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foxclcves · 4 months

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𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒓𝒚𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒆 (𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 03)

She should have known better than to give out her real name. Now she was running. Again. Ohhh, you stupid, stupid girl, Lucille! Look at what you’ve done now—gotten yourself into a real pickle. She didn’t quite understand the meaning behind such phrases, but if it were ever appropriate to describe any part of her life, this would be it. Along with a handful of other things, but the past was unwanted by her; best left forgotten. Best left denied, even.

Taking another bite out of her small loaf of bread, Lucille scrutinized the town square from the narrow mouth of an alley between a book store and a tea room. She ate despite her labored breathing, having run from the market place to where she found herself now, having regrettably lifted the bread in her hands and thinking nobody would care, that nobody would recognize her. But oh no, her life here, as it turned out everywhere else, was not so simple.

Not even four days ago, the baker found her, freezing and starving and trying to sneak her way into the backdoor of his kitchen for a bite to eat and a warm, dry place to sleep. She wasn’t going to take much, only what she needed: a couple of rolls, perhaps, and enough wood in the oven to light and keep her warm through half the night, so she could sneak out again before everyone opened shop bright and early and none would be the wiser. She relayed this to the baker, her pleading falling short and overcome by fatigue. He took pity on her and fed her more bread than she was anticipating, and in the morning she even found a little chicken pot pie, still steaming and waiting for her. Oh, how deliriously happy she was, and full! So full, she could not remember the last time her stomach had been pleasantly quiet for a whole morning.

But, as she had anticipated, there was a catch. The baker offered her his kitchen for shelter and his oven for warmth, his bread for meals, if she were to work around his shop. Just the things she could handle, as she was quite petite and scrawny—sweeping, taking out the garbage, putting pans upon pans of bread in the oven and taking them back out again at times most appropriate; they could not exceed a certain time or bake any less than needed, not even by a minute or two. Her arms tired quickly carrying those pans, and she lost count of how many times she had burned herself trying to shovel out the damned loafs, possibly more in this span of time than in all her nine short years of life thus far.

The first day and the second, they weren’t so bad, but by the end of the third, Lucille grew tired of the routine, depressed, really. As fortunate as she was to find an adult who seemed trustworthy, and who fed her straight from his own hands no less, she could not shake the notion that he meant to trap her here. Perhaps till the spring, when his oven was no longer required by her, or maybe longer. Would he let her leave, or would he not. Maybe he’d think her labor wasn’t enough to make up for his loss of resources? So many scenarios raced through her mind that night, as she was unable to sleep, what his true intentions could be, if she would become a familiar face to the locals, and it made her afraid. She did not want to be familiar, but she was lulled again into complacency; made too comfortable. Not trusting anyone was ever so painful, but it was what she had to do, and it was a miracle that she came even this far, after last time. She then decided that she would leave in the morning, and to take something with her for the road. Why, she figured she had swept up the ashes extra good this morning, and hoped the baker would notice, and that he would understand. She had taken a small loaf, enough to last her a few days maybe, and something that wouldn’t inconvenience him too much, no harm done. Lucille had smiled at her resolve, a weight lifting off her shoulders as she quietly left the bakery behind her, hugging the bread to her chest.

And that’s where it all went wrong. Someone had stopped her on the street—a woman with a baby in one arm and a small child holding her free hand. Even explaining her circumstances to the weary mother did not soften her, and the grim purse of her mouth made Lucille doubt herself, gazing down at her attire and shoes, unsuitable for the season and boldly announcing her as a homeless beggar no matter where she went. They were abruptly interrupted by a constable, and with a deep jolt of panic, Lucille took off running. And she was sure then that the baker would not vouch for her. A dirty, aimless and unwanted little girl, soiling his kitchen and his breads and using up his firewood. A pang in her chest caused her to gasp, and she tried not to start crying, her breathing already ragged.

The baker would tell them her name, surely. Perhaps she needed a new one. Something more refined, like… well. What made a name fancy, anyway? Lucille certainly didn’t look fancy. Her hair had been shorn off several months ago, and now it was bobbed and chaotic, each coil and curl having a mind of its own and resting wherever she wanted it to. She had bangs now, though; she’d always wanted those, but it wasn’t exactly what she was expecting. How did people keep the damn things out of their face?! She would have to remedy it, somehow. Having hair in your eyes, especially as course and thick as hers was, put one as her at a considerable disadvantage. Only when she ran did the winds of momentum grant her reprieve. Well, she’d just have to keep running, then. Lucille finished the entire loaf begrudgingly, thinking it’d be best if she wasn’t caught carrying it around anymore, and slipped alertly out of the alley. Come tomorrow, she’d have to figure out what to do for food, as she’d become spoiled these past few days. But first, she had to find a way out of here. A coach leaving, a cart—even one filled with stinky farm animals, anything would do.

No one here paid her any mind, word of a little bread thief not circulating yet. No constable in sight, either. Against her better judgement, Lucille heaved a sigh of relief, and her back straightened and her shoulders bobbed. She was a superstitious person, it was true; in her short life she had heard plenty of talk of superstitions and karma, and it was one thing in her past that she kept fondly close to her heart, even if it scared her sometimes. She would rather be scared than sad though, not that that’s much a good choice to begin with. The serious or laughing faces that also appeared with these memories were always quickly stifled, but not fast enough to keep a lump from forming in her throat. Lucille kept herself from shaking her head at her ever wandering and worrying mind, wanting to come off normal along with everyone else in the square, wanting to seem like someone heading home from wherever whence they came. She wanted to be like those she was constantly surrounded by: seeing and hearing as little as they did, and clueless about the true way of things. She folded her arms now, tucking her hands under them, her fingers numb and smelling of fresh dough.

She walked for a long time, occasionally glancing at her reflection in storefront windows; using her spit and palms to wash up her face a bit, running a hand through her puffy mane and wincing when her hand would catch and pull a lock of hair, or several, taut. Her clothing, she could do little about, unless she wanted to try to steal clothes that would not be missed—maybe some pants with long and thick pant legs, and pockets! Yes, pockets would be good, as she had no sort of carry-on to keep things in, not that she had anything to put in one. Pausing on a street corner, Lucille considered her options. On one hand, she was desperate to leave town before anyone could catch her, and on the other, there was the possibility of obtaining warmer clothes. A coat would be splendid, even if it was too big—even better, for sleeping in. Gloves, a scarf, boots, for the snow—no, was that too ambitious? Would she have time? She pondered staying in town, hidden, until nightfall, when she would have a better chance of sneaking into a clothing store and taking what she needed. But that went over so well with the bakery, didn’t it, Lucille? Perhaps the seamstress would be even more sympathetic toward you and your ghastly and deteriorated fashion sense, dressing you up all lady-like and then assigning you to sew this and that for her, or worse, condemn you to patching everything that needed patching. Oh, no, no—at least the baker had an oven.

Realizing that she was staring down at her shoes, Lucille’s head snapped up in time to notice two constables walking down the street. She ducked low behind a parked carriage undetected, and was careful to avoid the horse’s hooves. If need be, she could easily slip under the carriage if she had to, and by extension, move to its other side and make a break for it, if she was overestimating her stealth yet again. She waited, tried not to breathe too much even though they wouldn’t be able to hear her. Her knees trembled from her uncomfortable kneeling and the frigid air, her ears straining to track the constables’ every step and every word mumbled, satisfied that they continued on their way without a care in the world but keeping herself guarded until they’d round the corner.

There were footfalls behind her, so suddenly, that she had no time to turn around or act at all. She gasped and became rigid, her breath held and her eyes wide, bracing herself. Oh, stupid, stupid, girl! You became too focused on the two constables and now you’re in trouble, someone found an opening, you thoughtless, stupid girl, now--!

The footsteps passed her without breaking pace, not in the slightest. Surely someone would have noticed her strange position or demanded that she step away from their carriage. Lucille lifted her head and looked after the footsteps, at first not seeing a thing. She shivered. Then a figure appeared, shimmering like a wave of heat in the cold, clad in all black and walking away from her. At first, she thought it to be an old man because of his silver hair but no, he was young. Older than her, certainly, but still too young to have the color drained from his hair. In his gloved hand, an equally silver pocket watch peered back at her between his fingers. She could hear it tick so clearly, slowly. She found it very strange. She found him very strange. Something did not quite feel right.

And then she knew. It was happening again. She was seeing what could not be seen. Lucille got to her feet and stood by the carriage, mesmerized by the young man’s figure as he widened the distance between them. She could see him… but he had not noticed her. Intent and chary to keep the reasonable gap between them, she moved to shadow him.

#writeblr #writers of tumblr #writing #creative writing #original writing #writers #writeblr community #foxclcves writing #old projects: lachrymose #project type: nanowrimo #another installment of lachrymose fragments! this time starring a third character: lucille aka america's sweetheart... probably #her and dalton become best friends #as much as a child and an immortal being can be friends i suppose

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foxclcves · 3 months

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An old radio plays deafening cicadas and crickets, until it does not. I hear you in the static and the whispers that don't know sleep, and I hold fast to that frequency every summer night. But can you hear me?

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #writers of tumblr #creative writing #original writing #foxclcves writing #project type: microfiction #old projects: the haunted ones #fun fact: this was actually written while i was listening to an oooold radio that made... interesting noises just under the music

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foxclcves · 4 months

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𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒓𝒚𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒆 (𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 04)

Howls in the distance echoed low and overlapped, gaining in numbers and moving closer, but the woman continued her trek through the forest without looking over her shoulder. The hood of her cloak covered her face from view and the occasional, whispering breeze that would find her between the thick trunks of ancient trees.

The creatures had been stalking her since sundown, when she had long since adequately distanced herself from civilization and any road. They skittered in the undergrowth and their eyes flashed gold and orange, like candles being hastened down corridors, their carriers desperate to escape the engulfing blackness of night. She felt no desperation in being surrounded. They were becoming more daring. The sky might have cleared, but on this night there was a new moon, leaving all across the land at the mercy of the darkness. And let them hide; blockade their windows and doors from any sort of monsters that lurked under atmospheric cloak, and let the humans’ hearths remain fueled until dawn. Her determination had not left her since she had entered this nefarious wood. She flinched not at any snarl or snapping of twigs, too close. They were becoming brave, yes; strength in numbers and low visibility on their side. But they still kept their distance, kept their gnashing, salivating jaws at bay, for they knew her to be a monster, too. Her smile never left her face.

The sliest of glimpses over her shoulder, and she saw a few flee back into the brush, the trees parting enough to lead her into an aisle of gnarled brier. They were well adapted, certainly; their coats not fur but grass and moss, always in a human’s sights but only seen out of the corner of the eye. They were fast and magnificent beasts, and the only thing that would give them away was their gleaming eyes, only visible if you were to look straight into them, but by that time, it might be too late. They used the brier now, no longer as subtle as they were when they first began following her trail. They shifted, blended, soft green smothered by vicious coils of vines and thorns. They tugged free of the abrasive plant without harm, shaking it off as a dog would and feasting their eyes upon her venturing figure yet again. She looked ahead, her chin lifting in the slightest.

If they devoured her, she would not be angry. Not at ravenous dogs for their cravings of flesh and blood. How starved they were, ever since humans became wary of these woods and seldom wandered far into it these days. No, her wrath would consume them first because her starvation vastly outweighed theirs, and it could not be conquered. Once it sank its own fangs into any unfortunate soul, it would hold them; clutch them until they were lifeless. Blood drained and left to stain the floor; stain the carpet, the bed sheets, absorbing into wood and oozing through, seeping into the earth. Lifeless in her arms, and hers, hers, hers. She was sure the beasts sensed this within her, their desperate tenacity keeping them at her heels but their instincts made them wander at bay. Her pace did not quicken, did not slow. She continued to take her time, oh, so slowly, and she would not be deterred by monsters. She was far worse than any wolf, for she did not need to wait for the death of a day’s sun to torment anyone. But she waited for the right time; oh sweet, prolonged reveal. For tormenting death was exactly what she set out to do.

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foxclcves · 4 months

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𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒓𝒚𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒆 (𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 02)

The bell tolled from the chapel, and he watched the procession from its steps, its architecture one that could have challenged him in age and fading color. The old bell at the very top looked black from where he stood under the ever persistent overcast sky, its low peal uneven and fading as its swinging slowed, and slower still. The one who rang it did not see the gathering of darkly clad visitors, walking with slow precision through patches of snow and sleeping grass, the landscape a canvas of grays, browns, and the bleak whiteness that would plague the land for months to come. Upon some shoulders, a small coffin of one dearly departed.

Sometimes, he would watch them be buried, when his reminder did not chide him so; a silver pocket watch, its finish and gleam as radiant as it had ever been, the only thing that had followed him all this time. When he was needed, it would let out a single chime, one only he could hear. But now it was silent, and he watched the plot in the earth awaiting its newcomer. He smiled with respite in mind, pulling into his lungs winter’s own breath. A satisfying plume of air followed.

He descended the stairs and ventured toward the gathering, weaving symmetrically between gravestones and mausoleums. He had been here before, and knew every marker and structure by heart. He remembered the chapel as it once was; a young couple decades old, its cemetery meeker. And how things had grown, how they changed. He witnessed plots filling, tombstones grounded, monuments built or brought in from elsewhere. People of all classes, ethnics, and economic background were carried here to lie to rest, and others continued to follow, all the same now. In the end, it was the ultimate equalizer, the common graveyard. Hallowed ground was the most peaceful he knew of. Disputes ceasing; hostility, ignorance, and misery quieted.

And yet, despite their silence, he would regale them on the newest and profound literature mortality continued to create, technologies and social movements. Despite what their stances on the now or then controversial would have been in life, they could not argue now. ‘Life goes on you see, despite your reservations,’ he would say with his chin tilted downward and his eyes on a carved name or two at a time, in a similar manner a school teacher would have when addressing a reluctant or resistant student. ‘But you are here, now. Worry not, worry not.’

His feet came to a stop at the end of the plot, the coffin having been lowered into it already. He noticed something like a flower, a rose perhaps, with an intricate border, carved into its top center. He acknowledged it with a nod. Hello, again. He glanced over the mournful gathered, hats removed and veils concealing faces. Such crowds, such faces and emotions, used to antagonize him. But now, he just kept his pleasant smile and stood among them as though he was among them. He knew this—grief, to be the greatest agony had to offer. But he also knew something that these sorrowful ones did not. A good decision was made, and they need not worry. Of course, he could not tell them that, even if he wanted to. They would have to rely on their own strength, use their own discretion toward their time, perhaps their faith if they were so inclined. His disposition was positive in spite of their current melancholy, he could not help it. Perhaps he had become desensitized, but mortality was strong even in weakness; humans, remarkably resilient, even in death.

And so he consoled them internally, still feeling what he could for a sleepless mother, a regretful father, the trembling and struggle of a friend, or perhaps lover, he could not tell. When all was said and done, all departed. The plot was filled, flowers and trinkets placed with care to frame the tombstone also engraved with the design the coffin possessed, and words were said, and words were unsaid; kept for a later time, likely.

The cemetery became silent, the occasional crow sounding off in the distance. He regarded the new grave with tender observation, for he would memorize it too; its shape and color, its inscriptions and dates. He stepped forward, placing one gloved hand on top of the tombstone.

The small crackling of fallen pine needles caught his attention, and he looked over his shoulder. A small, black form tread quietly toward him, and he straightened upon recognizing it to be a cat. One he knew very well, in fact. He stepped back, respectively, and pocketed his hands as the cat padded across the grave. In front of the tombstone, it dropped a small, lifeless rodent, and sat with its head lifted expectantly. He chuckled at the offering, despite being used to witnessing such a display.

The cat, by any none the wiser, had a normal appearance and size, even to those with their superstitions. Silent, he was; never mewed, hissed, or snarled no matter what turn of events might lie before him. But his eyes, oh, how peculiar they were; not one color but many at once, reminding one of the iridescent gleam oil possessed once spilled. No slits of pupils or whites were in those eyes, seemingly blind to the world. But when they fell upon you, it was hard to look away, whether you found yourself hypnotized or fearful. But they were not unseeing, and not piercing. They were hollow; reflective, like a mirror. Hence, his namesake: Hollow, ‘the grave robber’. He wondered what people saw when they looked into those eyes, as he was apparently immune to that unwavering gaze. Was it the future, or perhaps a glimpse into their inner most selves? Well, he didn’t quite know.

“Hello, old boy,” he greeted Hollow, who had left his prior spot and leaped up onto the shoulder of a stone angel nearby. “Hunting voles again, are we?”

Hollow continued to watch him quietly, ears inquisitive in his direction. The cat never blinked, of course; he saw everything, as was his niche, and blinking would only hinder him. The two of them were very much alike, he thought not for the first time; undying, prevailing through years and years and more, but the biggest difference was that humans could see Hollow: the strange black cat in the cemetery, its origins and purpose unknown. Such stories they came up with—bad luck, a witch nearby using the cat to spy on things, to determine which bones were most ripe to dig up, for spells or consumption. Or perhaps it was a creature you would not want to meet in the dead of night, as it might expand drastically in size, steal your soul or devour you entirely. Such overthinking, or was it? Perhaps Hollow did have an agenda unawares to him. Or perhaps Hollow spent his eternity digging rodents out of the resting places of many passed loved ones of the wary folk... or excessively licking his nether regions. As you do.

Well, they were right about one thing: Hollow’s primary caretaker was indeed a witch, and a very old one, too. Cranky and brash as she was, her magick was always well meaning and directed towards herbs, medicine, protection, and luck. He happened upon her once, but only from a distance, and he made a note to officially introduce himself at a later time, as he had received many a mouse and small rabbit that at this point, it was rude not to stop by for a spot of tea.

Hollow’s head jerked and his unfaltering stare focused on something, and without warning he lunged from his perch and took chase. He smirked and stepped forward again, clapping his hands slowly when the elusive feline vanished from sight. “Good show, sir. Never will I tolerate a word of you not doing your part. Good show.”

And then, there it was—dark red in his peripheral vision, like the color of leaves clutching still to frozen tree branches. Something swelled in his chest, but when he turned his head to find that the color vanished, he became completely still. His gaze remained on the slightest of slopes where he swore he saw warmth in a hibernating land. It had moved behind a crypt covered in thick, brown vines, its leaves twisted and shriveled. Turning from the new grave, he made his way toward the slope. Snow began to fall, once again.

He walked all around the crypt and peered inside, but he found nothing. A cardinal perhaps, he thought, soaring to a suitable tree. Or a red fox, happening on its way in search for food. But no, something wasn’t right. He could not see even Hollow now, and the grounds were vacant, not even a grave digger in sight. His eyes narrowed, and his feet carried him through the cemetery. Past meager headstones, past names washed away by the elements; persisting through grounds centuries old and paying no mind to what sort of creatures hid there. He passed through a small throng of trees, the wind picking up and whistling by his ears, frigidity not felt.

He came upon a lush trail of velvet and silk, draped and rippling atop the snow. This gave him pause and he inclined his head, eyes following the trail to its end. A woman was kneeling before an elaborate sculpture of two angels; soft in demeanor, reaching out to one another with open arms and arcing wings, but not quite touching. Her gown was impossibly long, its layers of dark green suiting the scenery she found herself in, or purposefully wandered into. Her hair, loose and curling down her back from a bowed head, caused him to reminisce of autumn, fleetingly. She was the one who nearly evaded his notice, and that did not sit well with him.

Curious, and acquainted with a strange familiarity and, stranger yet, dread, he approached her. Methodically, his head tilted to catch a glimpse of her profile, but her plentiful locks were too dense for him to do so. When the woman lifted her head, he stopped. In spite of himself and what he knew better, he wondered if she could hear his shoes crunching in the snow, if she was aware of his presence. She wouldn’t have been. If she were human.

The snowfall continued around them, consistent but subtle. The sky continued to be vacant of any hint of change or an oncoming blizzard; empty of any threat, or snidely keeping any reassurances to itself, if it had any to spare at all. The woman did not move for the longest time, nor did she speak, and he mused if she were deep in thought or if, like the angels before her, she had turn to stone before his very eyes. Frozen, preserved in whatever state her mind and body had created for her, and evergreen skirts soon to be buried under a new layer of snow.

And so deep in thought that he himself had become he almost didn’t notice that the woman let out a laugh. One that crept toward him, snaking its way into the ground and through the surrounding trees’ roots, it was deep, slow, and held no joy. It stunned him as it left the ground and shot up his heels, making his legs feel as though they had given way when they had in fact locked at the knees. If he had any inclination of leaving her to her thoughts, such an action was halted.

In a movement so gradual and fluid, the woman ascended to her feet, which were concealed under her gown. He noted now that she had no protection from the cold, not even a cloak. He could tell from the backs of her arms that her hands were laced together, or that her palms were near each other. Her head lifted to look at the angels fully. “I don’t pity them,” she said. “Such melancholy, to be captured within arm’s reach of your greatest confidante, but to never touch them or feel their breath upon your face. How tragic.”

And her voice, so deep and like warm honey, resonated within him. And yet, why could he not speak or look away? What was this sensation of dryness in his mouth and throat, the subtle aching in his chest? He could not even reach up to place his hand on it, his arms useless at his sides.

“I am familiar,” the woman spoke again, her voice softening into an almost murmur. Surely, she spoke to the angels, and not him. “Yes, and how I remember the feeling of being within arm’s reach, and having it all taken away. And having none to blame, but one.”

The pines around them seemed taller now, and their brittle canopies curved inward dizzyingly. Oh yes, he was all too familiar, but could not recall ever being a direct target. His legs had gone numb entirely, and his arms felt as though they had disintegrated. The faces of the angels—they were angels no longer. Like wax from a lit candle they melted, contorted; dainty hands turning into elongated talons, faces thinning, mouths becoming fangs that dripped.

After a moment, she chuckled. This time, the sound was heavy; charred, as smoke. "Do you pity me, or are you coming to terms with your own mortality, the one you’ve forgotten? If the former, I plead you to worry not. But if the latter, well... I will allow you a moment to console yourself. It can't be helped, after all."

His silence felt like an oath now, forced upon him, and he was stricken for reasons incomprehensible to him. The woman turned to face him, and her bodice revealed a massacre. Torn was evergreen satin and snow lace, ripped was flesh. Her rib cage gleamed crimson and ivory under the overcast sun, and wet blood glistened down nearly her entire front. Exposed lungs filled and emptied with shallow breath, shuddering with her mirth. Her heart was missing. Her smile widened, its corners tugging beyond her cheekbones as though by the plucking of strings. Her teeth, sharp like the dreaded Kludde of the wood. Her lips, red with the bloodied spittle coating her chin like a theater curtain.

“But you should know. The both of us,” she intoned, “We died a long time ago.”

#writeblr #writers of tumblr #writing #creative writing #original writing #writeblr community #writers #foxclcves writing #old projects: lachrymose #project type: nanowrimo #ah yes... this one was my favorite entry at the time #also: hollow continues to be my favorite character in the story... which comes as no surprise to people who know me #... because he is a cat

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foxclcves · 3 months

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𝒍𝒖𝒄𝒊𝒅 (𝒏𝒐𝒄𝒕𝒖𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 01)

For all of my life, I was blind to the world as the world was blind to me. It had never occurred to me before how dark and quiet my state of existence was until I began to dream, and in my dreams I saw visions of monsters and flowers. And among them, my mother adorned a veil of spider webs.

I never felt the creases and hollows of her face in my infancy, and of course I never saw her the way many others see, but I knew her all the same. She called to me every night, and her somber lullabies coaxed me to sleep, and in my unconscious mind I bore witness to a forest of bone and ash; a living breathing thing lacking vibrancy and color. The evergreens were far from their deep green and every crow, rabbit, deer, and raven was pallid, as though drained of life and left to wander with their carcasses alone. Even those who traveled in throngs, herds, or packs, seemed isolated from one another and unaware of each others’ presence. But every single one of them was beautiful in their alienation as they wandered through trees as I did, alone. Though unlike me, their essences shimmered like freshly fallen snow under the light of the sun or the moon. Two eternal partners, of which, did not live here. A place so far from both the sun and moon could not be anything but a dream.

I walk on flowers. I tread through their stems and their petals tickle and coat my legs in pollen as if they wished to drain me of color as well. I briefly wondered if herbivores grazed these meadows and took from them, and then in turn the carnivores and scavengers devoured them not long after, and their own colors vanished. And if so, where did all the color end up? I felt I might have my answer but I did not risk replying to myself just yet. I continued my venture through the flowers, multi-headed, shape shifting, swelling and sinking. My feet were dusted by the earth, though I could not feel any traces of the ground at all.

And lo, I saw my mother, veiled and slight, but so tall and imposing. She was among the flowers as she always was, and in her presence I felt the unseen monsters feel slighted by such power and fade away, back into the trees. Arms opened wide to me, my legs moved on their own, and any semblance of caution or fear that bubbled up in my throat was conquered by an unknown numbing agent. I felt her arms embrace me, consume me. Her rib cage against mine felt like the teasing of teeth against my skin through my clothes, but I could not pull away. The trees around us a circle, the trees around us spun and spun and in the sky there was nothing, nothing at all. In her realm only, my mother was a god and one does not simply invite themselves into such an entity’s space. They must be beckoned; they must be summoned. I wondered not for the first time what sort of rituals my mother conducted to bring me here, or to keep such a dimension so well preserved and consistent. There was only birdsong when she willed it. The flowers knew no season or weather, and knew not what it was to be ripped from their roots. And certainly, things such as wolves were forbidden from the meadows. On occasion, I still found their footprints, testing the perimeters within the bounds of the thick, dark treeline.

My mother always used bone and cartilage to comb and brush my hair, and when she did, it rippled through many shades: gray, silver, white, dark purple, dark blue, shimmering gold. She cleansed my face with rosewater and readied my hands with soot from a fire I could not see, smell, or feel. Dark runes found their way to my crown, as always, and I found myself rejuvenated but with a small, nagging feeling that I was actually exhausted. This night or this day, soot and blood colored my brow. It made me recall my apparent origin story: how my mother did not birth me from her womb, but instead used the hollowed bones and hearts of doves, her own blood, and the most potent sprigs of hemlock. I was made by the materials of softness and devastation, but she insisted I was created in purest form. In essence of her… a piece of herself.

For all my life, I was blind to the world as the world was blind to me. It had never occurred to me before how dark and quiet my state of existence was until I began to dream, and in my dreams I saw visions of monsters and flowers. And among them, my mother adorned a veil of spider webs.

I never felt the creases and hollows of her face in my infancy, and of course I never saw her the way many others see, but I knew her all the same. She called to me every night, and her somber lullabies coaxed me to sleep, and in my unconscious mind I bore witness to a forest of bone and ash; a living breathing thing lacking vibrancy and color. The evergreens were far from their deep green and every crow, rabbit, deer, and raven was pallid, as though drained of life and left to wander with their carcasses alone. Even those who traveled in throngs, herds, or packs, seemed isolated from one another and unaware of each others’ presence. But every single one of them was beautiful in their alienation as they wandered through trees as I did, alone. Though unlike me, their essences shimmered like fresh fallen snow under the light of the sun or the moon. Two eternal partners, of which, did not live here. A place so far from both the sun and moon could not be anything but a dream.

I walk on flowers. I tread through their stems and their petals tickle and coat my legs in pollen as if they wished to drain me of color as well. I wondered if herbivores grazed these meadows and took from them, and then in turn the carnivores and scavengers devoured them not long after, and their own colors vanished. And if so, where did all the color end up? I felt I had my answer but I did not risk replying to myself yet. I continued my venture through the flowers, multi-headed, shape shifting, swelling and sinking. My feet covered with the earth, though I could not feel any traces of the ground at all.

And lo, I saw my mother, veiled and slight, but so tall and imposing. She was among the flowers as she always was, and in her presence I felt the unseen monsters feel slighted by such power and fade away, back into the trees. Arms opened wide to me, my legs moved on their own, and any semblance of caution or fear that bubbled up in my throat conquered by an unknown numbing agent. I felt her arms embrace me, consume me. Her rib cage against mine felt like the teasing of teeth against my skin through my clothes, but I could not pull away. The trees around us a circle, the trees around us spun and spun and in the sky there was nothing, nothing at all. In her realm only, my mother was a god and one does not invite themselves into such an entity’s space. They must be beckoned; they must be summoned. I wondered not for the first time what sort of rituals my mother conducted to bring me here, or to keep such a dimension so well preserved and consistent. There was only birdsong when she willed it. The flowers knew no season or weather, and knew not what it was to be ripped from their roots. And certainly, things such as wolves were forbidden from the meadows. On occasion, I still found their footprints, testing the perimeters within the bounds of the thick, dark treeline.

My mother always used bone and cartilage to comb and brush my hair, and when she did, it rippled through many shades: gray, silver, white, dark purple, dark blue, shimmering gold. She cleansed my face with rosewater and readied my hands with soot from a fire I could not see, smell, or feel. Dark runes found their way to my crown, as always, and I found myself rejuvenated but with a small, nagging feeling that I was actually exhausted. This night or this day, soot and blood colored my brow. It made me recall my origin: how my mother did not birth me from her womb, but instead used the hollowed bones and hearts of doves, her own blood, and the most potent sprigs of hemlock. I was made by the materials of softness and devastation, but she insisted I was created in purest form. In essence of her… a piece of herself.

I never know when I leave the dream. I imagine a scenario where I am led back through the woods, decorated in my circlet of cinder and vitae. Where I am lead by a procession of deer with my hands on their backs, and as my sight fades, ravens soar above my head clear a path. Where they lead me I know not, but I’m certain there is a door or a hollowed tree somewhere in this realm where I am allowed to come and go, but not of my own volition. And whenever I awake, I lie numb and heavy in my bed, my arms and legs disconnected from my mind and my might. I am only able to turn my head and see my veiled mother curled up in my bedroom doorway on the floor, holding back the occasional stifled sob, until her image recoils and fades from the rays of the morning sun.

#writeblr #writers of tumblr #writers on tumblr #creative writing #original writing #writers #writeblr community #foxclcves writing #projects: noctuary #oops! totally spaced and forgot to queue this one for yesterday; sorry about that! it's here now!#aaaand it's not edited because i lost track of tiiiiime sorryyyyyy... but it's from over a year ago so it's nbd #this story only has two fragments and i wrote them last year... quite a time jump from lachrymose #i loooove writing witchy dark fairy tale things

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foxclcves · 3 months

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There is a pair of soil covered garden clippers on your dining room table. The soil has left no trail, but it is fresh in scent and texture. It gleams dimly, so out of place in a house that sits on land that is barren on all sides. The house is quiet. The house is empty.

#writeblr #microfiction #writers of tumblr #creative writing #original writing #foxclcves writing #old projects: the haunted ones #project type: microfiction #do you ever just Dissociate while gardening...

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foxclcves · 4 months

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𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒓𝒚𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒆 (𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 05)

“Do you always hang out in cemeteries?” Lucille asked. She sat upon the lowest ledge of a monument, her legs dangling and kicking lightly in the air. With a pause, more to button up her coat over her throat than to wait for an answer, she continued, “It’s very depressing, bad for your health, I think it is. Isn’t it bad luck? Being around all these dead folks is going to make you sick.”

“I don’t think I have to worry about that,” Dalton replied, his eyes currently focused on a handmade wreath sitting against a tombstone, its red ribbon vibrant against the glittering snow. The sun was free of the endless white blanket of clouds at long last, and it made the thick layer of snow on the ground almost blinding.

“Sick in the head?” Sinking her weight into her palms, Lucille tilted her head back, squinting and turning her cheek to the sunlight. It was bright, but she couldn’t feel the warmth of it. She wondered if she’d feel it better at the very top of a mountain. But no, mountains were freezing, stacked and stacked with snow as tall as the trees. “You’re a strange one ‘nough as it is, and glum, real glum. Why is that? Do you know?”

“Do tell me.”

“It’s because you talk to people who can’t talk back to you. You’re weird.”

“Well, I thought I had every excuse to carry on with my time as I see fit, Miss Louise. Perhaps I should consider hiring you as my secretary, so that you might better manage my time and tell me where exactly I am supposed to be, and when, and how.”

Lucille turned her head to look at him, and sat up when she could not see him. He was sitting on his haunches, cheek in palm, still inspecting that wreath. She moved to leave her perch, waiting until her toes touched the ground before letting herself drop. With her nose scrunched, she marched toward him and stood behind him, crossing her arms. He said nothing else, and did not glance her way. She altered her position, moving to stand beside him so as to scorn him properly. Fists on her hips and nose still scrunched, and now her mouth as well, pulled to the side and looking as displeased as she could muster with someone ignoring her.

“I do not like your teasing,” Lucille enunciated, her feet spreading a few inches apart and causing the snow to spill onto the tops of her boots. “I am very distraught.”

Dalton looked up at her then, his eyebrows rising and his expression becoming less neutral. Her swell of pride faltered when a grin split across his face, not reddened by the cold like hers most certainly was. “Don’t you laugh at me! I am serious!”

“Yes, I believe you said distraught.”

“You’re a really cheeky one, aren’t you, Mister Dalton?” Her shoulders arched in defiance when he laughed. She didn’t think she ever heard him laugh, and she did not like that it was at her. “What is so funny?!”

“Please, forgive me,” Dalton started with haste, clearing his throat and promptly recovering, “I have… long since forgotten what it is like to be faced with such authority. My manners are a bit dusty, in that regard.” He stood up and faced her, but she did not back down. She did tilt her head back though, to stare him in the eye and keep meaning business. He was still teasing her, she knew he was. “Miss Louise?”

“I don’t like that. Call me Lucille.”

“Lucille.”

“What do you want?”

“How long have you been like this?”

Lucille’s eyelids fluttered at the question, startled. She almost lowered her arms, but made to stand firm again. “Like what? Poor, and homeless? You wanna make fun of me for that now?”

The slightest of pauses from him, and then, “Lucille, how long have you been able to see… what others cannot?”

“Other people?”

“Yes.”

She considered this, letting her eyes slant away from his. A bird let out a string of melody then, from somewhere in the far corners of the cemetery. Other than that, they were alone. Her fists loosened against her hips, and she realized how icy they felt. Her hands closed again. “Why do you want to know?”

“You are still quite young, and yet, already you’ve seen so much. I assume, of course.” Dalton said this quietly, as he also knew this was a conversation best reserved in confidence. He took a step back and rounded the grave, not wandering far. He stilled at a small slope, overlooking the scenery. Lucille watched his profile warily. “And you’re alone, as you’ve said.” He shot her a glance. “And you’ve been that way for a while.”

She didn’t say anything, but drew her hands from her hips and folded her arms, fingers stuffing themselves near to her armpits and her arms flexing to bid circulation back into them. He looked away again. A breeze disturbed the air, and her body seized up into a little shiver. His did not. He did not blink it away, his hair hardly disturbed by it. Hers was in her eyes again, but she did not make a move to push it away. Her teeth chattered ever so slightly behind her lips.

“Aren’t you cold?” Lucille blurted out without thinking. He turned his head to her once more, a half smile on his face, but he wasn’t teasing her anymore. She heaved a sigh. “What’s it matter, anyway? I leave it all alone, pretend it’s never there like everyone else—even at night when I try hard—and then it’s really like…” Before.

“Denying the existence of those who aren’t human will only do you so much good, Lucille. You might make yourself insane in trying. And they’ll be counting on that.”

“What do you know?” Her voice rose. The idea of Them closing in on her, whatever they were exactly, it did not sit well, and being out in the open, surrounded by dark trees, only made her more antsy.

“Well. You are here, talking to me. You can see me, hear me. So are you not acknowledging the other side of things, in this moment?”

Most nights, she had been fortunate enough, through haste and desperation, to find shelter and brief, safe havens. The lofts of barns, hay carts, hollowed logs wide enough to fit a small child such as herself, and any crevice or room or establishment she could sneak herself into. No matter the risk—a scolding or downright infuriated constable or shopkeeper or farmer—it all paled in comparison to the lights in the woods. The lights that were actually eyes, flashing, blurring with movement, and vanishing and appearing closer, provoking anyone who could have sworn they saw something, but brushed it off. Sounds—oh, the sounds they made, hisses and growls, bellowing howls that scraped the sky, tainting it with the smell of copper and mud, or the sounds their victims made, shrieks of fear and slaughter and meaty squishing of something being torn apart and eaten. It was enough to make one pledge to life as a lawbreaker and a nuisance, as long as she was inside, and didn’t fall prey herself. To whatever it was out there, whatever hid just out of her vision; in the trees, in the grass and boulders and rivers. As peculiar as she was, it did not compensate for standing against monsters that would tower over her, around her with teeth and claws bared and sharp and hides covered in blood.

Lucille realized that she was staring intensely at the tree line furthest from humanity, her eyes burning from cold and dryness, one of her hands clutching at her throat through her coat. She gulped in breath, her holding it not previously occurring to her. She could feel her fingernails through the fabric of her collar.

“Not all monsters wait until nightfall, Lucille,” Dalton spoke again, and it startled her into looking back up at his face, which was absent of a smile now. “Some of them walk among you during broad daylight. Not all of them wait until after dinner.”

“Stop it,” Lucille pleaded, suddenly very fearful. She peeled her eyes from him to scan the trees again, too far off to determine much of anything. “Why are you saying these things? Stop it, it’s scary.”

“I don’t mean to scare you, but you need to be aware. What you are doing, it isn’t enough.”

Her body clamored back onto the monument she had been sitting on before, no longer feeling grumpy and bored. Being somewhat higher off the ground put her at some ease, but not much. She rested her hand against the very cold statue attached to it, and inspected it for the first time. It was weather worn, considerably, and appeared to be a soldier, or a veteran maybe. His eyes were blank, like his expression. Lucille sucked in another deep breath, letting the air tingle her throat and lungs, before heaving a mighty exhale, watching the fog of her breath fade.

“Do you know why I brought you here?” Dalton started up again, and Lucille wished he would stop talking. When she couldn’t muster up an answer, he continued, “Because this is hallowed ground. You’re safe, here.”

“How am I safe here?” Lucille asked incredulously, her posture straightening. “It’s full of dead people, and ghosts! It’ creepy a-and cold and the woods are right there!”

“I can account for the dead people, but ghosts, there are not. Many creatures cannot set foot on the grounds of any cemetery, or graveyard or what have you. Not a witch or ghost or monster. Nothing.”

“How do you know that?” She looked him over. “Do you keep them away?”

His half smile returned. “Well, that’s partially the reason. It’s just the way of things. Even if one really wanted to, if they cannot enter hallowed ground, then that’s simply how it is.”

Lucille was not particularly fond of this answer, but she asked, “Are you protecting me?”

“No. I am not a protector, Lucille.”

“But you led me here so that I would be…” She looked around dubiously, and then gazed upon the solider statue with suspicion. “Safe.”

“I merely presented you with knowledge that you did not have before, as it happened to come up in conversation. Now that you have it, you can use it however you want.” Dalton polished his pocket watch on his vest. “And, as it were, since you can see me, and track me within reason, you followed me here, where I already had business, and so, ended up here. Now you are here, and I had little to do with it. If you squint, it’s all just coincidence, really.”

Lucille squinted at him, hard.

“What’s that saying? Ah, your face might freeze like that, and in this weather, it really just might.”

“… You really are a strange one, Mister Dalton. I think you’re going to be the death of me, and that’s the truth.”

“An ironic conclusion you’ve nestled yourself into, Miss Louise.”

Lucille frowned at the comment, but let it slide. For now. “That’s a nice pocket watch. Did it cost a lot of money?”

Dalton stopped short of placing the pocket watch into the safety of his vest. His smile became wistful as he held it away from his chest to look at it. “I imagine it did.”

“Was it a present?”

“Yes, it was from my mother, for Christmas.”

She felt the tickle of envy on her tongue, but willfully swallowed it back down. “You have a mother?”

“I did.”

The breeze returned, but this time it whipped into a most unpleasant burst of wind. Pulling her coat’s hood over her head, Lucille tried in vain to stuff her hair and those pesky bangs into their place, but to no avail. She let out a growl of frustration and begging, and stopped with one hand holding the hood forward taut while the other remained curled in her hair when a wool scarf was lowered to her eye level. It was Dalton smirking down at her of course, probably getting a good laugh but trying to be polite about it. “Use this,” he said. Plucking it out of his hands, she threw her hood back down.

After much figuring with the scarf, and Dalton being of no help whatsoever, she found a binding method that suited her. She wrapped the scarf around her head and over her poor ears as a plus; bangs pressed back and out of her face, and staying that way, thank God, as she tied the ends soundly behind her skull, at the nape of her neck. With a few tugs here, and adjustments to tightness and looseness there, she was finally able to pull up her hood with no objections. Her smile was a relieved one when the scarf stayed intact.

“I’m happy to see the old thing finally putting itself to good use,” Dalton chuckled, and she sighed at the sensation of her ears warming under the wool.

“Thank you, Mister Dalton,” Lucille said, reaching up to touch the scarf at the top of her forehead. It was soft and worn, very unlike the usual scratchy wool she had grown accustomed to.

“That chapel, there,” Dalton pointed to the building in the distance, standing in front of the cemetery, “I think they would take pity on you, and let you stay the night, maybe a couple. They sometimes make stew for the downtrodden and wary traveler, or so I’ve heard.”

The suggestion of shelter and food made her nod eagerly, the scarf having lifted her mood some. “I haven’t been in a church in a long time. I hope I’m not too dirty to sleep on the pews.”

“You’d have better luck on the floor. Horribly uncomfortable, pews.” Pulling out his pocket watch again, Dalton barely glanced at it before snapping it shut. “Go on, then, before you freeze into a statue yourself.”

“You’re leaving?” Lucille asked. She was surprised by her disappointment. As strange as he was, he did help her, after all. Even if it all was so very odd in method. Perhaps, she could get used to it. Perhaps, she’d have to.

“I always am,” Dalton said. He reached out, as though to touch her shoulder, but seemed to think better of it, and retracted his hand. “Remember what I’ve told you, Lucille. You must remain strong. And if you find it to be any consolation, I do believe in you, truly. You are something special.”

And with that, he was gone, and it did not register to her immediately that he was no longer standing before her. She looked around, twisted swiftly on her heels, but found that he was nowhere in sight. She glanced toward the woods again, fingers lingering on the scarf. With a stronger gust of wind persuading her, she turned around and headed for the chapel. Her walk became brisk until she was running. She hated turning her back to the dark, and didn’t like to think about paws pounding the ground behind her, jaws a breath away…

Hallowed ground, hallowed ground…

#writeblr #writers of tumblr #writers on tumblr #creative writing #original writing #writing #writeblr community #foxclcves writing #old projects: lachrymose #project type: nanowrimo #i miss dalton and lucille's relationship... i haven't thought about it in a while #dalton trying to deny being emotionally invested in lucille and kind of failing to be convincing about it... oh my heart

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foxclcves · 4 months

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𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒓𝒚𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒆 (𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 01)

The white night sky blinded her. It seeped through her eyes and shot to the back of her skull, the nape of her neck, and it was cold, so cold, before a crack shuttered through her body. The distressed cries of horses, their stomping hooves and the groans of their restraints faded from her ears, as though her head was being pulled underwater, deeper and deeper still. Oh, how they rung, and how she longed to writhe—to disperse her pain somehow from a body that could no longer move, her neck, the splitting agony in her stomach. It felt so wrong, the absoluteness her newfound misery. Oh, how she feared and oh, how she prayed. How she wanted to cry and sob and scream. Oh, God, please. Oh, God… please.

Her eyes opened. The sky was still white, less blinding. The silence, unnerving as delicate snowflakes fell onto her face, her eyes fluttering when they landed on her eyelashes. As though dipping into a warm bath, or drinking from a fresh cup of tea, warmth spread through her, from her fingertips and through her torso and head, and the rest of her soon followed. She almost sighed, the sudden feeling of ease and comfort seeping over her, the sensation of being comforted, even most dearly. It was only then she realized someone was holding her hand.

For the first time in Lord knows how long, she moved, but only turned her head with caution in mind of the rest of her body, whatever state she was currently in. She felt she could gasp, as she would at any other time, but she did not. An odd almost familiarity flickered in her mind as she stared up at a young man kneeling at her side. He was dressed in all black, his eyes and hair seeming to glow with the snow around him, both dignified silver. His hand—both of them were bare, a peculiar choice for early winter, but they were… not cold, but not warm, either. Despite her acknowledgment of his presence he said nothing, and she said nothing, but the cold was forgotten, unfelt. He had a half smile, a little crooked but genuine, and she got the impression that this expression was natural for him. He did not look concerned for her, did not look smug or unfeeling. She considered him to be patient, having no reservations at observing her own expressions openly.

And then, he gave her hand a small squeeze, so subtle she could have missed it if she were not so focused. Something compelled her to sit up, more fluidly than she expected. She gasped at her impulsive move, bracing herself for pain, but there was none. Stunned, she was, as she gazed upon him again, her eyes widened. But she wasn’t compelled to act or rejoice. There was confusion in her, and a surfacing understanding trying to break, but she could not peg it. It was gradual, but insistent; she felt it was important. She could also tell that it was something that would put a weight in anyone’s stomach or a lump in anyone’s throat, though.

The young man looked away from her, and she soon realized that he was watching something. She turned to follow his gaze, her apprehension about wounds forgotten unwittingly. At first, she regarded the carriage with numbness. A significant part of it was decimated, the quality wood it was crafted from smashed and broken, lying in shards and planks across the icy earth. The two horses had been removed from the carriage, the battered driver a pitiful sight. He held his arm, so cruelly twisted, and his head was bleeding, his face skewed with despair, and almost bleary to her. He was within earshot and clear sight, but she could not make sense of the shape of his nose or the height of his forehead, none of it. The driver looked back and forth between the carriage and the horses that were mute to her. Finally, she noticed the blood, leaking from one of the carriage’s passenger doors. Out of its window hung a limp arm, its hand pale and the long sleeve and coat that followed undeniably familiar.

She knew, then. But then she had known immediately, somehow. That underlying feeling broke the surface, and she remembered. She recalled the sadness of her departure; an older woman’s tired, smiling eyes, and an unloved man’s scorn. She remembered her new velvet gloves forgotten at home, how she sulked at her loss and having nothing new to show off at her boarding school, her exile, her reluctance and remorse to a man and every man like him who weeded their way into her life. The ride had brought solace, the winter landscape taking her breath away, the driver singing to the horses as though they were his children. The same often somber, yet still joyful man who stood before her now, looking torn and in woe of his wounds and everything around him and not seeming to notice her. The hapless arm, wrapped in the sleeve to a dress she had gotten last Christmas from one with eyes which never stopped smiling, one with hands who never stopped creating in earnest. The warmth of her hands still lingered in her mind and in her palms, a feeling so different to the one who cradled her hand now.

Everything was too quiet, a welcomed change sometime prior when she was in pain but bearing down on her now. The crash was sudden, its aftermath immediate. Splintered and jagged wood still intact to the carriage’s skeleton pointed to the bleached sky where snow continued its descent, flurrying downward to earth more soundlessly than an owl’s wings, than its tolling call and its calculated foreboding. There was peace in what was most definitely a tragedy, but she felt a nothing that was not entirely apathy; perhaps it was acceptance.

“Am I dead, sir?” she asked at last, her voice quavered but once.

He did not answer, but continued to gaze upon the carriage. Its cargo was splayed across the ground, gowns dashed with powered snow, jewelry sinking into the whiteness. She touched her throat with her free hand, where her pendant still nestled below her collarbone. The slightest feeling of relief spread through her chest; she felt not so alone. The velvet gloves were novelty compared to what this meant to her; she would take it with her, wherever she might go.

The young man looked at her again, and wordlessly they both stood. She moved to her feet with a grace she had never possessed nor had been able to acquire, and her legs did not wobble from her awkward sitting on the ground for so long. Had it been long? It felt as much. Whenever he looked her in the eyes it was as though he could motivate her to do things through thought alone, which was oddly comforting as she doubted she could move on her own otherwise, at this point. He continued to hold her hand, not firmly but securely. Their fingers were not linked, and she opted against such a move, afraid of shifting whatever they had now.

Her eyes were on the carriage again, and she sighed. Any wariness she may have felt was dulling, as though her ability to express emotions of any dread were slipping from her memory and instinct. “Are… you a ghost, sir?”

Still he was silent, his half smile and patient eyes never wavering or shifting. “I am not,” he answered, and his voice was hard to describe. Not deep or high, not brash or soft spoken. So many things about him became increasingly indescribable. It felt as though if she were to look away from him for too long, she’d forget what he looked like entirely.

She glanced down at their hands, a wave like encouragement blossoming in her temples. “Are you… are you here for me… sir?”

“Yes, miss,” he said, after a well-timed pause. His voice was again hard to pin, but she could identify, again, a kind patience. “Yes, I am.”

She didn’t know what to say. By the minute, she felt she was fading. That whatever she was, it was, perhaps, completing. “I think I am sad.”

“For you?”

“For my mother, sir.”

A thicker silence fell over them, like the sort when you’ve gone and said something bold, or perhaps stupid. The urge to look up at him became too much, and so she did. He was smiling softer now, a smile that did not humor or pity her, but a smile that was anything but hard. His other hand, covering the top of hers, squeezed in a way again almost unnoticeable, and the chill of the night faded away entirely.

“We must go now,” he said. “Are you ready?”

She considered this, the vagueness of his words causing her even more pause. “Did I make it to November, sir? Is that the month?”

The driver kneeled before the passenger window. His arm now secured in a makeshift sling made from his coat, his hand reached for the body’s hand. He cradled it in his palm with care, and wept. Her own eyes swelled with tears, and she wished she could remember him. Had she known him well? She had a growing feeling that she would never know.

“Miss.”

She turned back to the young man, trembling and unable to tell if her tears chilled her cheeks. She did not check, as she feared how it would impact her resolve, earnest but still unsure. She longed to be comforted, and felt a sensation almost like warmth spreading through her again and relaxed, albeit a little.

“It is November, miss,” he continued. He leaned his head toward her in an almost confidential way, and she found the nearness soothed her further. “You have made it. You have nothing to fear, nothing to worry about any longer.” He weighed her hand in his, all three limbs swaying slowly up and down in the slightest. “I will go with you, when you are ready. And I must caution you, miss; no matter how tempting it is, the deceased who linger are rarely ever happy, and I would hate to see you as anything but strong, as you are now.”

“I am strong?”

“You are.”

She smiled, eyes lowering to their hands again. She nodded to herself. “You are an angel. You’re… you’re going to take me to heaven.”

“I am an angel?”

“I want to believe that you are.” He had no wings, but her determination became a vice.

“Then I am.”

She dared another glimpse of the carriage, and averted her eyes quickly. When the young man removed his hand from the top of hers, she whispered, “Don’t leave me. Even if I am strong, I don’t think I can do this alone.”

He pulled her hand towards him, looping her arm through his and flattening her palm against it. He covered her hand with his again, giving her a nod and a widened smile. “That’s why I am here. So you won’t get lost. It’s my job; I don’t leave anyone lost, when I can help it.”

Absently her arm adjusted in his, and they stood side by side, their conversation coming to a halt. The driver had collected himself enough to return to his horses, mounting one and attaching the other. He turned them back down the road, from which they had both came together on that carriage, and rode off as fast as he was able, mindful of the ice, even more mindful now. And now, there was nothing left for her here, nothing but a body drained of life in a way she could not see and did not want to see. And yet she lingered, longing to return to it, wanting to feel the cold and see her breath turn to vapor. She could feel herself leaning toward that arm, as though she could will it and all connected back to life. How strange it was to gaze upon your own physical form and not be able to touch it, to move and flex your limbs and crane your neck. How disconnected she felt knowing she felt nothing perhaps as the body felt nothing, though she was still there, witnessing it, thinking about it and every detail in her flesh. Did she still have scars, freckles, and moles? She did not feel compelled to check on anything but that body. Were bodies really shells, then, after all? And upon leaving it, was she pure? She felt the same, she could not tell. Was she free? Was this true freedom, despite that lingering here was ill advised by this mysterious man, this angel if he was one?

And was this angel waiting for her to make a decision? If she wanted to stay, could she stay? And what life would that lead to, if it was even one at all? She felt nothing and yet everything.

No, she thought to herself. I can’t stay here, I can’t go back. There’s no going back. I will not be a ghost. This exhaustion, this dissociation and sadness, it would be all that I have. And perhaps, everyone else would die and leave me alone. Truly alone.

She looked up to the snow covered pines of the woods, which seemed to be curving downward in a gradual, dizzying way. Trying to block out the sky, trying to keep her where she stood. There were whispers, a white noise like the cacophony of insects, and her body seemed to drift closer and closer to her without moving. It felt as though her flesh hand could lash out to her at any moment. She was terrified.

A tight squeeze of her hand sent a jolt through her. The trees straightened, and the carriage was where it had always been, the arm as it had lied since the driver left. She looked to the young man, who loosened his grip and stared up at the trees, his gaze a warning one. She knew then that whatever evil was closing in was thwarted by him, and squared her shoulders.

Was this what it was like when the dead lingered, her longing and sorrow transforming into terror and entrapment? Was this her true test of character and strength, not lying in her physical form but her spiritual one? And was this what it came down to: to stay behind in a life gone, or to move on into the unknown?

“I am ready to leave,” she said, her voice ringing out firm and with no trace left of hesitation. “I will not be a ghost.” I will not embody my loss and suffering any longer. One way or another, I will be free. This terror and confusion will pass. I will be free.

The young man cut his gaze to her once more, and a soft smile returned to his face. They trekked through the snow, their pace not obstructed by its bulk. They paused in unison once they stood in center of the road, their backs to the direction from whence she came. The storm progressed, the wind picking up but as silent as the rest of her surroundings, and the end of the road becoming more obscured. Trees were fading from her line of sight, and she could no longer make out the carriage. Her grip tightened on the young man’s arm, and he looked to her. He waited for her first step. She took it, and he followed.

#writeblr #writing #creative writing #writers of tumblr #original writing #foxclcves writing #old projects: lachrymose #project type: nanowrimo #so this was the first Official chapter from my very first nanowrimo ever... which i believe was 8-10 years ago??? damn #i was grieving a couple of people at the time i wrote the entries that i did... which may be obvious here #i think this was one of those projects where i didn't really go back and edit it at all... hence the errors and mistakes here and there #i didn't bother to proofread it this time either; i'd rather keep it preserved #but yeah! this first entry really captures the overall 'vibe' of the story; the emotion #it was also one of the first times i wrote Dalton--the male OC--in something more long-form... it's weird to think about

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