Elvira Ransom is a monster. Carved and sewn. A living, crafted marionette monster. Something deeply unknown. Deeply disturbed. Monsters are known. Monsters don’t sew. They’re turned inside out, flesh and bones replaced by teeth and claws. The stitching lines glow from such profundity, a mirrored stack of lines. Cobwebbed, often frangible. Ransom. Elvira. The monster fogging my identity, metamorphosing its own existence. And I am a slave to compliance. I’ve bled for it. I’ve known its retribution, and I have transposed everything that used to rest on that acacia branch. A different kind of growth resides inside me now. Inside Elvira Ransom. From Elvira Ransom. But why doesn’t it stretch upwards? Why don’t I stop it? Could I stop her? Could Frankenstein stop the destruction of his own marionette monster? He bled for that too. Are you scared of her? Do you think you should be?
What is it like, for others, my brain whirs and turns. What? My tongue licks the roof of my mouth. The question drips from the surface of my skull. What could it be like? Could this poison, this… taste of rot which branches through my eyes like the fungi infections that sears my cerebrum… could this be my saviour? My apostle. Who else has the lamb carved from their own bones? I feed myself the nectar, mushrooms from the swell of my own den. You couldn’t even remember the thirst. Let me never forget this rot. Let me burn to soil. Charred. Smell the burn of wood. Of my flame tree, forget the lamb.
I would never ask for salvation if it meant I could forever feel the thorns digging through my spine. The fight, oh the fight. The fight is all I know now. Bloodied fists are nothing compared to a bleeding mind. Stitch lines rip deliciously apart, deepening the ache, setting myself free. Tumbling, and taking refuge in the plunge. Into the mouth of a monster. My pool of poison. Some phantasmic abscond. You tasted a bead of hell and opened your mind to every last drop, paralysed with fear. Paralysed with freedom, inundated by the shadow of a demon. Waiting, wanting, wrestling for the hungry black dog, bearing yellow canines, hunting soulful eyes, sinful searing breath. There is no need to cavort. No dancing here. No innocents here. Not anymore. Dare I point my own tainted barb at the hands which forced me here? Fill him with my own venom, the goodness of my nectar, the rancour of my thirst. Could his decrepit skin be torn through by the hands of her? Ghostly reprisal. What good does forgiveness do? Sewing webs never fulfilled my salaciousness. There is no sound left, bar for the chewing of my cheeks, and the ineliminable smell of spectacular collapse.
About the Creator
Essie
Brambling, atypical logorrhoea that really materialise in the form of hatching worms. Or stars.
21
Letters to ada
Letter I – From Layth to Ada Void, beyond the 22nd century My Dearest Ada, Your eyes... velvet that dissolves the last remnants of my coldness. I was an extinguished ember, until your radiance moistened me like a river-child bending over an ancient thirst in my chest. You blinked—and all of Time leaned toward my mouth. A redness upon your lips touched my fissures, and I softened... I, whom stones never softened. Your iris was my window and my mirror: a core that illuminates and desiccates what remained of my cold soul. I whisper to you a gesture of containment, and I dissolve in Time, even though I was frozen beneath the anesthesia of heavy smoke from a cigarette that keeps the night awake in my blood. I hid a poet in an old box—I feared that if he saw you, the world around me would be disturbed... but your wide lashes excavated the box and awakened what had died before you. You approached... and in the silence of night you were like a thread of light passing over my heart. I saw sorrow wrapped around your white shawl, its yellowness faded as if traces of a day that continued to extinguish. I said to you in a whisper, my voice sagging between fear and wonder: Will you entwine your hand in mine, and shall we slip together to the bottom of Time... without fear? You smiled, and the universe slackened around me, as if the warmth of your fingers was all that remained of the world. And you were asking in silence: “Where is your place within my embrace?” And I, in whose throat the sword of silence had been planted, found myself choosing you before I could speak. Black were your eyes, yet they kindled a daylight within me. And for the first time... O you of the two eyes, I felt that I was luminous.
By LUCCIAN LAYTH2 days ago in Fiction
Bruce Lee and The God of War: Kuan Ti
It starts with love.. The Power to the God Of War and Wealth Walk into a Chinese restaurant (even in Oklahoma, USA), a Chinese police station, a kung fu martial arts studio or even a Chinese temple and you often see a red faced warrior holding a heavy quan-do (spear like weapon).
By WILD WAYNE : The Dragon King5 days ago in Chapters
Comments (1)
Crazy ! Love it though.