The Dead are Not Silent

Past Andromeda, the Milky Way. One arm of a downward spiral–there. Over an asteroid belt. A disparaged planet. A sea god without a sea. Another planet kicked on its rotund keester. Two hot heads and their harems. Another asteroid belt. Then, horror. Terror. A god of war. There. Past one lone sentry. Through a corroding atmosphere to blue. To green. There.

Just past the green. Beyond uniform rows of grey, stone and marble etched in never-words –never who they were, never all they were. Never enough. A lone home, tall and still. Don’t want to disturb the neighbors. Sneak a peek through a crack in the curtains, see only dark.

Inside, mattresses are pressed to walls. Black curtains to glass–window and mirror. Smoke still stains the air from hastily snuffed candle-sticks. Day collapsed into night faster than expected. Damn day-light savings saving who exactly? 

Within a ring of salt, a bundle of blankets–quilts, actually. Hand-made. Patchwork. Rough around the edges but holding true. The lump stirs. A pale foot, toenails lacquered an icy blue, emerges out from under a raggedy edge. Silver threads like comet trails weave themselves in between toes. Tangled, the foot cannot retreat back beneath the safety of its quilted fortress.

A groan. Resigned. Defeated. It echoes as loudly as it can in a room with padded walls. Silvery-blonde hair separates itself from silvery textile. Eyes deep as the dark space between stars appear next, eyebrows above them furrowed. In frustration. But, also, the distinct slant of fear. Speckled across the rest of the face is cosmic dust, freckles that fade outward from a nose crooked slightly to the left.

With haste, a ghostly pale hands reaches for the unruly threads holding the foot hostage. Tears at empty air–another groan, sharper, wearier–before locating its target. This would be easier with a light. But the candles had to go. Light attracts them. Mosquitoes too.

Frantic fingers find frayed, ruthless wardens just when it no longer matters. Clueless moonlight filters into the otherwise darkened space through that overlooked crack in the curtains. With it, a breach in the salt circle is revealed. Obviously made by a struggling limb or two.

Blood younger, the quilted bundle may have jumped to re-seal the breach. Place every pesky grain back into place. Now, though, it knows better. Knows some boundaries, like those at the end of a beloved quilt, once breached, cannot be repaired. No matter how many stars are wished upon.

Should’ve learned to sew. Like Gram told me to. Warned me it’d come in handy.

Warned me.

Now, at the window, a hollowed eye-socket peers in. An eye like the space between stars once called the empty place home. Like these padded walls. Breeze–that should not have penetrated solid glass– ruffles the curtains. Blows them aside. The bundle shivers. Frost pricks at the corners of eyes now the darkest things in the room.

Outside, hollow gazes. They outnumber the stones. Swallow them whole.

Swallow me.

It’s an honour, I was told. Banshee wails, still faint hums, begin to rattle glass. Rattle bone. To see, is an honour. To be, what I am is a gift. From the universe.

The bundle is shed. Salt kicked aside. A candle stick rolls into shadow, disappears from existence until a dull thud bounces off eardrums.

Towards the window, wails become unified. One entity. An ever-present scream. Muted in the waking hours. Blood-curdling now. A crack spiderwebs across glass. It will shatter. Soon. If I allow it.

What I was never told, my hands find the battered window’s frame, was that there is more than one universe. A necromancer is weeping inside a universe. But, a universe also weeps inside a necromancer. Never stops. You can try to shut it out.

Or, I shove the window open so hard splinters fly in my tear-streaked face, you can let it in~

fullsizerender-1

Stars are not surrounded by darkness. They’re surrounded by emptiness.

 

 


The Dead are Not Silent

Past Andromeda, the Milky Way. One arm of a downward spiral–there. Over an asteroid belt. A disparaged planet. A sea god without a sea. Another planet kicked on its rotund keester. Two hot heads and their harems. Another asteroid belt. Then, horror. Terror. A god of war. There. Past one lone sentry. Through a corroding atmosphere to blue. To green. There.

Just past the green. Beyond uniform rows of grey, stone and marble etched in never-words –never who they were, never all they were. Never enough. A lone home, tall and still. Don’t want to disturb the neighbors. Sneak a peek through a crack in the curtains, see only dark.

Inside, mattresses are pressed to walls. Black curtains to glass–window and mirror. Smoke still stains the air from hastily snuffed candle-sticks. Day collapsed into night faster than expected. Damn day-light savings saving who exactly? 

Within a ring of salt, a bundle of blankets–quilts, actually. Hand-made. Patchwork. Rough around the edges but holding true. The lump stirs. A pale foot, toenails lacquered an icy blue, emerges out from under a raggedy edge. Silver threads like comet trails weave themselves in between toes. Tangled, the foot cannot retreat back beneath the safety of its quilted fortress.

A groan. Resigned. Defeated. It echoes as loudly as it can in a room with padded walls. Silvery-blonde hair separates itself from silvery textile. Eyes deep as the dark space between stars appear next, eyebrows above them furrowed. In frustration. But, also, the distinct slant of fear. Speckled across the rest of the face is cosmic dust, freckles that fade outward from a nose crooked slightly to the left.

With haste, a ghostly pale hands reaches for the unruly threads holding the foot hostage. Tears at empty air–another groan, sharper, wearier–before locating its target. This would be easier with a light. But the candles had to go. Light attracts them. Mosquitoes too.

Frantic fingers find frayed, ruthless wardens just when it no longer matters. Clueless moonlight filters into the otherwise darkened space through that overlooked crack in the curtains. With it, a breach in the salt circle is revealed. Obviously made by a struggling limb or two.

Blood younger, the quilted bundle may have jumped to re-seal the breach. Place every pesky grain back into place. Now, though, it knows better. Knows some boundaries, like those at the end of a beloved quilt, once breached, cannot be repaired. No matter how many stars are wished upon.

Should’ve learned to sew. Like Gram told me to. Warned me it’d come in handy.

Warned me.

Now, at the window, a hollowed eye-socket peers in. An eye like the space between stars once called the empty place home. Like these padded walls. Breeze–that should not have penetrated solid glass– ruffles the curtains. Blows them aside. The bundle shivers. Frost pricks at the corners of eyes now the darkest things in the room.

Outside, hollow gazes. They outnumber the stones. Swallow them whole.

Swallow me.

It’s an honour, I was told. Banshee wails, still faint hums, begin to rattle glass. Rattle bone. To see, is an honour. To be, what I am is a gift. From the universe.

The bundle is shed. Salt kicked aside. A candle stick rolls into shadow, disappears from existence until a dull thud bounces off eardrums.

Towards the window, wails become unified. One entity. An ever-present scream. Muted in the waking hours. Blood-curdling now. A crack spiderwebs across glass. It will shatter. Soon. If I allow it.

What I was never told, my hands find the battered window’s frame, was that there is more than one universe. A necromancer is weeping inside a universe. But, a universe also weeps inside a necromancer. Never stops. You can try to shut it out.

Or, I shove the window open so hard splinters fly in my tear-streaked face, you can let it in~

fullsizerender-1

Stars are not surrounded by darkness. They’re surrounded by emptiness.