| The Venom of a Lily: True Mouth of a Goddess
Slick, water jeweled marble, bruised frosted blue with traces of tender, dead and bloodless vein. He named her Lily after the aquatic funeral flowers that had spun and knotted themselves through out her coal black hair. Her lips were painted frozen in hues of stormy sky, her eyes were dark, wide, blank like a doe's, smeared thick with spider lashes and silver-sheen scarrow shadows. Nude, flawless youth, poised in the shock of severance..she was beautiful, his Lily, his lost and lonely drowned lady fair found by the liquid amber river. She was abandoned in the end even by that, spat up upon the banks cold, unable to conceal her shame anymore.
Lily, dead mermaid, deceased, asphyxiated dove- he tied a snow white scarf into a bow about he neck to hide the ear to ear slash beneath her chin from his eyes. She was a gift to him from the river he thought. How many times had he walked along his side screaming of his loneliness? It had at long last heard him. So how should it come as a surprise that he could not report the finding of her precious body. Could not even bring himself to offer her the small pride of a shallow, nameless grave? The police would only prod her, they would perhaps make a half-hearted attempt to discover her origins and they would mar her perfect form with their autopsy scars- he could give her so much more...
He loved her, from the first time he saw her, he had loved her. So sad in her rigor mortis, morbid beauty. He would caress her, never once expecting her icy skin to warm to his touch. He would kiss her, sliding his warm, alive worm tongue around the contours of her mouth, her pierced, erect nipples. He could taste the bittersweet decay, like over-ripe strawberries wrapped in rich velvet. And underneath the cover of the giant skeletons of trees, deep within the forest on the banks of the river that birthed her into his world, he would make love to her. Lay in her arms with his head against her still chest whispering promises of love ever-lasting into her deaf ears. She never rotted, his passion preserved her.
Today should have been as any other, enduring the tediums of daily life until he could end his missing and escape into the solace that was his time spent with Lily. He stalked miles of the river's run but to no avail- she was gone.
"She was mine! Mine own!" he cried at the water, "And you cannot take her back!"
It seemed to flinch away within it's ripples, but Lily did not return. For days he made his demands, his threats, casting stones to wound and shatter the glassy surface...dripped his blood into it, braided with salty prayers, yet still nothing happened. Heart broken and famished, five days later, he returned home.
He had decorated his house, (his lonely, isolated home in the woods- such a metaphor) for her, the way he thought she would like it. That way, if he ever brought her home, she would know it and it would not seem so foreign and alien. Now all his efforts were a mockery. He tore pictures off the walls, burned love sonnets, shredded the carefully chosen draperies, smashed finely chiseled figures.
Like all the others, she had at long last left him alone. How could he allow himself to be so shocked? So it always went, this ill-fated pattern of loss and pain. Even precious, priceless Lily was not exempt from his jinx. And he had allowed himself to be caught off guard all because, unlike the others she had no pulse to call her own.
He ripped twisted fistfuls of long, tawny ginger hair from his throbbing skull. The bed swallowed him in silks cool, in satin waves of silver-blue so deep they drowned he and his tears into unconsciousness. He dreamed of her dancing, swaying about lightly like a newborn leaf in the thralls of spring's first virgin rainfall and when he awoke, still within the depths of Night's darkness, she was there; riding pearl swells of calla lilies through his open window.
She floated silently at his bedside, her robes of ivory and snow pooling in soft folds of ripple echo onto the floor. She still wore his pristine bow about her neck tied in the back to drape down her soft, rounded shoulders. Lily opened her mouth, her lips etching soundless, stillborn words into the air that her cut vocal chords would not allow her to sing. Trickles of amber water and crushed flower petals fell from that supple orifice and he could see the silk bow darkening with moisture. He knew what council she offered.
"Do not be afraid."
He wasn't. This quiet, voiceless weeping willow, this mute banshee was now and ever his tender death lily. Ruin in the face of a china doll. His eyes bled out tears of joy, she had returned. Creeping hand over pale, fragile hand, she moved to straddle the space above him and lifted up the front of those impossibly long robes. His heart jolted, he had dreampt this, the moment when she could actively giver herself to him. Rivulets of river and his own collected sperm fled down her thighs- the true mouth of a goddess is not the one smiling menacingly upon her face...for she bares another and it is far more perilous. Lily slammed down upon the source of his degrading lust with that mouth and it's teeth snapped, locked, tore, SHARP...smiled.
Everything stopped.
Fade to black
He would have opened his eyes when the light returned, when time returned, but they were already open- he would have moved his limbs to cover up his shameful nudity from the ring of police swarmed about him, or to escape the cold banks of the river; but they were stiff, lifeless and would not obey.
He could feel bones crawling up to part rotted skin,flesh that seethed with the fat new life of maggots. Bright camera bulbs flashed like white hot lightning, but he could not pull parchment strained eyelids over his jelly orbs. His throat itched with razor sharp laceration and when the men pulled him up onto the gurney and covered him with plastic, stiff tarp, long strands of coal black hair wound about with lilies fell across his porcelain face. He knew then that the lily is a wild flower not meant to be kept in secret shame. Lilies, goddesses, banshees...they possess their own vengeance tinged venom. Love can be a crime and shades never forgive.
Fade to the grave |  Published by | | | Scarrow Rusted Lace Join Date: Jan 2007 Location: we're all mad here
Posts: 14
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