I swear to god
I wasn't born to fight.
Maybe just a little bit.
Enough to make me sick of it.
I wasn't born to fight.
Maybe just a little bit.
Enough to make me sick of it.
Here it is: the end of the rope. It hangs between them like a sorry mouth, like an arrow that glints in the sun as it sings away. He thinks only that he is sorry but that sorry should feel so much worse - but here is this unicorn in a field of pearls or daisies or rock turned to dream (rock onto which he beaches himself) and she does not say anything, does not reach any further, only tells him, I'm glad. He is staring at the rope and it is staring back but they do not reach hands toward each other.
Instead, "Come to think of it, I don't know that it's that easy."
This falls from him before he's ready, shatters at his feet and without looking he knows he is bleeding out, one gaping wound after another, wound upon wound upon wound. He still does not take the rope, though it begs him.
Please, Michael.
Just hold on.
The wind again, cool against his face. It feels like seafoam.
Somewhere, dry bones in the dirt, picked clean and bleached white. Somewhere, the rumble of thing as they bend inward and fold over themselves: trees, rock, the earth itself. Somewhere, clouds black as night, black as Isra's rage, and a gold horse watching it all go. Solemn. Mournful. And he is so very tired. And, somewhere, a unicorn and her dragon and her wild daughters like bolts of lightning racing toward the lake. The rope. Michael wraps it around his fist and tugs.
Would you like to meet my children?
His teeth ache. He says, "I would."
And then, there in the field, he raises his great and heavy head, to call out: "Hello, Fable! It's been a while."
Instead, "Come to think of it, I don't know that it's that easy."
This falls from him before he's ready, shatters at his feet and without looking he knows he is bleeding out, one gaping wound after another, wound upon wound upon wound. He still does not take the rope, though it begs him.
Please, Michael.
Just hold on.
The wind again, cool against his face. It feels like seafoam.
Somewhere, dry bones in the dirt, picked clean and bleached white. Somewhere, the rumble of thing as they bend inward and fold over themselves: trees, rock, the earth itself. Somewhere, clouds black as night, black as Isra's rage, and a gold horse watching it all go. Solemn. Mournful. And he is so very tired. And, somewhere, a unicorn and her dragon and her wild daughters like bolts of lightning racing toward the lake. The rope. Michael wraps it around his fist and tugs.
Would you like to meet my children?
His teeth ache. He says, "I would."
And then, there in the field, he raises his great and heavy head, to call out: "Hello, Fable! It's been a while."
@isra
