Melita
Eating fire is your ambition
to swallow the flame down
to swallow the flame down
He could have his masks. He could squirrel away and hide. She didn’t know how else he’d recover or lament, and she couldn’t care either. With her jaw set, clenched, and teeth ground together, her vicious steps persisted and continued, ignoring his last words entirely. Then do something she wanted to echo. Then stop being such an idiot she wanted to hurl. But how many times did it need to be said until he changed? Until he altered? Until he became something other than this damned mess?
But her words were done, even if the maelstrom remained, brimming and brewing in her veins – combative, intending, yearning, for some amount of destruction.
Fangorn hastened and hustled behind her, and she permitted just a moment to gather him in her arms, and place the companion on her shoulders. “Sorry,” she whispered to the gourd and the gourd alone; she wasn’t apologetic for any of the other enraged tones. The honeybee noted Sunjata remaining close by, and snarled, sneered, before continuing onwards.
Her faithful pumpkin snaked his vines around her, perhaps for some volley of comfort, but she wouldn’t relent. There’d been no moment to release her ferocity, and she’d have her blood in one way or another.
Opportunity, of course, came on the hinges of another growl – and she stopped in her tracks. It wasn’t a recognizable feature – not like Fangon’s at all. Perhaps they’d attracted something with all their yelling and shouting; lured out of the jungle and into notched, nothing pathways, for the chance of making a meal out of distracted individuals.
And then it stepped out of the thicket of vines and brush; predacious and ravenous, tiger-formed save for its metallic outset, a lustrous silver hue. All Melita could do was roll her eyes, making a maneuver to draw her bow, a hiss, a mutter, and another howl. “Oh, fuck off!”
But her words were done, even if the maelstrom remained, brimming and brewing in her veins – combative, intending, yearning, for some amount of destruction.
Fangorn hastened and hustled behind her, and she permitted just a moment to gather him in her arms, and place the companion on her shoulders. “Sorry,” she whispered to the gourd and the gourd alone; she wasn’t apologetic for any of the other enraged tones. The honeybee noted Sunjata remaining close by, and snarled, sneered, before continuing onwards.
Her faithful pumpkin snaked his vines around her, perhaps for some volley of comfort, but she wouldn’t relent. There’d been no moment to release her ferocity, and she’d have her blood in one way or another.
Opportunity, of course, came on the hinges of another growl – and she stopped in her tracks. It wasn’t a recognizable feature – not like Fangon’s at all. Perhaps they’d attracted something with all their yelling and shouting; lured out of the jungle and into notched, nothing pathways, for the chance of making a meal out of distracted individuals.
And then it stepped out of the thicket of vines and brush; predacious and ravenous, tiger-formed save for its metallic outset, a lustrous silver hue. All Melita could do was roll her eyes, making a maneuver to draw her bow, a hiss, a mutter, and another howl. “Oh, fuck off!”
to be lit up from within, vein by vein
to be the sun
to be the sun
