A dull pulse of time ticked away, forever taunting her with a kind, smiling face. It was a curve of a sickle that knew the pain it brought upon the innocent – it was a blade that could drown her in blood. And yet a silken boat could never be struck down. She felt along the edge, a mask blinding her as she glanced behind – the apparition was still there, watching as she begged for the solace of flowers tossed upon a grave. The boat was a twisted, decaying reminder of the edges of those words, and she hated watching the rising smoke above the water, it was the silken smoke that could never be struck down, forever lurking upon the writhing surface of those serpents, never once growing a blade, simply smiling and glinting in the moonlight. It could always be struck down by those claws of menacing dread. That time ticked away with sinister cruelty as the wax burned down, the flame of terror within her gaze undwindling and incessant, never once flickering like true light did. Always in the distance was that figure. She could always see the gilded metal of fear, beasts of monotonous blades within the waves of raging torrents and havoc – she always knew their thrashing desperation and wished their sickles never came close – the terror burning in her gaze always glared into the distance, letting her flee toward its blades of sinister intent; behind the flame was something threatening to drive it into a place of shadows and glinting thorns. That figure. Time ticked with the waves of the sea. A vision tilting as those roots began to seep in. With every moment the time drained with wax, but the eclipse of metal always lay in her sight, waves fleeing into the sky before falling to the ground – falling. Falling. And yet the boat's edges lay a blade, always soft and silken until the wax ran to nothing and the complexions of those memories were torn. Terror has a ceaseless passion that never falls like the blades of water do, or the eclipse of a moon. She always felt its pulse driving her forwards toward the flat horizon of the flower's scale – she crawled along it, undoubting of its silk as the serpents of ink writhe beneath, stirring it to grow. For the thorns to peer out from the seeds of time.
Among the turmoil emerged a battle between the oars and the rising smoke of dwindling peace, troops struck down as the limp corpses of waves fell, only replaced by more smoke choked out through the whispers of the moonlight that glistened upon her skin. An ever-fierce battle of blood spilled over masks, tragedy mourned by only those who saw the smoke – the waves that tore the web of swords that could never clash – thorns that never dared sprout from the stubborn anguish of the torn webs of clashing swords and that insidious pulse. A silhouette emerging from the turmoil as blood is tossed over the flawless mask, and the stalk grows like roots of shame through stable walls. Smoke and mirrors against the blood that dyes crimson the dread of that shame, the long, melancholy wait for the thorns to emerge from the writhing silk. The boat began to still and she waited, but her oars were single blades among a sea, and from petals grow the scales of serpents, serpentine stems of roses that seem so sinister beneath that mask – perhaps it could almost be a poppy until the figure of brooding thorns emerges, insidious. The roots seemed to claw at chaos, letting its talons of crimson reign with cruelty over that wave of great malice that crashed over the roots of joy and love, simply strings of that dreary silk that stretched into the silence, watching wretched tears fall as the thorns are torn away, piercing the imperfect complexions of memories, simply skeletons. In a moment the bones could cave in, casting ash over the veils of grief and shadow that was cast over the horizon. Joy and love were a drop of blood upon the ground. And then all it had to do was blink and its complexion of kindness was shaved away to reveal the grotesque face of many masks of shame, deep rooted within the scar of fallen bone. She felt his gaze within the water, her oar caught on remorse as she lay back in despair, fighting against silken webs of guilt. Crow's feathers stirred beneath, one beast of menacing dread that cried out in anguish as the veins of thorns and agony spread through the silk, decaying joy within every breath the beast took; waves of beaks cast upon the ground in disdain, muted screams ringing out into the endless cavern of sky, the caws of ravens echoing in the melancholy abyss.
The stem of a rose grew slowly, no matter how elegant the trailing smoke could seem, almost a veil of untouchable dread, thorns peering through. Before that face appeared. Crows seem to caw into the night at times if you listen. Every love had thorns. The moonlight revealed that one smile, and the blade could slice then, a head left to roll upon writhing scales. A face. A complexion of familiarity; perhaps it was erased forever. Thorns feed those rabid hounds with blood. Ravenous and snarling. Gazes melancholy yet seething.
Thorns. Thorns piercing skin and insidiously cackling with a laugh cruelly childish, as if this were land of spirits, spirits that haunt the guilty – glass upon the ground shattered by their steps into the thorns of an ancient love – one broken free but also unleashed upon the thorns, sending them into flames. She held in her hands an urn, simply shattered into pieces by the brutality of those snarling beasts of paranoia within an endless ocean of possibility and hope that only fell down; if frozen, a sword could shatter with a single flame of hope. The blade that pierced the heart could be blunted by a letter – a single letter that cast aside malice and instead left desolation and despair to the mind of the grieving – these banks were sacred, a bed of thorns disguised with viridian feathers, an inconsistent, fragmented masquerade of emerald. It was a cruel sea of petals, silken petals and thorns that cast the boat upon the ground, leaving it to dance among the blood, fighting to stay above the dry silhouettes of ash that she walked among. She felt feathers of a raven rain down upon her skin, so delicate as is the cruel dance of time, a trail of poppies emerging with a cruel step of blood dripping upon the ground from those wounds. Shattered glass upon her skin, peeling away the façade of joy that she wore as a fragmented mask, the vipers writhing out of their silken chains only to spill crimson upon the pure, comforting rug of poppies, all the flowers upon a grave of delusion; their stems writhed and quailed away from the flame that sets alight the shattered mask of acrimonious lies, tearing great wounds in the sky and casting thunder into the cruel, cruel night – And from the scar spilled shattered glass, fog receding and settling behind a mask of storm that shielded it from the scarlet daggers among the papers, the words that caught you in that web once more. Back to the serpents choking out another word, and spilling more blood of those reckless machines, undead carcasses, leaving the others as simply entrails upon the ground – the serpents were still there among the blood, tranquillity just a lingering reminder that sacred words were twisted into fangs. Fangs that struck, or perhaps they had already struck that silhouette of joy, a melody of such grace that only needed to be interrupted once for the phlegmatic calm to shatter.
Her footsteps rustled those fangs, the many stitches holding silk and bone within a tangled web of those ties that could never be untied, figures that could never be set free from anguish as the thorn strikes, careless, lassitude-ridden figures seeming to smile upon them yet leave them to perish. There were sacred stitchings of a long-lost smile, and she stepped upon them, feeling the silk give way beneath her feet – the door was so close yet so far away, so distant and cruel, almost mocking as the fangs of that sinister viper began to prowl and lie within shadows. Vipers of grief with the remains of shattered urns lost among the strands of dread – the thorns of roses were a veil of safety, tendrils around that delicate corner and blood rising as it tore. And the urn could so easily shatter then, so easily scatter ominous light from its crevices. And the remains of the carcass cast a seed into the impenetrable stone. A reminder that eternal life was a curse, and memories held potent grief as one gazed back into the abyssal silence. She was just walking upon blades of that same dagger, an undead pulse of anguish and sorrow. She saw the crimson petals, scales of cruelty upon an innocent complexion; in the lake it had been twisted, broken and burned to show that very image of sinister intent, almost merging into the face of that mere silhouette that had so long before crawled away, coated in a veil of ink – the scarlet seas of forlorn beauty and perishing hearts with deafening crashes of waves against stone. She could see the door, a glistening reminder that only made that vision more potent and the screams of agony ridden, twisted joy more deafening. There was blood flowing from a scar on the horizon, a bright flash that should've revealed truths, but instead left the serpentine flames of downcast sorrow to brood in their sea of foreboding, burning truth to the ground. The weak and drowning seemed to cower in terror as the door let light peer around the corner, glaring insidiously at the joy she held in those memories, and letting the graves perish, light gone from their eyes as ominous, eerie peace settles upon the dust and the ashes; she heard them choke among the decaying, withering memory, and gazed into the dark, hollow dread emerging from the darkest corners where demons hide.
She wandered in, knowing that there were eyes behind of the spirits who resided in the lake, reflections that smiled as you turned away, staring through windows, unease residing in their desperation to hold in their hands your flesh, your bone, clutch your hollow gaze.
YOU ARE READING
Ripples of grief
Historical FictionA story about a young widow in WW1, watching as the German village is emptied of people. Then she finds it - a world all to herself.
