twisted beautiful things

xl. empty

xl. empty

'my body's  s h a k i n g

my head is   a c h i n g 

 it feels like my heart is   b r e a k i n g

i cant fix this mess I'm   m a k i n g'

(olivia o brien)

>>>

novella

The house flies.

The skies are a rosy pink, a peachy orange. The house lingers suspended in the air, rocking slightly in the breeze. It's white with pink trim, sparkles drifting from the chimney as if a fairy was stuck inside and was trying to get out. The windows are covered with swaths of baby pink curtains, the glass made of a material that shimmers in the cold sun.

It looks like a house Barbie would live in.

I stand in the rolling fields, gazing up at it. I'm curious to say the least, but I can't figure out an easy way to get to the house. All I can do is stand gape at the structure dangling in midair, surrounded by pink clouds of glittering butterflies.

I really, really, want to get to that house. I've always been curious, but this is the type of curiosity that seems to possess my whole spirit. It's like I'm drawn to it completely, even as all logic and reason say there's no way to get to the house unless I sprouted wings.

"You want up there, dear?" A prickling voice interrupts my gallivanting thoughts and I startle a little, glancing to my right.

From the neck down, she's an old lady. Her hands are wrinkled with years of a strenuous life, the skin sagging against sharp edges of her bones. A yellow knitted dress hangs off her sharp shoulders like a sack, a wicker basket draped over the crook of her elbow.

What's odd is that where her head used to be, there's a bouquet of flourishing flowers.

"Yes," My voice carries away in the breeze, "Do you know how?"

"Why of course." The woman has no mouth, but her voice seems to echo through the rolling fields. Even the strands of grass seem to bow down to the power just her mere presence commands. I wait for a moment for her to speak, tell me how to get to the house in the air.

Instead, she reaches her hands forward, grabbing hold of something invisible, something that seems tangible yet unseen by the naked eye. Her fingers close around what looks like invisible fabric, and when she pulls her fists apart from each other, it's like a curtain being opened, like the landscape around us was just a stage that could be opened to another world if the curtain was drawn. The woman stretches the invisible fabric farther to reveal a window of some sort. On the other side of the opening is what looks to be an entryway to a house, a foyer maybe. A sparkling marble staircase marches upwards, the floors black and white, diamond shaped, sparkling with carefully scrubbed intentions.

"Go on darling," The woman's voice bends the wind. "Go ahead."

I thank her profusely and place my hands on the windowsill, hoisting myself up. I dangle for a moment and then swing my right leg through the window and glance back to thank the old woman but she is gone. I can't think about it further because it's like there are magnets on the bottom of my feet, drawing me downwards. My heels hit the black and white tile of the grandiose house, and the window seals up with a slurping sound, until it forms back into a solid pink wall.