, to be done about that now.
ali, his youngest, came trotting out to him, in the garden. they knew they weren't supposed to disturb their father when he was sitting out, in the evenings, having his cup of tea. this did not, however, stop them.
'tell me a story, baba,' said the little one, plaintively.
that was the problem, in the end. they always wanted a story.
'not today,' he said, gently. 'go play with your brother.'
'but that's what you said yesterday,' little ali said, suddenly a keen keeper of records. 'and the day before . .', he added, reproachfully.
'what if i don't have a story to tell you today?' he asked, hoping for a reprieve.
that did it. suddenly, ali went from smiling expectantly, to wide-eyed grimace #34, an expression which required particular muscular dexterity, and was almost always a precursor to tears.
so he told him a story, one so filled with colour, so twisting and intricate that, while it completely captured little ali, also distracted him from the fact that it meant nothing at all.
and, so satisfied, little ali trotted back to the house, to play with his brother. not before, of course, he had given his father's leg an adoring hug.
'tell your mother i'll be a little while longer,' he called out after his son, as the front door clicked closed.
there was nothing, of course, to be done about that now.
ali, his youngest, came trotting out to him, in the garden. they knew they weren't supposed to disturb their father when he was sitting out, in the evenings, having his cup of tea. this did not, however, stop them.
'tell me a story, baba,' said the little one, plaintively.
that was the problem, in the end. they always wanted a story.
'not today,' he said, gently. 'go play with your brother.'
'but that's what you said yesterday,' little ali said, suddenly a keen keeper of records. 'and the day before . .', he added, reproachfully.
'what if i don't have a story to tell you today?' he asked, hoping for a reprieve.
that did it. suddenly, ali went from smiling expectantly, to wide-eyed grimace #34, an expression which required particular muscular dexterity, and was almost always a precursor to tears.
so he told him a story, one so filled with colour, so twisting and intricate that, while it completely captured little ali, also distracted him from the fact that it meant nothing at all.
and, so satisfied, little ali trotted back to the house, to play with his brother. not before, of course, he had given his father's leg an adoring hug.
'tell your mother i'll be a little while longer,' he called out after his son, as the front door clicked closed.
what he needed, he realised, more than anything, was to be someplace a little colder.
- someplace a little colder -
Monday, July 20, 2009
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
need to leave this city, he said, it's making me old.
breathing the same old air, seeing the same old deal. got to get out to the sea, baby, he said, got to get out to where I can breathe.
somewhere colder, this time. i've got to get out of this city, to somewhere where the shadows aren't quite so dark, the silences not so deep.
got to leave this city, this city doesn't get me. got to go somewhere I can see.
*
in the shadow of a palace, you once whispered quietly, many years ago, that you'd wait for me. I didn't understand then, quite what you meant. we were younger, of course, and we loved. god, we loved.
*
somewhere darker, this time, where the chill gets into your bones. somewhere quieter, where the shadows stop speaking. somewhere far away, where your hands stop enveloping mine, in every silent moment, where i can finally bring myself to speak, again.
i love you, he said, so softly that it was only the shadows that heard.
*
breathing the same old air, seeing the same old deal. got to get out to the sea, baby, he said, got to get out to where I can breathe.
somewhere colder, this time. i've got to get out of this city, to somewhere where the shadows aren't quite so dark, the silences not so deep.
got to leave this city, this city doesn't get me. got to go somewhere I can see.
*
in the shadow of a palace, you once whispered quietly, many years ago, that you'd wait for me. I didn't understand then, quite what you meant. we were younger, of course, and we loved. god, we loved.
*
somewhere darker, this time, where the chill gets into your bones. somewhere quieter, where the shadows stop speaking. somewhere far away, where your hands stop enveloping mine, in every silent moment, where i can finally bring myself to speak, again.
i love you, he said, so softly that it was only the shadows that heard.
*
departures always came so much more naturally. staying, ultimately, was always the problem.
- get miles -
Friday, July 10, 2009
they said that we'd find each other again, somewhere beyond the end of the epilogue.
i searched for you, that night, in the darkness, amongst the yellow-orange clouds that enveloped this city, our city, but you had flown by then (i wasn't to know till later; till it was, perhaps, much too late). so many miles, we said - just so many words.
and now, there is only silence. lamplight and silence, silence and lamplight, just as there was before (everything seems so much longer ago). and somewhere between that lamplight, the darkness, and the clouds that hang lowest in an impossibly bright night sky, you'll find someone searching, desperately, for something that he thought he lost, once. fingers clawing at the dirt, eyes burning through the deep, deep darkness, palms sweating and legs giving way.
what would zevon do, he found himself asking no-one in particular.
i searched for you, that night, in the darkness, amongst the yellow-orange clouds that enveloped this city, our city, but you had flown by then (i wasn't to know till later; till it was, perhaps, much too late). so many miles, we said - just so many words.
and now, there is only silence. lamplight and silence, silence and lamplight, just as there was before (everything seems so much longer ago). and somewhere between that lamplight, the darkness, and the clouds that hang lowest in an impossibly bright night sky, you'll find someone searching, desperately, for something that he thought he lost, once. fingers clawing at the dirt, eyes burning through the deep, deep darkness, palms sweating and legs giving way.
what would zevon do, he found himself asking no-one in particular.
i could call her tonight, he thought.
- humour me -
Monday, October 20, 2008
- a new beginning -
I keep a picture of my ex hidden away, right next to my cigarettes. Old habits die hard, I guess. She told me I broke her heart. Said I should never have made her believe – in good, in love, in us. Well, she broke my heart first. Fair’s fair.
*
That’s when she kissed me.
The first time we made love, I had tears in my eyes (I admit this, freely). She traced my spine with her fingers, I danced my tongue around her waist, that cut just above the pelvis. She sighed, and I moved lower, my fingernails digging a faint pattern into her back. When she screamed out loud, her voice joined mine.
*
“I don’t know. I don’t want to,” I said. Never could lie outright. Who’s to say what happens five minutes from now, let alone five years. (There I go again, covering my bases.)
“But you will, won’t you?”
“I never said that. Besides, if my luck holds, you’ll leave first,” I said, smiling. I don’t fear abandonment anymore. It’s part of the course. I expect it.
Seriously, she took my hands and moved them to her heart. Looking deep into my eyes, she said “I will always be with you. Always.”
Liar.
*
Accusations fly around this house easy. They bounce right off the walls, keep bouncing till they hit something, or, more often, someone.
“What’d I do?” I am bewildered. Some say it comes naturally to me, but they also think I’m a paranoid schizophrenic. Me? I know better.
She thinks I took money out of her purse to pay for the drugs in my back pocket. It’s a new tactic she’s trying. She knows she can’t get me to stop by telling me it’s bad for me, so she’s going to try and guilt me out of the habit.
Fair enough, I suppose.
How do you explain to someone you think you love that they’re just not enough?
“I’m sorry,” I hear myself saying. “I didn’t mean to. I’ll be better . . I . . I promise.”
It seems like she drags the storm in with her when she comes back.
“Where’ve you been?” I ask her, knowing I don’t want to know.
“Out,” she says, knowing the same.
I take another drag. She snatches the cigarette out of my mouth. Tells me it’s bad for me, that I should take better care of myself.
Looks like we’ve both had a rough night. I offer her my hand. She takes it, almost unconsciously. Wraps her fingers in mine, like we used to, and pulls me closer to her. I’ve never felt as at home as in that moment – the moment after I just took a hit of acid, and she came back from her ‘friends’ place. Yeah, it’s a fucked up life, isn’t it?
As I look back, I keep telling myself it was the drugs. But we both know better. For people like us, that’s the only home we have to look forward to.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Monday, April 30, 2007
long ago, when i was young, i knew a woman named uzeh. she was old (to us), but, in truth, not so old as to have tasted her fifth decade. she always wore a black shawl, which she kept wrapped around her shoulders and, in the winter, her head. we often debated what it was that uzeh did, because we only ever saw her at night, under the frail light of a gas lantern that the local council officer insisted be mounted at the entrance to our street. uzeh would tell us stories of the world beyond our village, of dragons and lovers - and sometimes both. we called her a gypsy, but we knew better - gypsies do not have a home. her deep brown skin declared her origins as lying somewhere far south, within the plains, but we had no other way of telling. questions she always answered with a short, sad laugh, saying 'i am from here now, children. does it matter where i have been?' and so we were left with only speculation.
uzeh had a tattoo of three identical symbols in a triangle, just above her right eye. when we asked her about it, she told us that once, many centuries ago, there was a race of people called the khalaak, who spoke an ancient tongue of threes. the khalaak believed that everything in this world was linked in threes, and so it was only natural for their language to consist of sets of ideas, set in threes, all represented by the same symbol, set three times. the orientation of the three-symbol designated which concept it was that was most relevant to the text in question. thus, for example, table, chair and stool were set together, as were angel, demon and human. ofcourse some ideas linked to more than one set, so while you had the three-symbol for god-love-chaos, you also had one for love-desire-fire, desire-life-power, and so on. thus the khalaak believed that all the ideas in the world would form a chain, and that it was in the pattern of this chain that one could find the true meaning of life. many khalaak philosopher-linguists spent centuries trying to decipher the code of their own language, re-arranging symbols, forming new networks and links, but none were ever able to discover the true power hidden deep in the khalaak language. it was thus that the khalaak language came to die, as more and more people from the outside began to mix with the khalaaks, and the khalaak ruler, influenced by jewish, pagan and islamic missionaries, finally decreed that their language was too perfect for man.
we asked uzeh what it was that her symbol meant, but she would only smile. 'it is a dead language', she said, 'let it die.' when she saw the dissatisfaction on our faces, she would unravel her shawl and invite us into the cave of darkness she created thus - we would immediately follow, because we knew that this was uzeh's way of preparing us for a story.
i remember that it was in these moments that i would sometimes wonder how many years it had been since uzeh had been born. it was a question whose answer i would not discover till much later, long after i had seen her deep brown skin for the last time.
The Story of the City in Love
once upon a time there was a city which loved. these words are easy to say, but who can say that they truly know the love of a city, as they know the touch of their lover, or the caress of a soul against their breast? this city was once part of an ancient kingdom, but a series of wars had left it further and further away from the main seat of the kingdom, until it was all but forgotten. the people of the city never left, and only the occasional lost traveler would find his or her way into its streets, by accident.
every time a child was born, there would spring from the ground a hundred yellow flowers, almost instantly, as if the ground itself felt joy at being introduced to a new soul. this did not happen much, these days, as children were slowly being born less and less often. it is said that during the early years of this city, its people grew suspicious of these flowers, and considered them an invitation to the new child from shaitan. later, they began to believe that the city only nourished the new soul because it fed upon it. it was only after many years that the people of the city loved her as she loved them, without apologies or expectations.
whenever a man died in the city, there was a soft, mist-like rain, regardless of the season. when a woman died, a rain of a thousand deep golden flowers would fall across the city, as the sky wept sunlight. it was thus that many years passed, and flowers grew from the ground, were nourished by rain and fell from the cloudless blue sky.
one morning a screaming boy-child was brought into this world, and the people of the city were suddenly apprehensive, for they had never heard a child scream during birth - in this city, the pain of creating life was shared by the mother and father of the new soul, but was not felt by its own body. the people left their houses in search of the field of flowers, but were surprised to find a thin carpet of golden petals underneath their feet. the petals were already turning brown at their edges, and it was at this moment that the people first realized that something was painfully wrong with their city.
the cycle of rain and flowers never returned, after the birth of the child named ku-khra-sha (which was the name of the fire-love-skin three-symbol). the people slowly began to realize that their city was dying, as even the seasonal rains began to become fewer, and further between. the summers became hotter, and the winters harsher than they had ever been before. life in the city became hard, and some people began, once again, to question their city's motives in making them believe in a love that can be felt in the flowers. some blamed ku-khra-sha, and called for him to be killed, but the very night of the meeting to decide his fate there was a fierce gale, and the people were unable to leave their houses. others blamed the ways of their rulers, still others called for a ritualistic cleansing of the spirits of everyone in the city. most people, however, were simply worried - without their city, they did not know how to live.
no answer was in sight, and the nights grew colder. every so often people said that they could feel the old warmth between their toes as they walked the streets, but it was very faint, like the calling of a very, very old voice, from far away. there were good days and bad days, but sometimes a single golden yellow flower would bloom, overnight, and the people would gather around it to pray for their lover.
early one morning, ten years later, someone broke into ku-khra-sha's house and plunged a dagger through his heart, while he slept. it was the first crime to have occurred in the city for as long as anyone could remember, and it was not without its supporters. the city, they said, was dying, and any city was bigger than a boy. as the first blood red rays of the sun began to filter through the greyblue haze of that morning, however, people were not so sure. a chill wind began to gather the dust in the streets, but the people were unafraid of their city. ku-khra-sha's killer was brought forward, and told to lead the procession which carried the still warm body of the boy on its shoulders. as they reached the main street, a fine mist began to gather around them, causing the dust to stick to the backs of their ankles and in between their toes. they marched onwards, towards the fields, carrying their burden without a word towards the customary burial location for children - a large field which contained only a gnarled and old oak tree, that had been there for as long as the oldest mother could remember, and was all but dead itself. as they began to get closer, they saw their oak burst into a bloom of unfamiliar red flowers. almost as soon as the lowest branches turned crimson, however, the flowers from the upper branches began to fall. the procession was almost to the child's burial spot, now, and as they lowered him into the earth the oak's leaves fell to earth in a dull, steady rain that crackled like far off lightning cutting the night sky.
it is said that after the death of ku-khra-sha, the gates to the city were shut forever, and the souls within lived on, even after their bodies had withered away.
uzeh had a tattoo of three identical symbols in a triangle, just above her right eye. when we asked her about it, she told us that once, many centuries ago, there was a race of people called the khalaak, who spoke an ancient tongue of threes. the khalaak believed that everything in this world was linked in threes, and so it was only natural for their language to consist of sets of ideas, set in threes, all represented by the same symbol, set three times. the orientation of the three-symbol designated which concept it was that was most relevant to the text in question. thus, for example, table, chair and stool were set together, as were angel, demon and human. ofcourse some ideas linked to more than one set, so while you had the three-symbol for god-love-chaos, you also had one for love-desire-fire, desire-life-power, and so on. thus the khalaak believed that all the ideas in the world would form a chain, and that it was in the pattern of this chain that one could find the true meaning of life. many khalaak philosopher-linguists spent centuries trying to decipher the code of their own language, re-arranging symbols, forming new networks and links, but none were ever able to discover the true power hidden deep in the khalaak language. it was thus that the khalaak language came to die, as more and more people from the outside began to mix with the khalaaks, and the khalaak ruler, influenced by jewish, pagan and islamic missionaries, finally decreed that their language was too perfect for man.
we asked uzeh what it was that her symbol meant, but she would only smile. 'it is a dead language', she said, 'let it die.' when she saw the dissatisfaction on our faces, she would unravel her shawl and invite us into the cave of darkness she created thus - we would immediately follow, because we knew that this was uzeh's way of preparing us for a story.
i remember that it was in these moments that i would sometimes wonder how many years it had been since uzeh had been born. it was a question whose answer i would not discover till much later, long after i had seen her deep brown skin for the last time.
The Story of the City in Love
once upon a time there was a city which loved. these words are easy to say, but who can say that they truly know the love of a city, as they know the touch of their lover, or the caress of a soul against their breast? this city was once part of an ancient kingdom, but a series of wars had left it further and further away from the main seat of the kingdom, until it was all but forgotten. the people of the city never left, and only the occasional lost traveler would find his or her way into its streets, by accident.
every time a child was born, there would spring from the ground a hundred yellow flowers, almost instantly, as if the ground itself felt joy at being introduced to a new soul. this did not happen much, these days, as children were slowly being born less and less often. it is said that during the early years of this city, its people grew suspicious of these flowers, and considered them an invitation to the new child from shaitan. later, they began to believe that the city only nourished the new soul because it fed upon it. it was only after many years that the people of the city loved her as she loved them, without apologies or expectations.
whenever a man died in the city, there was a soft, mist-like rain, regardless of the season. when a woman died, a rain of a thousand deep golden flowers would fall across the city, as the sky wept sunlight. it was thus that many years passed, and flowers grew from the ground, were nourished by rain and fell from the cloudless blue sky.
one morning a screaming boy-child was brought into this world, and the people of the city were suddenly apprehensive, for they had never heard a child scream during birth - in this city, the pain of creating life was shared by the mother and father of the new soul, but was not felt by its own body. the people left their houses in search of the field of flowers, but were surprised to find a thin carpet of golden petals underneath their feet. the petals were already turning brown at their edges, and it was at this moment that the people first realized that something was painfully wrong with their city.
the cycle of rain and flowers never returned, after the birth of the child named ku-khra-sha (which was the name of the fire-love-skin three-symbol). the people slowly began to realize that their city was dying, as even the seasonal rains began to become fewer, and further between. the summers became hotter, and the winters harsher than they had ever been before. life in the city became hard, and some people began, once again, to question their city's motives in making them believe in a love that can be felt in the flowers. some blamed ku-khra-sha, and called for him to be killed, but the very night of the meeting to decide his fate there was a fierce gale, and the people were unable to leave their houses. others blamed the ways of their rulers, still others called for a ritualistic cleansing of the spirits of everyone in the city. most people, however, were simply worried - without their city, they did not know how to live.
no answer was in sight, and the nights grew colder. every so often people said that they could feel the old warmth between their toes as they walked the streets, but it was very faint, like the calling of a very, very old voice, from far away. there were good days and bad days, but sometimes a single golden yellow flower would bloom, overnight, and the people would gather around it to pray for their lover.
early one morning, ten years later, someone broke into ku-khra-sha's house and plunged a dagger through his heart, while he slept. it was the first crime to have occurred in the city for as long as anyone could remember, and it was not without its supporters. the city, they said, was dying, and any city was bigger than a boy. as the first blood red rays of the sun began to filter through the greyblue haze of that morning, however, people were not so sure. a chill wind began to gather the dust in the streets, but the people were unafraid of their city. ku-khra-sha's killer was brought forward, and told to lead the procession which carried the still warm body of the boy on its shoulders. as they reached the main street, a fine mist began to gather around them, causing the dust to stick to the backs of their ankles and in between their toes. they marched onwards, towards the fields, carrying their burden without a word towards the customary burial location for children - a large field which contained only a gnarled and old oak tree, that had been there for as long as the oldest mother could remember, and was all but dead itself. as they began to get closer, they saw their oak burst into a bloom of unfamiliar red flowers. almost as soon as the lowest branches turned crimson, however, the flowers from the upper branches began to fall. the procession was almost to the child's burial spot, now, and as they lowered him into the earth the oak's leaves fell to earth in a dull, steady rain that crackled like far off lightning cutting the night sky.
it is said that after the death of ku-khra-sha, the gates to the city were shut forever, and the souls within lived on, even after their bodies had withered away.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
i have already felt the heat from your long, graceful fingers burn symbols into the canvas of my back, though we are yet miles, and lives, apart. i wonder if i do not already, perhaps, know the smell of your love - of burning, of the earth breathing, of steam and the sharp, salty taste of rain on red skin.
but there are no pretenses between us. you are just another lover, and i am less (for you were, always, more). i will know you, as we dance around each other, within each other, and you will know of one who loves. there is a sort of freedom in this, too, of knowing that you are walking into a room with a stranger, to know them in ways that sometimes even their own do not, and that you will leave that room, as pink fingers chase the night across disappearing stars, as strangers.
one night stands take longer when you're living them, with each movement of air, dust and scent on skin. my fingers will be crackling lightning while i walk through your streets, late at night. i hope you don't mind, my lover lives inside of me.
- fitnaa in the red city -
but there are no pretenses between us. you are just another lover, and i am less (for you were, always, more). i will know you, as we dance around each other, within each other, and you will know of one who loves. there is a sort of freedom in this, too, of knowing that you are walking into a room with a stranger, to know them in ways that sometimes even their own do not, and that you will leave that room, as pink fingers chase the night across disappearing stars, as strangers.
one night stands take longer when you're living them, with each movement of air, dust and scent on skin. my fingers will be crackling lightning while i walk through your streets, late at night. i hope you don't mind, my lover lives inside of me.
- fitnaa in the red city -
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