Melita
they should have checked the ashes
of the women they burned alive
of the women they burned alive
Confusion laced and wove its way across her features – it’d been a rare occasion when the girl could hide her emotions. They were munitions as well as flaws, and they quirked here and there along her brows, along the narrowing of her gaze, along the intrepid and treacherous lines of her face. And it didn’t take much longer to erupt the vision of her stare into something more.
Saartjie; with all its uncanny resemblances, with all of its designations, with all of its heralds and possible misgivings. Sunjata’s sister. In some ways her aunt and stepmother, if all of the stories the Flood had told were true, and still hold weight. The woman who’d been bound to her father, with all the unfortunate circumstances that came with his association.
Which of course, in some way, meant Melita.
“Oh,” she paused, uncertain of what to say or do. Fangorn couldn’t offer much of a respite either, as lost as she was, and suddenly there was an inclination to run and run and run and not look back. To spiral away into the sand, barefoot and clinging to nuances and notions she understood.
Instead, the honeybee visibly shrunk: head bowed, gilded eyes staring upon granules of dunes and wondering when the blows would come. “You must hate me.” For her existence. For being a constant reminder of Gaal – even if he’d never wanted her in the first place.
Saartjie; with all its uncanny resemblances, with all of its designations, with all of its heralds and possible misgivings. Sunjata’s sister. In some ways her aunt and stepmother, if all of the stories the Flood had told were true, and still hold weight. The woman who’d been bound to her father, with all the unfortunate circumstances that came with his association.
Which of course, in some way, meant Melita.
“Oh,” she paused, uncertain of what to say or do. Fangorn couldn’t offer much of a respite either, as lost as she was, and suddenly there was an inclination to run and run and run and not look back. To spiral away into the sand, barefoot and clinging to nuances and notions she understood.
Instead, the honeybee visibly shrunk: head bowed, gilded eyes staring upon granules of dunes and wondering when the blows would come. “You must hate me.” For her existence. For being a constant reminder of Gaal – even if he’d never wanted her in the first place.
because it takes a single wild ember
to bring a whole wildfire to life
to bring a whole wildfire to life
