The girl from the mire: part 2
Were we ever alive? Were we ever here? Were we ever?
Judith exists in a graveyard. Her tombstone is so old that it looks like a smooth glacial stone. Protrudes into her dusty, dormant grass world. Inhabitants are terri...
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The air's thick. Tenebrous. Wears the clothing of God's death in the gap between belief and incredulity. The place she's going is made of empty sparrows which cost a penny for two.
Judith climbs up onto the frame of the vertical threshold that'll switch to horizontal on the other side. Rubs her hands together. Jumps through the forest exit. Re-enters the empty city from the the dark forest portal. Hangs in the air as gravity switches the meridian of its pull. Loses coordination. Rolls onto concrete. Nausea. It's so dark that sight is useless. Wonders how she can stand above the portal that was just in front of her. Body wants to fall down into the horizontal darkness of the street. Epistemology lies to her physicality. Up and down exist as sideways. Corrects her posture. Steadies her bare feet on the concrete's denouement.
Lack of light is a breath thieving ominous blank sable canvas territory. The entire vicinity's a bowel ache stench within an angry white sperm whale belly or a Geppetto dogfish slipperiness lost in Lester Ballard's cavernous gorge stomach of a street. Judith ponders. If she threw a stone in front of her, would it ever make a sound in the bottomless horizontal before her? The empty suicide city isn't just dark and noiseless. It's like Judith's deaf. Maybe she's listening to the thing in itself.
Notices her own breaths like a wind tunnel sea shell crash of gloam waves under the surface of her skull. Ears witness nothing else. The place is like a permanently sealed sarcophagus deep within a Tartarus tomb.
Smells the harrow lost in the tenebrous.
Grips the Ghost murder battle axe in her right hand. Twirls it around a few times. Handles the weapon's sharp metaphysical nature. Bare skin feels the slight breeze of two fanning blades. Listens to the barely audible sound the handle performs upon her touch. Feels weightless danger. Loves it. This weapon is antithetical and eschatological, like the double blades are made of Cocytus or the melted nails stolen from ancient coffins. It could kill shadows. The blacksmith who gave birth to it was a true master in the art of butchery blades.
Reaches back into the dark forest exit. Takes hold of skin tethers. The sack of Nigel flesh. Pulls the sorites heap through the portal. Fills the silence. Spits on it. Drags the remains through the streets. The blade of her fireman axe rests in his torso meat mess. Her left arm extends. Takes hold of the edge of the end of the axe behind herself. Releases the tethers. Slumps. Echoes. Scrapes. Makes the silence wince to know that she slouches down the street of a dead Bethlehem. With such prattle, hopes to wake what's waiting in the pitch. Makes David know she's coming to eat his soul. Yells into the void.
"Come for me you coward! Come and look me in the eyeball you impotent piece of fuck!"
Shivers with the imitative spirit of a balding biologist who's figured out what's going on in Antarctica before everyone else. He's smashing radios with a Judith style axe to make sure no help'll come until the rescue party figures things out in the spring. Paranoia. Sweat. Angrily untrusting. Judith screams into the false night.
