not everything is a poem

The Honeybee

I believe in holding grudges
I'll heal in hell

Ignoring mostly everything Kiada said in exchange for focusing on the water and the sudden appearance of fins, the congratulations simmered into her ear. She turned briefly away from the multiple outlines to stare at the Ancient, uncertain what to make of the whole thing. “Thanks,” she offered instead in the confusion. “Weren’t you a follower of Ludo for a while?” She couldn’t quite recall – not when spite had ran so inherently within her veins at a single glance – and finding herself miring away at it now.

But then there were the shrieking outcry of screams far below, and realizing what they’d encountered, she snorted, exchanging the elemental arrow for a plainer one. More than once they sounded like unwinding sibilances and haunting requiems from another time and another place; before she took aim and shot at a snout daring to surface.

Pay a little more attention to the healing power
of incandescent rage

Melita