Burning || Birth, open

the Rift

[OPEN] Burning || Birth, open

Cahira Posts: N/A

Unregistered

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05-16-2014, 05:58 AM

tambako @flickr

BUT KNOW, IN SOME WAY I'M THERE WITH YOU
Up against the wall on a Wednesday afternoon

From crepuscule confinement she came— virtuous and chaste, wide-eyed and guileless, unrighteous and sinfulness breathing atrocious chains against her damp sinew, callous and tyrannical, the brine and the shore, crashing and tumulous, enwrapped in turmoil, for her birth is the unhallowed and heinous weaving of a butcher and his harem, gulping in saccharine oxygen in trembling lungs, exhaling, meek and lenient and peculiar, bleating in bewilderment and laughable grievance as a rough tongue laps across her dome and flesh, floundering and writhing and inquisitive at the somber and humid world— at the brilliant, silver sphere that gleams down from above, attempting to stretch her dome up to snap at the offending fluorescence, and clicking her maw in vain at her efforts, closing down on only the barren and desolate air and naught more, hazily reaching to gaze at the articulation of cacophonies, Cahira (the godsblood) and she queries as to the meaning, but it is hers, her name (yet she has no knowledge of what a name is), and she bleats again in blatant retort.

She might be ravenous and rapacious if she had known how to hunger, and she might have found perplexity if she had seen the luminous woman's demise and her rise to glory again, yet she did not know of the barbarism and malice, depravity and casualties, and so she regards the Lady of the gloom ambiguously, she is lustrous and astral as the skies with the hanging sphere above, starry, and the connections ping within her cranium— she is starry, they are stars, but in the next moment her dam is wailing, shrieking (what is a dam?), and the childe flattens her doe like harks against her dome and fusses, inhaling a breath of oxygen from her lungs in dignity to exhale another, emphatic BLEAT.. and then she convulses in a sneeze, expelling grime in the shape of flakes from her nostrils as if it were stardust, coughing and spluttering in a less than royal way as her dam, the onyx woman with wan zigzags on her hide nudges her, inquiring her welfare, and she responds by attempting to soothe her injured, childish ego with a grandeur attempt at standing, lanky pillars buckling on her first try, tumbling into a pile of gnarled and tangled body parts, bits of grass clinging to her cowlicks of mane, and still sneezing she utters a unrefined and humorous, thoroughly engaging squeal of fury and blustering abashment.

(As you can tell, the suckling has a magnificent amount of self-preservation and honor).

thanks tamme