the boy is dragged across the sky
Like a dying, fallen angel that glides like a blistering star
He climbs his paintbrush with a shaking hand, creating a new hemisphere, atmosphere
Attached to his retina like a gland growing into a new universe
He grew too monumental, too gargantuan for his own form, for even the green and blue human world
The pain of growth burning his cheek like a fire that never died
He asked his love Saturn when he could return home
“Assssk me in December, my life, my love,” came the cool whisper that chilled the Moon-boy into the saddest tears
The tears felt so fresh and real and terribly painful
He cried into the core of the moon, hitting the sub past it like a perfect weapon
The implosion fresh and terrible and beautiful
The wolf-boy was now a part of the moon’s terrible glow
December never came
His name stretches in a mountain’s agonizing death
Of the soft water slowly ending it's mighty cursed face
About the Creator
Melissa Ingoldsby
I am a published author on Patheos.
I am Bexley is published by Resurgence Novels here.
The Half Paper Moon is available on Golden Storyline Books for Kindle.
My novella Carnivorous is to be published by Eukalypto soon! Coming soon
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More stories from Melissa Ingoldsby and writers in Poets and other communities.
A blue summer
“Ask me in December,” my darling whispers to me in bed. I'm cold, shivering under the blankets. Under the second part of our story with us possibly dead. “Why are you so cold? Come closer to my side,” Duck cries. I can't hear his crying nor can I see it in the dark. I feel the wetness of his face against my skin. It warms my heart like a heat lamp. I am sorry. So sorry. It kills me when I can't save you. You're my family, my true love, Darling. But I feel us disappearing after every death, every strike against us, like a cleaver or an ax against our handholding, severing our tight embrace with their judgment. Their indifference. We aren't the perfect definition for a family. “When can we move out of this place? We need to leave before they come to try and separate us again…” I tremble in his arms. Duck sighs, cheeks drying. “Ask me in December, Red.”
By Melissa Ingoldsby14 days ago in Poets
Two Wrinkles In Time
It is pointless to run, my darling, because sixty seconds ago, I will kill you. My blade will have sliced reality open right in front of you. It will have first pierced it as it would a bed sheet left hanging to dry, flapping in the wind on a Sunday afternoon. But the metal will have drawn a line in the air that the ghostly tear will have followed. Then I, La Dyablès, machete firmly in hand, will have emerged from what your mind, at the time, could only interpret as the other side of here—whatever that means to you. I know. I have seen that look on the faces of countless unlucky… clients. You will not have been the first nor the last to try and reneg on a riches for soul contract only to present this visage to me when I come to collect.
By Lily Séjor4 days ago in Fiction
Comments (4)
Omgggg, this so sad and emotional. Loved it so much!
Heartbreaking!!!
howling good take on the unofficial challenge :)
Very beautiful!