#Sibylline Tongues

[majestativa]

Years later.

Flowers in the Attic: The Origin (S1E1/4), dir. Declan O'Dwyer & Robin Sheppard, (2022)

[cordeliaflyte]

Rooja Mohassessy

Intoxicated by Verses

Even the Farsi translation, the barely legible print beneath each calligraphed line calls for translation. How scholarly she is at ten, squatting cross-legged, hunched over the book of spells she spreads daily on her knees.

It is forbidden to touch the verses.

With the full length of her arm she turns the page from one corner of the magic world to another, careful not to scare the sacred and the gilded accents twinkling in midair, little blades hovering over the cursive script.

It is forbidden to recite in a foreign tongue.

She loves the Arab tongue of God, she loves her lips sliced with surahs, consonants rammed to the back of the throat, she draws deep to sustain the vowels. Her incantations soar, her white chador a floating tent sown

sunny with daisies beaming with childhood. She pauses to drink at the turquoise banks, the hand-painted margins of the page hem her faith and brim with embossed blossoms, then dervishlike, rocking 

with each sibylline verse rising from her pliant throat, she is the reverberating masjid dome, poised over her paisley janamaz, birds of praise come nesting, they come cooing, darting out and into her chador.

Each surah the utterly incomprehensible spell she incants from her proud minaret, she cups her hands in invitation for God to join, dance with her on the naked waters of her childhood.

Very soon, it will be forbidden for girls to dance.

[cubikzoa]

WIZARD TRAVEL VLOG

This week I’m in R’lyeh City, South Pacific Ocean, during summer break. I received a visitation passport from my school, Vyr’los University of Occult Sciences. Today I’ll be rating my stay on this travel vlog!

Picture I took of the city. Super cool view, accommodations for air-breathers and void-breathers were pretty good as well. You do have to pay a fee for a respirator however so come prepared. I booked a room at the Motel 666 on the Main Street. It was pretty nice compared to mortal Motel 6’s. The blood rainfall shower head was really relaxing, it wasn’t too clotted either. Good breakfast. Wi-Fi at the bottom of the ocean was a bit spotty. 8.5/10, would stay here again.

The city was really crazily beautiful and clean, no issues with blood-drinking barnacles or leviathan larvae. Found a really cute ritual resale shop and bought a very pretty cursed abalone talisman. Great souvenir, go for stuff other than the city gift shop stuff. Cheap and overpriced, they use human skin pleather instead of real human skin leather on the souvenir Grimoires.

Had a very good lunch at the local Burger King in Yellow. They had vegetarian options as well as carnivore, sanguine, and omnivore. Went for a barbecue brain coral burger with cheddar and a very nice seaweed coleslaw. Staff was great, sociable and pleasantly surprised that I knew a bit of Old Tongue lol. Seems they get a lot of uptight scholarly types who only want to speak English or Latin. Ugh. I tipped extra. I’d give it a 6/10, only because the burger was very heavy on the mustard.

Finished the day at the Grand Library. A bit of a line for precautionary check in, you have to go through a True Sight check before they allow you in. Very considerate that they don’t want damage to anyone’s brains and/or soul. Sight check went excellently, they do get a few humans down here who don’t test well. Seems they had some blathering idiot wander down here a bit ago complaining about sunken unsinkable ships and exploding submarine refunds. An intern ate him because he was so annoying and honestly I can’t blame them.

The library was magnificent! The architecture was in the Non-Euclidean geometric style, with beautiful frameless candle lighting and individual cubicles and tables. You do need to grab a pair of cleated boots off the shoe rack to use the shelf ladders if you aren’t gravity-resistant or can’t fly, as they’re a bit unreliable. Twisty and upside-down in places, and follows the architectural curve. And the scale of it was astonishing. The most books I’ve ever seen in one place! They had some Old-Kingdom Egyptian classics ofc, a few Educational Necronomicon Textbooks levels 1-7 for student checkout, a bunch of mentally paradoxical novels, an entire Truthful Nonfiction section, and a rare books area that had a Sibylline Scroll and a Inter-Mentalic Elder Tome among other things (you need academic permission for these ones).

They don’t get too many Human students, it was super fun to see how different dimensional cultures interact. Hung out with a shoal of Deep Ones, Tyreemek and Ordantuuk were exchange students at Vyr’los, and I had some snacks with me from the surface so they and their buddies were ecstatic about the taste and concepts of tangerines and ritz crackers. The Library’s help desk was run by a very nice Shoggoth, she appreciated my compliment that her 2,437 turquoise-painted nails were very well done. I was struggling with directions to the Library Café, I don’t speak Shambler and it seems that the Café was a bit difficult to perceive at the time. Could be location, but I was pretty tired as well after a full day.

Ordered a nice steaming hot cup of mint-flavored insani-tea with extra honey and a dream puff pastry for the road. Tea was delicious, just sweet enough & not too hot and not cold either. Dream puff pastry was a little heavy on the powdered sugar, but the nightshade and lavender jelly with cinnamon was good. Came in a very cute paper bag with a little grinning book on it that said: “Recycle! Keep our oceans clean or else!” I’d give the Cafe a solid 9/10, and the wonderful library a very definite 10/10.

Went back to my Motel room for the night, the bioluminescent nighttime lighting is great for good rest. The wiggly-shaped glass aquarium on the bedside table had live eels and purple jellyfish in it and was very calming. I’ll have to remember to feed them in the morning.

Tomorrow will be a solid day of studying, 1/4 day classes, and maybe a trip to the nearby Taco Hell for lunch. I’ve heard they have really good nine-layer dip that Dante gave them 5 stars for. So far this trip has been thoroughly enjoyable, I definitely recommend a visit here, whether for occult academics, touring the city, or to see the nearby deep sea wilderness. There’s definitely a lot to see and do!

[babylon-crashing]

Tarot deck based on the fine art of, "Sibylline Xenomorphia;" featuring Syssk, an Alien marooned in Japan's Warring States era; mapping out her attempts to pass in the bewildering and often contrary world of strife, chaos and fabulous kimonos.

Syssk Online Shop Space.

A free guide book written in Armenian and Galactic Basic (Syssk’s native tongue) for the deck, translated by Lilit "Baba" Yagian, can be found here at my favorite Internet lending library:

TAROT of SYSSK [4th edition] : Lilit "Baba" Yagian : Free Download, Borrow, and Streaming : Internet Archive

A translation in English is in the works. The colorized editions (at this point just curiosities) date back to earlier versions of the deck which were never published.

[goreprofonde]

“When I told my father about my boyfriend & his boy, he screamed at me in some seraph-soaked tongue, his teeth live coals, his mouth a furnace firing Babel bricks, his tongue the fourth man in the furnace, the unbound shadow, like a son of the gods—but no flames ever licked my own lukewarm lips. When I was a child, I tried to slip a glimpse of my father’s cock, prayed he’d cast down that staff into a serpent that would swallow up my own. When I was a child, my father stood behind as a man pressed his sweaty shuddering palm to my forehead praying that I be baptized in a blaze of holy oil. Not a syllable of sibylline babble could anoint my cottonmouth tongue. I let my legs go limp, tried to drop, to play slain. My father held me up. The man pressed harder, pressed deeper, his tongue swollen & spewing the language of God—a dead language, resurrected, but come back babbled apart, missing limbs. (Imagine Lazarus, four days dead: a bloat, blood-foam leaking language.) My tongue wanted so much, but not this. The man sighed, spent, & my father lowered my heavy, unhallowed body to the floor. When I told my father I was in love, his throat-throbbed tongue-twitched rising baptized bellows said nothing, said shutupshutupshutup, said notmyson, said godIloveyou. When the Spirit seeped out, leaving him flaccid, bashful, he whispered, “That wasn’t me.” He said, “You have to believe me.” When the Spirit clamps your tongue between its atoning tongs, you can say anything. You can say nothing. You can say exactly what you mean.”

- Brandon Thurman, Charismata.

[incandescent-eden]

Excerpt from Let’s Kill Imogen! I’m making my way through a new short story extremely slowly, haha

---

          Isla hates the sticky dough on her hands. She hadn’t thought ahead, and it sticks to her cuffs, and buries deep inside her fingernails, and when she moves to wipe the sweat gathering at her forehead, it gets caught in her hair. “Alright, enough,” she says when six lumps roughly resembling scones have taken shape. “After this, simply fire up the scones until they’re golden in color, and you can serve them.”

           “How long will that take?” Imogen asks. Her cheek is also smeared with dough. An almond slice sticks to her sleeve.

           “I don’t know,” Isla snaps. “Go play with Mary.”

           The girls obligingly run off, happy to be free from Isla’s scowling scrutiny. Sibylline’s eyes and mouth have the lineless quality of a woman with no reason to frown. Even after three children and two decades married to that boor, she looks fresh as the day of her debut.

           “What do you want, Sibyl?” Isla asks, wiping her hands off once more.

           “Must I want something to visit my oldest friend?”

           “I would prefer if you did,” Isla answers. “Unless, of course, you want to waste my time, in which case, I wish you would want something else.”

           “Well, we don’t always get what we want, do we?” Sibylline says with a smirk. “I see you’re teaching Imogen the tricks of the Hewitt family trade.”

           “She can do what she wants.”

           “She’s a wild child.”

           “If you don’t want Mary to pick up bad habits, then simply don’t bring your daughter over. Impressionability is the worst quality a girl can have.”

           Sibylline pouts, and it should look ridiculous on a woman in her late thirties, but because it’s Sibylline, it only vexes Isla. “You’re so mean, Isla. Mary enjoys playing with Imogen, and Imogen is a smart girl. They won’t get in too much trouble.”

           “Did you know Imogen is nearly thirteen?”

           The pout instantly becomes another smirk. “Why, of course I did! My darling Mary’s birthday is only one day after Imogen’s, as you know.”

           The abdominal pain this time is followed by a stabbing headache. Isla sighs. Sibylline and her uncanny ability to give Isla a migraine. “They grew up quickly. Sometimes, I think, too quickly.”

           “Not quickly enough, if you ask me,” Sibylline laughs. “Does your head hurt?” she puts a cool hand against Isla’s forehead, wiping away the dough with her thumb. “You put yourself under too much stress.”

           “I think,” Isla says, feeling her tongue slide under her teeth, “you simply don’t have a single care in the world.”

           Sibylline giggles. “Oh, life is so much easier that way. You should try it, Isla.”

           “You know you’re not a child, and you can’t live like that?”

           “You wouldn’t have as many worries if Edward were still here,” Sibylline says with a dismissive wave of her hand. She picks up the vial from the table beside the dough tray, rolling it between her thumb and forefinger. “Poor Edward. Only twenty-six and almost newlywed.”

           “Some things are inevitable,” Isla says. She hadn’t realized just how tired she was until the sigh escapes at the end of her sentence.

           “And some things are meant to be,” Sibylline says, pressing the vial into Isla’s palm. “Those aren’t really the same thing, don’t you think?”

           “What are you trying to say?”

           Sibylline smiles, and in that moment, she looks nothing like sweet little Mary Hearst’s mother. “I’m not trying to say anything at all, dearest Isla.”

[bluepenguinstories]

Intention Headaches Chapter Ten

Silence in the barroom.

Everyone, a cold hush. The chill of saltwater. Nobody ordered the taffy bourbon, it was due to go out of style.

Continued silence.

Few minutes earlier, there was an incident, but just one:

Groaning and moaning, a little in mourning. Befuddled man spoke with confidence words almost too slurred to deliver.

“That last one was an overkill, eh? I mean, the whole thing. It left a bit of a bitter taste. Li’l funny, admittedly, but sheesh!”

Everyone lifted their heads just a few centimeters high, then faces low. No one spoke, only signaling agreement.

“Anyway, bartender, how about another?”

Bartender, man about duty as he was, shook head like the blenders in the tattoo parlor.

“No, I agree. Was overkill. Think you’ve had quite enough.”

“Oh, come on! You’re the bartender! All drinks are given to all gang members regardless of affiliation!”

“No more drinks for you, Mr. Waits. Lest we have to clean up the mess on our new minted floors.”

The establishment, home for the disordered and chaotic, was in full order once again. That metallic appearance a thing of the past, unpleasant; though the sign outside may be neon, inside were wooden floor boards, with the new addition of a chrome static finish, so the environment would feel both like a tavern, saloon, or, of course, the bar. But the environment served as well as a source of energy; deploying domesticated termite machines to build the infrastructure of an automated simulation.

Afterward from an explanation and the departure of the binge of waiting, the sight of a solitary squatter on a table made for two caught the attention of two at the counter.

One of the two to the lady with the hair spikes and little else but an image: “Hey Elaine, what you doin’ alone?”

Looked up, not to ceiling or sky. Previous sights on table.

“Just felt like it.” Entrenched words from the very same Elaine, who held the two time record of having a six-letter name.

One of the other gang members, of a gang that made little difference. Woolf? Sexton? Let’s stay on topic, call it gucci. Gucci gang member, the one who didn’t speak prior, now spoke: “Don’t you usually hang around someone, though? What was his name again? Rodney? Rooney?”

“Riley,” a one word line delivery.

“Ah, yeah! That’s the one! Why you ain’t with ‘im?”

“The guy died. Stepped on a landmine during a gang war and got electrocuted. Think it was last week?”

“Oh! So sorry!”

Cracked laughter tore through the egg of Elaine. Egg was a yolk called a mouth which rested gently below the nose, but on many an occasion, opened up to reveal a cavernous system.

“Kinda funny, really! We in the Plaths always called him ‘Turtle’ because he always carried that big ol’ backpack full of surprises! So it’s like a turtle stepped on a landmine!”

Fist slammed on the table, an uproar of humor crafted from the aforementioned cavern.

No one else laughed. All else bore the gift of silence.

“Well, I thought it was funny,” Elaine looked away, possibly toward a more crowded gang of various gangs. Amore!

“But Elaine, weren’t you two friends? How could you laugh?”

“You’d have to have been there! His whole body got burnt to a crisp and I could see electricity crackling! You could stick a fork next to him, or a marshmallow!”

Again, and for the effect of repetition, no one else laughed.

“We all know the risks, it was bound to happen. Part of the Plath pact is that we rush headfirst into the heat of battle. Bud just held up the pact, and so it happened.”

“But aren’t you sad?”

“Are any of us sad? We just lost an entire gang the other day. Cranes. No one want to talk about them? Is it ‘cause they were poets? Well, anyway, if you insist on such a meandering topic, I’ll give a call for celebration.” Whistle signal to bartender flared. “DRINKS FOR EVERYONE! HERE’S TO RILEY!”

Soon the crowded silence crowded around the table of Elaine, upheld silence.

One and one, the two, congregated to the crowd in the room. The two guys who had been speaking. Yes, they had names, but it went without saying (not that their names were obvious or that there were any indication, rather the names were so incidental and forgettable that it went without saying what their names were). One upended the conversation:

“You two were best friends, right?”

Elaine drank. After a courageous belch, gave commemoration.

“Sure, but I’ve been in this game long enough. Lost plenty of friends, and some day, someone will lose me. That’s just the life we have here.”

“Say, wasn’t Riley not originally from here?”

“Indeed. Asked him about it one time back at the base, just him and I. I was like ‘Hey Riley, what was the outside world like? How did you manage to make your way here?’ You know what he told me?”

Silent faces turned side-by-side.

“He told me, he said, ‘Elaine, why does the chicken cross the road?’ I didn’t know how to answer, so I said ‘I don’t know, man, why does the chicken cross the road?’ You know what he told me? He said, ‘don’t look at me! I ain’t no chicken. Listen. I do what I do ‘cause I do it. That’s how it’s always been with me. I’ll live because I live and I’ll die because I’ll die. There ain’t much more to me.”

Ooh’s and Aah’s, round of applause, Elaine again with the drinking.

“Pretty much the same with me, I suppose. Same with all of us. Sure, who’d want to live like a place like this where someone constantly dies? But that’s our life. If I could choose another life, I could’ve been a ballerina, learned shorthand, or been a burlesque dancer. I don’t know what any of those are, but I’ve heard of such things from random parsing through neural manuscripts.”

“True enough! I often forget the names of all the people I chat with cause they usually die the next day!” Hearty laugh from one of the two guys. Were they the same two guys as last time?

Question never minded, the with the bat steps to the heels and the thundering cackles cracked, an electrifying entrance.

“How dare you disrespect the dead?!” Mother of Sexton pointed her crone finger every which way. Elaine, who knew the way, could address the one with the entrance.

“How could you know whether or not I’m disrespecting him? He’s dead, I can’t ask his opinion. Maybe he wants us to celebrate in this way.”

“You still show disrespect! Cracking jokes and trampling over the very concept! Those were people’s lives, who could very well not have wanted their fates to be that way! And you, you find levity?”

“Bah,” bitter, sour tongue. Elaine took a swig, a gulp and a set, mouth open once again. “I choose not to dwell on the dead. It doesn’t do any of us any good.”

“Wrong again! You can learn a great deal from the dead!”

“Oh yeah? Wanna know what happens when you talk to a skeleton? You know what the skeleton says? Nothing. Because the dead cannot speak. All you have to learn is that they have ceased to be.”

“Ah, but they do speak. Listen to their bones and what came before. The ashes and their power. It fills me. After all, death itself is life.”

“Again, I choose not to dwell on the dead. Does none of us any good. All it does is make you obsess. You wanna know what led someone to such an end? What it means for them? ‘Surely, there must be a reason. Imagine if they could’ve been saved’, you must ask yourself. ‘what can we learn from this?’. I’ll tell you: nothing. You can speculate all you wish, but leave me out of it. I’ll learn what I can from what exists and live while I’m alive. That’s what I’ve chosen.”

“Such disrespect!”

“You wanna tell me about disrespect? The one who respects the very concept of women?”

No answer given. Only a storm that passed, damage restoration.

At the usual counter comes the kid elderly, Ernie. Sipping wine or champagne, relinquished lamentation.

“Crane gone. I also partake in men. I was craven. My shotgun could have salvaged some. Had I the knowledge.”

“Mm. Just as Elaine said: it happens to us all. Your truths and your falsehoods, they become trivial in the face of it all. Faction and fiction, death knows no discrimination.”

Hemingway drank a heavy shot. Down the chin, it went.

“Well known knowledge. Knowledge of the war remains. Absence of the Crane as an entire entity, signifies return.”

“Return of what, dear friend?” Spoke tender, the wiper of the glass.

“War.”

“As a bartender, I can neither confirm nor deny that. My duties lie in preserving the one place of neutrality.”

Neutrality may seem in the center of it all, but the true point is zero. Move two spaces to the X-axis, two spaces down, into the negatives, lies Plath leader, hands on head. Beside her, down west, Virginia.

“What’s wrong, my fellow woman?”

Plath with the aching head, but only from within.

“It’s the hospital...they did something to me...but I can’t remember…”

“Why now do you think of this?”

“Because I want to know! I feel myself slipping, but I can’t recall what happened last time! What did they take from me to make me like this?”

“Take or give? I have gone there rather often each time I reach peak madness. They give me something.”

“Yes! You were there with me! Tell me! What do you remember?”

“I was cured. I don’t remember of what. I know they treated me. Yes. Oh dear. I may have to go back.”

“No. None of us goes and finds it; when they sense our illness, they take us back. But if I could just remember what happened. It hurts so much. It was like a pain I’ll never know of! That’s why…”

Passed by. Sexton once again. Laughed. Her own form of respect.

“Oh my, my, my. You have forgotten your hospital visit?”

“Yes! Do you remember yours?”

“Of course. I recorded it. They taught me a great many things.”

“What did they teach you?”

“Death and all that surrounds it.” Her grin was a shadow when compared to the bright spot above her forehead. “I’ll even let you listen.”

Chip was thrown, just as it would have had it been an explosive die (the singular form of dice). After Sibylline Sylvie stressed the sweaty palm, the index finger went to work and clicked. It all played to her ears, her ears alone. Her own.

Within the mind, recording went as follows, an interview:

Doctor: What brings you in today?

Sexton: I am afraid of reaching an end.

Doctor: Administer the shock.

[Electricity Crackles]

Doctor: What brings you in today?

Sexton: The hospital itself.

Doctor: Correct. Do you know the process?

Sexton: Yes.

Doctor: Do you fear death?

Sexton: Yes.

Doctor: Do you wish for immortality?

Sexton: No.

Doctor: Do you fear an end?

Sexton: Yes.

Doctor: Do you believe that children are the future?

[No answer]

Doctor: Do you believe that children are the future?

[Shock administered]

Doctor: Do you believe children are the future?

Sexton: I despise children.

Doctor: Think of them as an extension. If you wish not to see an end, repeat the process. Create them like any other invention. Like a weapon. Do you remember who came before you?

Sexton: Yes.

Doctor: She was you, once. Make a child that can become you and you will never reach an end. Understand?

Sexton: Yes.

Doctor: Do you believe that children are the future?

Sexton: Yes.

– Recording ended –

Such was the mother Sexton’s treatment. Silvery scent sent the chip away. Such a cross toss. As for the parent herself, she laughed. Her voice carried over the merriment.

Slipped past the crowd, Sylvie stroked over the silence, right where Elaine sat.

“What I heard confirms it,” she told Elaine, lower in her voice than her own posture. “Karen gave us our next mission. Was a simple one. I will accept.”

“What is it?” Elaine, humble in her ignorance.

“To find the artifact known as The Bell Jar. With it, our gang shall surely flourish.”

“You should refuse.”

“What? How could you?”

“I don’t think you’re in the right condition.”

“Even with us separated, you still act like you have a say in it!”

“If you don’t want me around, kick me out. I’ll respect it.”

“No!” Her own throat a tinny sore. “I cannot keep you with me, but I cannot let you go too far!”

“Ladies, ladies,” a man in the Plaths. “You’re both pretty.”

Elaine snapped. Five fingers, in a twist. “That’s true, but not the matter at hand!”

Already angered, Sylvie stormed away, stood tall and took off. Before through the door, declared: “I will accept! I am the leader! I am! I am! I am!”

Some Plaths looked toward Elaine, whose name was six letters long. “What will you do about this?”

Six letter word shrugged.

“She said she’ll accept.”

“Yeah, but you seemed against it.”

“Indeed. Let me finish my drink. It’s last call.”

“Then, after bartender sacks us?”

“I’ll have a smoke.”

No further on the subject. One last drink for good ol’ times before the neon sign sparked ‘Closed’ on the door outside. Bartender needn’t say a word.

[monkhsuns]

Sinking;;

// Drabble

Series: Lightbound, FC Arc.

Sink.

It was a command that came like a sensation. It tingled along sensitive skin and wrapped around her limbs like a lover’s hold. The rush of water bristled her scales the deep blue claimed her. Pressure slithered around her frame until it squeezed the very air from her lungs. When her eyes cracked open, it was to watch the fading light be snuffed out by the abyss.

Drown.

Echoes of laughter crashed into her with the tide. She reached her hand out despite the weight around it and desperately grasped into the abyss. For a moment, there was nothing. Yet, even nothing was something and that something reached back. Fingers laced with hers as if she ran them through the ocean’s currents. They were warm, ever-flowing; they were a sensation she had felt once before.

Calm.

There was a peace to drowning. As the emptiness finally settled, the body became suspended in the vastness of time eternal. Tension bled away with understanding. Or, perchance, the siren call was a song she was destined to forever dance with. At that moment, her eyes closed; she tipped back into the seas that embraced her and released her grasp on the realm.

Listen.

The laughter quieted, then. Hushed discussions churned on the outskirts of her senses. The hand that held hers released and she felt herself drifting upon unseen currents. Whispers became louder but they were unintelligible— nigh otherworldly in the way their tongues tangled. Confusion was a brief sensation that she released into the darkness around her. Enlightenment came with surrender, all things were understood in time.

’Tis found in our troubles, ’tis mixed with our pleasures, ’Tis laid up above with our heavenly treasures; ’Tis whispered in heaven, and ’tis muttered in hell, And it findeth a place in each sibylline spell; In Paradise nestled, ’mid Eden’s fair flowers, It has sported with Eve in rose-perfumed bowers; ’Tis muttered in curses, yet breathed in our prayers; From the path of our duty it tempts us in snares. Deep, deep in our hearts you will find it engraved; Though in misery sunk, yet from sin it is saved. ’Tis found in the stream that flows on to the ocean; Though in bustle forever, ’tis ne’er in commotion. ’Tis wafted afar o’er the land in each breath; In the grave ’tis decaying— you'll find it in death. It is floating away on the broad stream of time, Yet it findeth a place in eternity’s clime. In the legends of nations it holdeth a place; There’s no charm without it to the beautiful face. In thunder you'll hear it, if closely you listen; In moonbeam and sunbeam forever ’twill glisten. In the dew-drop it sparkles; ’tis found in the forest; It whispers in peace when our need is the sorest.

As the riddle ended, the laughter returned. Like a wave crashing down upon her, the chorus became white noise that consumed all her senses. The current she road upon took a sharp turn and there was a sudden thrust against her midriff. As Sunsgerel took a desperate breath, sitting up from the waters, her eyes snapped open to realize that the sea she fought against was that of her own blankets.

Yet, saltwater clung to her flesh as if she had taken a trip to the nearby shoreline. . .

[majestativa]

The sibylline tongue of Margherita Guidacci.

[restlessmuseum]

nomen amen (or “paraphernalia”: back by popular demand)

                                    (where books compete for space with pottery)

We were already halfway through interminability. Away all redundancy of deficiency from the page, the tear from the past to mend us about to rampage. This far we had not said anything good but perfection required, in tone and content, inexplicable. (1) I found the crux in the posture to device, like an impostor happens in his tender, (2) a damage done like the wrapping paper of a ducked present. (3) Under the stance of unison, the shallower I read between the lines the further I'm improved from the time of my oversight, (4) the unison becomes the sound she phews down to my very being, like but the rest I forgot about... Sorry, got it wrong. Actually, I wanted to continue this something started spreads ago, but the prose screeches and cackles around its ineliminable inexactitude. I really don't feel like resuming anymore, or should I say, I'm done boggedly running after the end of my premises. Yes something happened, something to investigate in a whole other direction. So, gonna take all, this will be the first part. I wish I could express revolutionary philosophisms, I thought I could be a poet because I'm unable to be an essayist and a novelist. I'm not good at public speaking. I entered Tumblr to be found by publishers and make money: I had a system of truths and truly nothing else to say. Besides, what did this idea of klein Lebensdarbietung mean? Is the text doing its characters or are these ones setting out their own words? Text's abolition of today, which is nothing but "the sentences already written, the sentences that people say, the sentences yet to write; verses, words, spacings, texts' dissemination, whatever you want, about the purely sign-linguistic-textual" (cit.) verbatim et literatim, and here is another example of my strugglings to go on properly. In any event it is clear that we are moved when required, except the exempts. (5) It is always the most unexpected time to undergo the aha entanglement. In constant foresight I guiltily prepare to hindsee the neglect and with confambulatory prowess I succumb to the development in this underpass of construes. How much do we match with our sounds? — asking myself. In this respect I'm afraid to surprise me onstage like the surrenedered one (and here onpage, ah foolishness, as playwright). But if I leaf compulsively through hundreds of pages, that's to find my words not belonging to me, and the others to fight (me) with. As I am nearing the open conversation, I make up my mind never to read me. Tons of notes, reproaches and scratchpads. Tons of work to do. And I have to get rid of the old adjustments once and for all. (6) Electra the yet-signed. You like the simple words, the ones you recognize already written, the crystalline syllabification that enoculates the wholeness of an order babbling sibyllinity downstream. You carry on with the work of literature: how the body absconds at the risk of space and time with them. Imperfect doubling, mirror images, and repetition in her practice. Topical scratches. Interceptors sought in everyday life — like unspeakables — that she then distorts to create the straight path in reverse. Poetry will not touch her, because poetry is just the unwritten complexity going wrong side along the process of self-becoming, a recent installation, midway between marble and corporal desires in an ascending scale of hardness. (7) Listening to the closest friends, the process of self-becoming could only linger primarily in the sight of aesthetic, then morality, then religious status quo. But friends come always as a closer, blind alley, at the end of tears: a misunderstanding at first, then never read enough. (8) It is often the case that the practice of consensually agreeing to one's own mental performance and self-image by means of meddled languages and lineages may become a genuine bondage of freedom. The restrained partner can derive any drift in the set of possibilities so that we use to say the doing is more important than the outcome. (9) The doing is in uncomfortable or painful positions, for example as a punishment: then, easily it tends to be forgotten, because unforgivable. That's why the effect is the same as a verbal collage, but 1) rips are often behind schedule or on borrowed time, "out of sync with the fade" (cit.) hearth of what seems to be the Pentecostal tongues of fire; and 2) metaphors like "the rope of telephone charades" or "the coils of something wound in the form of a revolution to come is the licking of sugar injury, met since the starting point" are not allowed. "Real me is way more concerned with" (cit.) the Transcaspian line that follows the pattern of a crosswording of the desert. (10) Rather than holding on to me tight I choose to distance myself from what I'm being forced to watch daily. Dies irae dies illa desirable. Without prejudice to this last inescapable point, the first issue represents the Derridean crux of the matter, about which I will be saying something bad in the wrongest moments, since my voice is as effective as my unsuccessful rewrites. I just want, by using the instruction books, the border of this drama, accelerated and hence trespassed in time into ridiculousness, to be experienced as the comedy it is. There is a hour of the wolf and there is a hour the wolf is afraid of. When the time is right I'd like you all to be safe to be spared in my turn from this construction beyond good and better. (11) Here you shine white with noise. "Sonorous cobweb" (cit.) made of only one thread, the unbent line of homeostasis at long last kept in crisis. (12) This narration should have had a different common thread. "And yet", imprint, "it moves" (cit.) as sensible prose. Prose of proses. The dispelled thing, spilled on Tumblr, disseminated. The seedbed: descendants, everspring off, family. The planting postdisposed. All going as planned. (13)   When I know that I don't know where to start a carving, I start a list of synonyms or unyoke a fable from a series of rereadings. What excommunication if you can't subvert the strainer? (14) Once upon a time Electra, beloved only sign of her father, has a brother. Agamemnon possesses the actuality and practicality of the dead: he wants to see water circulate water in laminar rheumatology and freshness sculptures out of tempered air. [director's note: the Argolis' scene isn't even entitled to melt!]. She eats anise candies and unwarmed foods without a problem. She is so lovely when she urinates first thing in the morning, holding the head in her hands, graeaean ownership. Yes, I'm worthy of attending to the offertory on the altar of love. So many congratulations against my behalf that the opposite seems true. (15) "A woman with long hair is not a simple point of view" (cit.). She's got a prompt night's sleep and reasonable. We cling to angelic accidents. We are clung to our soundtrack. (16) Indeed love is not "the panic subsidence onto the body" (cit.) [director's note: can we let the body become finally soaked in real pornography and never mind, here?] but sheer faith for a symbolic subject who's shattered fully loyal. Intermediate sprint of a life midpoint crossroads that lead at the same destination to flee from. (17) Because, as it goes, her staple is such a volitive confidence meaning to me the wait of the powers that created us, the coincidence of both of us makes our skewness on my side of the derangement. Averted word, when addressed. I am a bad Greek at the time of Christianity and a bad Christian on such dysfunctional divertissements. Who knows how ethically important it is today? I retain it, ending up forgetting everything else, and am lookin' very bad. (18) Of course the movement is diminished in certain directions; the style more flattened upon my chosen sickness that we now have no use for, after the setting of the starting stances; I suffer from more severe erections. An acquired kurtosis distributes my monodimensional remarks as the fourth cumulants in order of precedence. Still a lot of exercise to get. Busy like the evermentioned forgettables I'm at that stage where it's difficult for me to even do difficult things. Wrongstaged, I can't compete. I only challenge. (19) Therefore coincident like the two norths of which one is sinking liminal in the perfectly unsaid of your perfect cues. In one fell swoop you pone the part and mastery. And in the next. And the apnea for the answer back. Teeth gouged by the opposite of words in formation for a smile. The winky face par excellence. Here's the real spectator of my vocalized character. I wedge the self with a puny malapropistic idioticon to spread now that I'm a simplex person. As long as I continue to improve in (furtive, it has to be) apprenticeship I'm losing abilities. Old mistakes reappear, no inspiration from mumpsimuses. (20) Where adults flutter, she, disemvowelled and free from frills, spoken by the plural to be inscribed in the Sophoclean, in the Euripidean, in the Hofmannsthalean, in the Yourcenarian script, lost in tv shows and blatant phone calls, is, for me, abused of notations but who am I to denounce such an effusive happiness? There's nothing she can't Netflix. (21) No banana peel on the slope of her singularity — reversible up to a point, interchangeable up to a point, genderbending up to a point from the same side of view. Slotting minims in the same tone as the main characters. That the same out-of-turness is imbricated. (22)

Virtuosity was painlessly flaying the secret from the kids. This is tragedy. We all know what everyone should have said, sorrows come only after. We see each other for sure and too well. Find your trace in the deep of your prompter's heart. Dimmable glow of ancient times. Under guillotine percentages, under curtain at half-mast, under the veils in the dance of the seven veils. What am I trying to say? (23)

In the floodlights' gloom, without changing the rules of the game, exit khorós. With whom would you listen to you speaking? (24) Woods of brightness wherever, it makes me want to expect your coming deaf-handed right therever, the braindomed untrodden order of phrases where roommouths around it are opening. (25) A substratum, but rather as two shadows they finally vest themselves without amendment, and just drag on this semi-detached ward where it just doesn't feel like our theater anymore. So that there may well be the laetum and lethean occurrence of a new polarization. (26) It is no coincidence that here you're always cold and pale. What a cutie! (27) But maybe that's just too much information. Now would be the time to shut up even more. Already being in the manner for that: being at one with the template versus falling back into the patient subjectivity to agency, to make war and to make love with the weapons of the unconditional surrender. The book is that inferring the timbre of each Klagesprache. (28) Like the current situation could return to equilibrium because of an indefinite vocabulary which is still fighting us pressurers. We come across the unilaterality of it every day. Its constitution. (29) But infinity alive doesn't exist. We can approximate it in the endless rummaging and musing. (30) Approximation is worth nothing. We get sick for the words that once beguiled us. The limits of infancy don't set. And now I just -ess the world in voluntary silence nonexperienced. (31) With plex I brux my certainty and centuries. Party time abounds. (32) Clause: applause. (33)

[rosesastrology]

Words I associate the signs with: Aries: powerful, manipulative, energetic, high spirited, optimistic, potent, conflagration, confidence, yelling, arguments, warmth, sun, fire, sparkles, hazel, force, sports, kickboxing, heart-eyes, exquisite, allusion, white lies, sexiness, dominance uprising, gobsmacked, beatinest, fights, sounder, lively, lighters, nicotine, ambiguous, judging, craving Taurus: reliable, responsible, hard working, material, money, honest, loyal, practical, solidarity, stubborn, content, possessive, uncompromising, unconditional, complications, brown, green, changes, ground, jobs, gardening, cooking, stability, hands, high quality objects, value, easy-going, wholehearted, raw, purity Gemini: ambivalent, thinker, two faced, overthinking, unlabeled, writers, cantankerous, words, poems, tongue, speaking, lips, curling, tea, mornings, dawn, breezes, spring, breathing, laughter, mysteries, puzzles, unraveling, ominous, paradox, yin yang, opposites, doublethink, pieces, two pieces of one whole Cancer: moon, water, moonlight, sea, water, feelings, moodiness, dangerous, helpless, hopelessly, art, forgiving, assuming, tears, loneliness, emptiness, mental illness, feathers, birds, animals, home, family, children, society, psychological studies, stars, astrology, poems, artists, watercolor, pastel colors, insecurity, apothecary, apologizing Leo: self esteem, confidence, labels, blazing, lion, roaring, light, names, assumptions, chide, conflict, coruscant, flowers, amaranthine, dimes, diamonds, mining, flashing, paramour, lover, affair, honesty, positivity, generosity, creativity, humor, jokes, cheerful, arrogance, inflexibility, stubborn Virgo: analyzing, suppressing, shyness, kindness, loyalist, hardworking, practical, overly critical, insecure, judging, books, cleaning, studies, school, numbers, sotto voce, languages, wonders, holding on, stable, furniture, shops, medical, doctors, nurses, down-to-earth, feasible, doable, handy, functionality, finances Libra: harmonious, music, instruments, pens, poetry, writing, extrovert, popular, cooperative, problem solving, diplomatic, gracious, delicate, social, fair-minded, justice, gentleness, talking with others, outlets, outdoors, nature, hugs, warmth, solace, family, kindness Scorpio: death, ominous, paradox, mystery, inevitability, serene, seriousness, darkness, craters, abyss, heartache, breakups, ferociousness, deflorating, roses, wilting, sex, divagating, pelvis, lovers, one night stands, dominance, kinks, puzzles, complex, rawness, honesty, loyalty, incredulous, decreasing, schadenfreude, serendipity, imperfections, sibylline, staring Sagittarius: traveling, world maps, cities, villages, culture, rounded figures, running, sports, mountains, lightheaded, breezy, go with the flow, airplanes, leaving, disappearing, walking, wandering, stubbornness, adventure, games, young love, long distance relationships, distance, lights, fireflies, discoveries, camping, firewood Capricorn: practical, hardworking, finances, jobs, money, self control, managing, forceful, unforgiving, know-it-all, knowledge, smartness, discipline, discussions, reliable, expecting the worst, tradition, family, status, different, underrated, underdog, quality, craftsmanship, time Aquarius: independence, friendship, temperamental, in the moment, running, disappearance, progressive, original, different, humanitarian, helpful, aloof, frightful, emotionless, numb, running from emotions, self control, determination, apitude, funny, self discovery Pisces: drugs, wondering, wishing, hoping, imagination, shyness, darkness, abysses, mental illnesses, incomparable, incapable, insecurity, psychologically, dreams, hallucinations, allegory, bruises, bonding, pellucid, helpless, colorful, helplessness, craving, anxiety, anxious, nervousness, feeling too much, sadness, good friendship, manipulative

[babylon-crashing]

shan’t

Circe's mercy --- Witch's itches --- Schooled gore

I have not been myself of late. Coarse brute

force. Love-smudge. I want your sludge. I want more

of you --- I am root's charm. I am charm's root.

Charm of carnage. Charm of harm. Kissing grim

under the tongue. That heavy green honey,

like from Delphi. I am not I. “Yes ch’em

yes.” No amber witness, royal jelly,

stone's groan. Just plump rump. Itch that made Circe

moan, my mother of all craft. Does my sleaze

please? I am the other; all that you shan't

have, but want. Toxic nectar, all dusky.

All for you. With luck we will fuck. We'll squeeze

pleasure dry. Poison's fun. Sibylline's rant.

Note:

“Ես չեմ ես” (Yes ch'em yes) is simply, “I am not I.” I am fascinated with the phrase in Spanish, “Yo no soy yo.” However, Armenian is the language spoken by Lot's daughters in lust so I use that here.

[heavengrasp]

cominciamo dall’inferno

@hellgrasp

“Lift your chin,” he instructed, the way one might talk to a prodigal child. Which wasn’t too erroneous an attribution, given the expression Dante wore: sullen and sour, and maybe a little petulant. But did he also sense a touch of smugness in his comport, the proud arrangement of his shoulders, the tilt of his chin set in a defiant angle, his wide lips parted just so, with secret, sibylline smile curling prudently at the corners? It was possible. More than that, likely. 

Vergil inserted the smooth bone stays within Dante’s collar, leaving the points raised as he tied the slender neck wear around his brother’s neck with a militaristic precision. Satisfied with the execution of the knot, he tucked the tail of the tie within the slender waistcoat Dante had chosen to match his suit. 

It was a surprisingly stylish choice for him: a sleek, single-button Italian cut, double vented to accentuate the tapered waist, in a crimson sharkskin that complimented  his dark features in deleterious accord. Elegant, dapper even, and a refreshing change from his usual derelict sartorial milieu. And so marked that Vergil was sure that Dante had caught him staring more than once at the peek of pink tongue within his parted mouth, and swallowing hard with the silent affliction of a guilty man. 

“You look decent,” he said, his tone appreciative in spive of his mild words. His hands smoothed across his brother’s shoulders: broad, though not as broad as his, well-muscled under the worsted fabric, and Vergil squeezed at them in assurance of ... something. Whether it was for his brother or himself, he wasn’t sure. “Not like an indigent at all. Congratulations. I’d tell you how good you look, but I don’t want to risk an hour-long tirade of you patting your own ass. You ready? It’s almost time.” 

[sorrowedvigil]

As requested by @swevenfox - a short little drabble for you !

This temple swallows him.

Light bleeds through the narrowing embrasures, but it casts the ribbed vaults in an unfeeling, frozen glow.  Too much light for it to be wholly real, wholly bound by so petty a thing as the laws which govern the workings of this world. What is law before that which exists beyond it? It is a vastness he cannot grasp, could not try to. The light issues with a searing whiteness that devours all it touches, furnishing the pooling shadows into dizzying abyssal chasms of an unending black. His eyes swim, spots blinking in his vision, and he must tear his gaze away, eyes pinched tight against a red seam of hungry illumination. His skin does not rise to chilled gooseflesh even in the cold bath of this searching brilliance. It does not burn his cheeks a shivering pink, and he is emptier for it.

He feels, lurchingly...nothing, not heat nor chill, and the vacuum of sensation passes a tremor through down his shivering vertebrae. He is glad for that - it reminds him his body is grounded, is here. How easy he finds it to drift into mindlessness, suffocating in this smothering void of being. He could forget himself, his duty, his life. This temple - and the god who claims it - press down upon him, cloying, greedy, grasping. The Will is impossible to disobey - it is all that seems tangible, a living entity beyond death itself, witness to the birth of the only world he has ever known. Creator and guide, whose hand ushers its end. In the shadow of the exquisite, that which offends in their insignificance - personality, thought, will - are scorched away.

Before it, Mythal’s sentinel kneels in penitential devotion.  Love and fear taste the same to a god.

He is bent and bowed in genuflection, head drooping like an overripe fruit, fecund and ponderously weighty upon the branching arc of his neck.  His tongue cleaves dumbly to the pate of his mouth, working uselessly, a bloated and numb organ.  And it feels right, although it does not, that a thing so small and base as he should know the mercy of having the burden of words taken from him.

This place is sacred, yes. He can sense that what makes it cruel makes it holy - there is a terrible rapture in his wonderment. He knows there should be currents vortexing from the airy windows, bearing the heady fragrance of syrupy honeysuckle and nitrous earth. He knows he should hear the covetous murmurings of the Orchard trees, swaying to a windless breeze. But that which has narrowed to his only world - this temple - is consumed by callous silence. Perhaps this is a blessing, to be spared the drowsy languors of the white grove, the slow lethargy that renders him sluggish and thick, and so tempted to just lay his head upon the mossy vegetation, invitingly lush, and rest a while.

He cannot but tremble, humiliated for his weakness laid bare, profane and scaled large against the perfection of the infinite.  He has knelt at altars of the gods, offered each their burnt offerings of sweet-smelling things, and he was firmed and consecrated before Their presence. And yet, his fear betrays the Great Mother now, all strength failing him, humbled and laic as he is.

Amusement ghosts unseen in the threads of the Weave, the brush of a thing so sibylline and immense that he knows it can be nothing else but the the shadow of the presence of the divine.  And the fabric of the world ripples - a laugh without form or sound, unheard but deafening.  He cannot dampen or escape its resonance, teeth ground chatteringly together in an aching jaw.  The words he was meant to deliver flee him, a shame so profound and so crude that he can taste it like a bitter scorbutic closing his throat. He drowns in the sorrow and fractured ruin of his duty on his goddess’ behalf, poisoned hubris of this worthless priest to convey Her words, a mistake, a mistake, a mistake, a—

GO TO YOUR MISTRESS. YOU DO NOT YET KNOW WHAT SORROW IS.

He starts, scrabbling untidily to a drunken stagger, casting about in sheer, animal terror. He is alone, and the memory has already left his body.  Only the reverberations remain - some hollow echo in the cavity of his chest that sharpens his breath and leaves him reeling as though struck by a terrible blow. His breast heaves, brow puckered with beads of sweat, and the mortal stench of it sours the air.  He recalls nothing but the memory of ruthless light, of the spiritual glimpse of something grander beyond all knowing.

The sentinel stares sightlessly with hooded eyes, the fresh fir green of Mythal’s brand shining with perspiration upon his brow.  Lost, nonplussed, he pays his obeisances to the great temple of Falon’din, and cannot but shake the whispers of the woods he leaves behind.

[artificialqueens]

Church of the Poison Mind Ch. 3 (Trixya) - Dahlia

A/N: Thank you for all of the lovely feedback on the last two chapters, seeing those little asks truly makes my heart soar! Also thank you to the literal step mom of my of my fic, Lale, thank you for listening to me whine!! And Matilda for all of the college information (which I would be so lost without) and kind words of encouragement!! GO CHECK OUT THEIR FICS, THEY’RE BEAUTIFUL. Anyway, this is just like 3k of Trixie crying and being a hot mess. Enjoy! Also feel free to drop me a line @DahliasForKatya !!

Trixie’s father wasn’t a bad man, but he was like a trampoline come July when it came to stretching the truth.

She always felt such a sense of pride when it came to her father, there was no one else in the world who cared for her quite like he did. He was a well dressed man, meagerly successful, hardworking. He snored loudly in the evenings, fell asleep most nights in front of the T.V., but always rose at the near crack of dawn for his shift at the quarry. No matter how late he worked, hours spent in back breaking labor under the summer sun, he was always present. Every weekend he would treat her to fancy meals at their favorite Portuguese restaurants, or Sunday morning matinees at the local movie house. She liked “helping him” tie his shoes in the morning, liked their quiet dinners at home. She enjoyed watching him cook, dancing around the kitchen excitedly when he flambeed the contents of a saute pan.

Trixie loved the derby most of all, watching her father’s eyes light up as his favorite horse rounded the track in victory. She loved the colors they wore, and their funny names. She was ecstatic to bursting whenever he’d let her place a bet; she’d cheer them on from the sidelines, imitating their gallop. And Trixie, only nine and confused by the sport, would believe her father when he said her horse had won, even if it hadn’t. Trixie often wished her mother would accompany them, but relished this safe space with him. She looked up to him; idolized him with the kind of starry-eyed innocence only a child could wear.

They were watching stars and planting wishes, chocolate mousse for dessert and butterfly kisses. He grew a love for Trixie in the garden, as tall as eight mammoth sunflowers. She couldn’t wait to learn and grow, to scatter the seeds and watch him sow.

Trixie could recall that day he picked her up from school, could recount how many times she leaned in to smell his cologne. He was tall and dark haired, and Trixie couldn’t wait until she could be big and strong like him. He wore a new shirt that day, his hair was shorter, and Trixie could see he’d had his leather shoes shined. She looked down at her reflection in them, and they distorted the contours of her face, making her smile. She liked to imagine that he’d dressed up just for her, like prince charming come to whisk Cinderella to the ball. Trixie held his hand the whole walk home, fidgeting in excitement as they started up the driveway. She couldn’t wait for her mother to see his new outfit, Trixie hoped she’d like it enough to sit at the dinner table with them that night, instead of in front of the T.V. like she always did.

She twirled herself around his finger; wondering how long it would take for her fairy godmother to sweep her up, and turn her school clothes into a gown, big and blue. She dreamed of woodland creatures and magic pumpkins while he held the screen door for her. And she curtsied passed him, so caught up in fantasy that she failed to see the hurt cross her mother’s face. It’s terrifying, isn’t it? How the crushing weight of reality can change a perspective.

“Well don’t you look nice,” her mother said, “New shirt. New shoes. New girlfriend?”

—

Katya. Professor Yekaterina Petrovna Zamolodchikova.

The center of Trixie’s gravity upended, overturning bilious nerves in the pit of her stomach. She felt as though a woolen blanket over a stove burner, recumbent and stifling, willing the flames to overcome her. Katya. A beautiful Russian curl fell from her lips, each word more tempting than the last. She stood at the head of the class almost sibylline, and Trixie wondered how she’d never noticed the accent before. The thought occurred to her then, that they hadn’t done very much talking; somehow she’d underestimated the power of body language. There was something to be said about a body that alluring; how their chemistry had the ability to forego speech. They spoke in only the tongue of ardor that night, both tongues passing fluidly over goosebumps and other, more private parts. Trixie could still feel her mouth, hot and wet, painting bruises down the skin of her chest. They ached a sore path of memory, and Trixie tried desperately to not to touch them.

Katya. She was as beautiful as she was unattainable. Her words were almost aromatic, and though their meaning lie completely lost, Trixie could feel each curl envelope her. Saccharine, but daring, enigmatic. Trixie’s face flushed. She found it hard to concentrate, to look anywhere but Katya’s lips. And though she sat at the far end of the class, she might as well have been center stage. Katya’s eyes followed her every move, like the preeminent charm of the Mona Lisa. Trixie could recall every art museum she’d ever been to, and all were incomparable to this beauty, this red lipped mystery. This moment, while lively and brilliant, was shattering, and Trixie came crashing back to Earth, hard; like a space traveler jettison from the shuttle.

“Okay, since this is first day, and I am to be molding your tiny minds, why don’t we get to know each other a bit better? I’ll start. Privyet! I’m Yekaterina Petrovna Zamolodchikova, but you can call me Katya. And since you all love talking about my sex life so much, you’ll be happy to know I got laid last night!” She shot Trixie a flippant glance, and her gleaming teeth widened into a smile. Trixie recoiled, red in the face. She could feel the acid creeping up her throat.

“Oh, and also,” she continued, “I’m pretty sure I still have two of my baby teeth! We see, who’s next?” Katya scanned the room, and let a red finger nail land on the first desk.

“Oh, me? Um fuck, okay, hey I’m Detox and I don’t want to fucking be here.”

“Ura! This is kind of spirit I like to see,” Katya chirped, her hands on her hips, “You next! Tall skinny one!”

“Hieeeee, my name’s Alaska, and Roxxxy lent me the top I’m wearing. Isn’t it cute?”

“Not as cute as you think! Okay, next! You, pretty Barbie!”

And all eyes landed on Trixie.

“I um, hi, I’m Tracy-I mean Trixie! Trixie Mattel. And um, I have to use the bathroom, can I please use the bathroom now?”

The classroom erupted in laughter, and Trixie sank even further into herself, feeling the prick of hot tears threaten her bottom lashes.

“Please,” she tensed.

Katya dropped her front, allowing the gravity of the situation to weigh on her. Truthfully, she was just as shaken as Trixie, though she’d never allow herself even a second of vulnerability. Her face softened, then returned to levity.

“I didn’t know plastic dollies could use bathroom, but of course. You know where this is, yes?”

Trixie didn’t know where the bathroom was and didn’t care. She’d never ask. She gathered her things and started for the door, and although she didn’t turn to look back, she was certain every eye had followed her out.

The pale haired girl from Trixie’s previous class, the first year, sat on the right side of the room. And Katya, shifting her weight to an opposite foot, called upon her, almost uncomfortably.

“Your name?”

“Max.”

“You seem like nice girl. You make sure she makes it to bathroom okay, make sure she doesn’t fall in.”

Max grabbed her bag and hurried after Trixie, catching the door before it swung shut.

After rounding the floor twice, Trixie found the bathroom, tucked into a small corner at the far end of the hall. The boarded window of the door read in bold letters: Out of order, use first floor.

Trixie pushed through anyway, feeling the boards come undone under her drive. The room was musty and had long been forsaken; thick layers of dust were settled over every surface. Trixie flipped a switch and the lights clamored to life above her, flickering at first, before settling into a static glow. Max came staggering in behind her, out of breath, having just returned from the first floor bathroom.

“You know this one’s out of order!” Max huffed, approaching her, “We shouldn’t be in here. There’s probably asbestos!”

Max was a gentle soul, with ashen hair and an overwrought smile. She was thin and lanky, much taller than Trixie. She had a familiarity about her though, something Trixie couldn’t quite place.

Trixie used the palm of her hand to smudge out a clear circle in the dusty mirror, and winced at the sight of her makeup, how her tears had carried mascara down her cheeks and stained her foundation. Max rushed over then, rummaged through her purse, and pulled out a school newspaper. She tore away a bottom edge and blotted the space beneath Trixie’s eyes.

“We’re gonna get you all fixed up Doll, don’t you worry.”

Doll. The word ricocheted through her, and she was hearing Katya’s voice again.

I didn’t know plastic dollies could use bathroom.

How could she make light of this? How could Katya stand so tall, so untouched, while Trixie was weak in the knees? Every thought rattled through her, all of the new sights and sounds. Every voice, every blare, boomed in her ears. She wondered what the other girls thought of her, if they’d made any assumptions.

Rumor has it, the professor was having an affair with a female student…

Had Katya known she was a student all along? Did she do this to all of her students? How could Katya look at her like that, so confident, so bold? As if she hadn’t seen Trixie bare and unguarded, hadn’t skimmed the surface of her vulnerability?

And since you all love talking about my sex life so much, you’ll be happy to know I got laid last night!

Everything came flooding back. Fingers in her hair, trailing her ribs, fingers racing everywhere. Mouths colliding, coinciding, like fresh fallen pollen cast over a lake; leaving paths of sticky bright yellow for the doves of morning. Parts of Katya swam in the stream of her blood, and the indelible ink of that night stained the shores bright red, like the lipstick still on her sheets. She pressed into a tender bruise on her chest, and the pain dissolved into her fingertip.

No. It had to be an accident, sheer coincidence. There’s no way Katya could’ve known she’d be at the bar that night, or who she was for that matter. Trixie took in a breath, and exhaled a long whistle, feebly chewing the inside of her cheek. She could taste blood.

“Hey wait a moment,” Max said, bringing Trixie from her thoughts. Max continued to gently dust powder over Trixie’s cheeks, “I thought I knew you from somewhere. You’re from Wisconsin aren’t you? Kim’s friend! She’s been going on about you for weeks, I’m Max! We went to the same high school, you and I!”

Everything clicked into place for Trixie; and had she been in a less precarious state, she may have even realized sooner. Max Malanaphy. A grade below her. Her face flashed red; she was a master at bad first impressions, proficient in making an ass of herself.

“Well, this is a lovely first interaction! This is so like me! A hot mess, all of the time!” Trixie sighed, a wry smile on her lips. She wiped a runaway tear and began sifting through her purse for mascara, though no amount of makeup could cover the redness; her splotchy cheeks, her tired eyes. The strings tightened. She wished she could call Kim.

She and Kim had been friends for as long as she could remember. Kim was her rock. The year she’d left for that fancy college in New York–and left Trixie behind–had been more than difficult; and although their friendship sustained itself through texts and phone calls, there was always an end, always a goodbye. After the click, sitting in the vibration of the dial tone, Trixie had already forgotten how to reach into the space between them and pull back the chords of her happiness.

Kim was always there, except for when she couldn’t be. She was supportive almost to her own flaw. Afraid to say no and risk hurting a friend, she often made too many commitments. She was always buzzing about here and there, having to reschedule and plan around, always plan around. Despite her best efforts, she frequently found herself double booking, putting her in the exact position she’d been trying to avoid. Regardless, she was quite popular, and had hoards of friends and followers. A softness for Trixie rested in the center of her chest, however, and Kim had always tried to make sure Trixie came first.

Trixie ached for a hug then, picturing Kim covered in paint at the art studio. She needed some other touch, anything to rid her of Katya’s fingerprints. All of the paint in the world couldn’t cover up this blunder.

“Don’t sweat it, it happens to the best of us. Anything you’d like to talk about, darling?” Max asked, sweetly.

“Not really. But thank you.”

“Well alright then, let’s get us back to class.”

Trixie took one last look in the mirror before starting for the door, and held it open for Max. She waited for dust to finish scattering from the frame, and then maneuvered through herself; stopping for a moment in the hall to brush off her dress. They rounded the last corridor and paused outside of room 203, where Max turned to face her. Calm undulated through Max like the first breeze of spring, Trixie could almost feel a faint sun on her skin, could almost hear leaves rustling in the trees. She gestured for Trixie to follow her in movement, and took two exaggerated breaths, her hands afloat with the rise and fall of her chest. She gave a gentle nod as if to say, ready? And turned for the door at Trixie’s signal.

“Wait! Wait,” Trixie pulled lightly on Max’s arm, turning her around, “Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

As they entered, Trixie could feel the blood in her cheeks running too close to the surface. She ducked in, and braced for the eyes she would have to endure on the way to her seat. Much to her surprise, Katya waved them in without so much as a word, and the two of them sat quietly, their entrance unobserved by the class. She was grateful, and relief came in waves, colliding on shores of fading embarrassment.

And while Katya rambled on excitedly about chemical nomenclature and the absurdities of chemistry as a whole–

“This is stupidest fucking class you’re ever going to take.”

–Trixie wondered if she’d magnified the situation in her head. It had been a bad habit of hers, still was, always seeing the worst, fearing the worst; she’d packed up and moved the 909 miles from Milwaukee to New York, vowing to leave those facets like tire tracks in the dirt roads behind her. She vowed to bury that part of herself like she had the specters of her past, but they haunted her still, crooning troubled reveries of Milwaukee and what might’ve been.

Trixie had left her home, at the center of town, and moved the 909 miles to New York. She’d left Sharon’s Grocery on Grove Street; where she’d sit for hours behind the register, watching girls her age straggle in, pushing strollers with toddlers underfoot. She’d left her house on Dogwood Avenue, where they used to pop the tops of johnny pumps and dance in the spray. Azalea’s Ice Cream and Chestnut Park, Andy’s Books, and the corner cheese shop. Bicycles, board games, and balloons, floated in the dust behind her. And their images felt like home; or more like a rose tinted dream, slowly, every stalk of corn she passed seemed to bend beneath the weight of what was no longer there.

She removed herself from thought, and her ribcage felt as empty as the cage she had abandoned.

She could see from under wet lashes that the students around her were gathering books and rising from their chairs. Her eyes landed then on Katya, whom recumbent in her swivel chair, comedically wore three pairs of safety goggles on the top of her head. Katya caught her glance and grinned aptly in Trixie’s direction.

“Tracy, we talk for a moment, yes?”

“Trixie. It’s Trixie.” Trixie stood, and inhaled a shaky breath. Students brushed passed her on their way out, chattering, filling the room with sound and then leaving it flat.

“Right, right, Talullah, I’m so sorry.”

Chewing the inside of her cheek, she met Katya at the head of the class. Those eyes, that smile, those stupid goggles. Her stomach somersaulted.

“Have a seat?”

“I’d like to stand if that’s okay.”

Katya stood to meet Trixie’s eyes, and flipped a small, pleasant nod of her chin.

“Listen, Tamara-”

“I’d really prefer it if you called me Trixie,” she interjected.

“Toby,” Katya’s eyes lit up and she leaned into her words, “I don’t want to get off on wrong lucky rabbit’s foot, I’m sorry if I made you feel red in the face. Trust me, I feel the same as you do probably, maybe worse! Look! I’m very sweaty!”

Katya rolled her eyes in feigned exasperation and used a stray copy of the syllabus to fan her armpits. Trixie felt a chuckle bubble up her throat, and she eased into the conversation, suddenly a bit calmer.

“While I enjoyed every possible, steamy, tempestuous moment of last night… This is my job, my livelihood, and I have to remain professional.” Katya fixed a fourth pair of safety goggles to the top of her head, and pursed her lips. “Because you know, I am very professional.”

They both broke into laughter, and Trixie’s face flashed bright red.

“Look!” Katya chirped, “You are doing red face thing again! Sorry, I ramble! My point is, I care about you, as I would any student, and I want to put this behind us. Start fresh! Maybe we could be good friends, yes?”

“I think that might be possible.”

“Ura! We start from scratch! Hello!” Katya extended an open hand and forcefully grabbed Trixie’s, stiffly shaking it, “I’m Katya and I definitely have not seen you naked!”

“Trixie.” She was feeling lighter, and she’d forgotten all about the strings as they uncoiled.

“Nice to meet you, Tracy! I will see you tomorrow, yes?”

“Yeah but before I go,” Trixie prompted, a smile falling on her lips, “I just have one question.”

“Da, anything! Shoot!” Katya was infectious, and Trixie eased into her, melting into the banter.

“Is it too late to drop this class?”

[batwynn]

Sibylline Song