Tuesday, July 27, 2010


The night gets crooked when those ladies come alive. Eyes reeking of slaughter breath thirsting on fear she is on her way ending at you before you know she is even there. Her fury is a wrath to behold her own agony a sight unseen. She never walks alone with her walks another who shares her spleen. In the company of the wooed shade they perform their witchcraft. As the priestesses of the moon they will demand sacrifice so hope and pray that this isn’t your demise. It is a painful way to die with two women whose company otherwise would have been sought with divine pleasure. Among the two there is one betrayed by her own mate left to die in a fire
ignited ambitiously by the realms of his own faith. A prolonged sense of pain had sprouted a seed in her then and as a frail creature she had bidden till the gods had descended to slay her poison only to be consumed by a greater singe. In the agony of it all guilt had forsaken the mate to be detained for life. But that wasn’t punishment enough. The scars of the eve compelled eternal bondage to the whistling arrow that claimed the hinge. Forgiveness was no more presiding over the peak of the volcano. The rustling sense of regret had to be flawed to
not be enough. The crime had to be justified with an equal counter defiance. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Faithlessness drives war-cry. And a war always ends with a
survivor, a fatality and a prisoner in a cage. When the survivor is a prisoner of his own choice freedom will never be granted but in lapses of alternation of peace in competence with an
incoherent rage out of bounds for all except those not cruel enough to not accept their own fate. The other was not very different from a teenage bathroom singer other than for the fact that she had blood on her hands when she sung. The only thing she cringed for was something she could play with long enough to not be bored enough to enjoy licking the intoxicant of its wounds. She loves the music her victims are pressed upon with. Their cries of mercy drove her crazy with the incorrigible joy of a baby holding a bell. Yet she was undoubtedly the saner one, the mightier one and the silent one when it came to killing. A juvenescent extrovert of sorts but more patient in her trade. She prided herself on being more skillful when asked but in truth she just relished how her pained sister rusted wildly into the prey. Whereas she herself preferred to stalk, stain and bring the axe down in one blow without the snack even feeling a thing other than fear, her friend made it quite obvious that what she wanted had nothing to do with anything else. Whereas she tactfully derailed the neck the result being as instantaneous as death itself, the hunt at one moment whimpering and the next numb to death her alias preferred to tear to shreds thread by thread. She blamed it on her heart, it had died of shock piece by piece and hence preferred to watch death arrive from a distance in a golden cart with dirty brown wheels. Sometimes she was questioned herself whether it was the blood she fed on or the fear. And she knew the former was easy to get, the latter was by far merely the most addictive drug easy to
find and comprehend but not easy to make without the right tools and the right leverage in the right spaces. One would wonder what had pointed a twenty something old in that direction but the answer was obvious. She enjoyed it as does every other being in sometimes a small and other times a large way. And she had no reason to hide it from anyone. After all her secret did kill, again and again. The only time it hadn’t was when she had chosen a partner. She was Arial. And she was a she wolf. Be you a man or wolf or both you fear her. And no matter what wrong you may succumb to grooming do not pluck a rose or a petal in her garden. And no matter what
right mat seem if you wish even slightly to live you do what she expects you too. Any more or any less would be taxed beyond repayment. The right amount of alcohol in water can get you high, so can she if you pour the heart right. As for the other she has no record of being sighted in good books. What doomed her calm oblivion was the break of sanctuary from the helm of the twin. The night she had killed her mate the one who called herself Arial started calling her Esmeralda. And conspiring with the cocoon that the other twin had become to her that was
exactly what she had become.