This isn't real. It can't be. I well know that my reality is constantly shaped and altered by those unseen hands. Yet still the spinners weave their fine glass threads in an arc around them as they whirl and whirl, creating frozen spirals in the night. The longer they dance, full of a silent determination, the more elaborately they trap themselves in the glass cocoon. The spinners dance soundlessly as the children's lullaby tinkles on through the dark. I know where I am. I am in the stars. I am in the ice and the snow and the glass. Yet... I've never been something other than a person before.
Their clothes are the dusky rose colour of old blood, the fine torn gossamer littered with flakes of snow and dripping icicles. As the twisted glass, like a frozen hurricane, encases them the flashes of warped red spiral on within. The fleeting caress of a hand makes a shadow on the glass leaving a fading red handprint. As it shrinks like morning frost, the print takes the shape of a flower slowly closing. I feel it pressed up against my heart, a hand of ice leaving its mark there. This place is not for me. Not for me and yet here I am once again. It is beautiful and tragic and utterly horrific. These people, draped in dusty red were left frozen in their moment. The delicate moment between life and death. And they are here. Eternally spinning, unable to reach their loved ones, either those of the living or those of the dead. And still, I am powerless to help them. Still I am forced only to watch from within, frozen in the glass that is their prison.
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YOU ARE READING
The Ones Who Live Inbetween
FantasyOur hammers are glass and our glasses are stone. We live on an ocean of smiles and bone. Breathe. Breathe. The ticking of a clock. In. Out. Tick and tock. Buzzing in chests and pumping through seas. Your father is coming. Don't let him see. The ant...
