MELITA
She listened, enamored by the description, eyes falling to the puddles of mud. They suddenly sounded like something orchestrated in the Rift, dangerous and ridiculous, no rest for the wicked and weary, even something as simple as mud and muck to be feared. Her eyes rounded at the notions, then lifted back up to the sky, thinking, plotting, meandering along the surface of those ruminations – when the fellow creature seemed to test it upon herself.The honeybee girl watched again, utterly fascinated – the mud crawling along her throat, as if to do just as she’d reported, chronicled, and detailed, and for an instant Melita wondered if the stranger was merely going to permit it to happen. And then, the command beckoned from her throat, and the muck did as she bid, freezing, desisting, merely there. “Wow,” she whispered, suitably impressed, grinning from ear to ear. “You can control it?” Perhaps she had magic, directed from the earth, channeled from the surface, from the ground, from the loam.
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
