MELITA
The honeybee girl toiled away the early morning hours with practice and precision, choosing the Oasis, a favorite spot for its cool, tranquil waters and reminders of another time, another life, nestled in its lengthy grass as she performed various routines and exercises. For periods at a time, she coiled herself up like a spring, supine amidst the green blades, before rising up in sit-ups, corresponding and adhering to Wessex’s mantras about strengthening her abs. Before long though, as always with her inborn, impulsive nature, she’d rise and become distracted by everything else: the birds, the sun, the insects, the wind billowing against her long locks. Fangorn nestled his way along the embankment ahead, distracted by potential hunting expeditions, layered and lacquered along the brush, only his snarls and growls evidence of his existence.Willfully adhering to naught but her own diverting skills, she itched for her satchel nearby, dragging it over to where she sat, digging deep into a side pocket. Her hand grabbed hold of what she sought: the beautiful little anklet the will-o-wisps had granted her. She hadn’t understood why then, and she certainly couldn’t comprehend the reasons now, but she admired it in her palm, sea-shells clicking and clacking against her fingers, smooth, ornamental stones providing a blissful, tranquil tune. She was no Naiad, but for the moment, maybe she could pretend.
Melita slipped it on her right ankle, extending her foot out, ignoring the brush of fabric and her dress slinking down, pooling at her thighs, admiring it from afar. “What do you think?” She asked Fangorn in a coy, amused manner, waving her leg around mid-air as if it were something to be revered. She didn’t receive much in the way of response: the gourd growled and then continued making his way through the moss and stones.
Well – truthfully, she didn’t deserve the item. But in that instant, it was entertaining to linger in the pretenses of sprites. She rose from her chosen nest and sprung along the outskirts of the glade – movements and motions meant to be elegant, meant to be eloquence unmatched and unparalleled, another fey of the forest, wood sprite and sprig, whimsical, mercurial, a disastrous, unforetold demon tracing over beauty and majesty –
Then she tripped over a rock.
It plunged her downward, towards the water’s edge. She waited for the onslaught of the cool liquid to pour, souse, and rain down over her as she slipped and slid into its pool. Perhaps it’d be a welcome relief to her burning face, embarrassed and ashamed, as she tumbled her way into its abyss.
But then – as she reached its reflecting portal, she didn’t go into it. Instead, she lingered on top, as if lighter than air and ether, a jumble of limbs and entangled framework, balancing precariously over the water’s refrain. “What?” She whispered to no one but herself, struggling to unravel her shifted columns and bones, pushing herself to stand, waiting for the inevitable crash of the waves to envelop, to surround, to conspire and sink her to the bottom of the oasis. But when she finally uncurled, uncoiled, the youth remained – and she pressed further, walked farther, breathless in wonder, in awe, in bewilderment, lured and beguiled and enticed, tempted, as her bare feet brushed across currents and ripples, but didn’t become one of them.
This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
