Asghar Abbas's Blog - Posts Tagged "wudgla"
Foxfell Amanda Alice
Mossy, dewy, grassy knolls and open roads unfolded before her bare feet, even before she drew the first breath, took a step, made her first move. She was smiling, taking it all in as she walked moving forward, strutting into the gloom of the trees. All that she saw there and even more that was looking at her, but not seeing her. All the unseen that was there yet to be seen, was watching her walk right into the haunted woods.
Carefully with extreme caution and righteous acumen, she went on walking in there. She was very well versed in this lore. The woods were gladdened to have her within them once more.
It wasn't the greatest of treks she ever trekked, far from it, but she trudged on anyway, merrily trundling along. Her breath hung verdant and supple in the misty morning air. Though it wasn't morning yet, nor was it day, or even night for that matter and it did not matter.
She could distantly hear the faint evensongs far away in the distance. What else could be heard, she wasn't inclined to say, all too happy to ignore. She wasn't telling much, she was too telling, too much, of what was to come.
But she was content at the moment, for now, as she moved on and onward, but not forward.
Though under the green flyleaf, she was happy. Because. Finally, it wasn't just the monsters that were seeking her out, when in this reality, it was the other way around. It was the other way around for her, for the forbidden was interested in Her, only her.
She was casually strolling on the dirt back roads, lonely but not alone, arms spread wide, out of her skin not inside her mind, fingers stretching forth, beads of water webbing between the brittle phalanges. But there were no trees for her to touch here, stripped or otherwise, so she strode on regardless.
However, she spoke the language of the felled trees, she did, and in these woodlands her hair were more at ease and soft around midnight. They felt nice too, like much more pleasant times from kinder by-gone days gone by, and coming still. Just around the corner. Coming for her.
Her eyebrows hirsute and heavy in this chapter. Her eyes looking elsewhere, elsewise seeing other things, those doleful eyes watching something else entirely in its entirety.
Her face porcelain white, sharp, used, virgin, dirty, about to be smashed in and broken into. Crow's feet around her eyes standing out, beautiful, she looked utterly careworn the expression on her face, peaceful. Her nose-pins double and fading twice from this story. Her swollen mouth dark darkened darkening. The small corner of her chin bore her own mark, a John Hancock of sorts, it glistened wetly, almost angrily.
Like a certain slant of light, she was whispering the kind of jingoism only the fabled forested creatures responded to. She was cackling in an ole and forgotten tongue, her laughter harsh, so harsh.
Her simple dress was quiet and as black as her thoughts. Her bra-strap visible in the gentled forest, the color of a dying leaf, and quite matching her thoughts, blackening even further more. Fearless tattoo of that bird on her willowy goose-pimpled right arm, dull and gleaming.
Her body like shape of water moved like one too, lithely soothing, a delicious draught all ready to be drunk in a single go; a wonderful blend of nondrink. A tasty treacle made up of sugary fabric.
She could handle the sorrows of her past, she wasn't surrendering to it just yet. She could breathe just fine, but she wasn't free. She twitched, shifting her weight, she breathed in something different, moving on. Straight into October she went, her scent was the pollen in the air, imbuing everywhere, and on these pages too, corrupting every dream.
She was more like the tendrils of smoke, her skin made up of roughened plumes, so she was more of a beautiful death than what Robert M. Ball failed in his imaginations to capture.
She was elated, she was celebrating in her head, for days now, going whirl whirl whirl in her mind. It was the Fete of the Dead, after all, and she was the only living one there in the dell, though she was far from being truly animated. Unnecessary Hint: She wasn't alive. But that was the design of her dust.
She was the only warm thing there, she was redundant. All the gargoyles wanted to see her in pain, excruciating and pure. Because they were feeling so generous toward her right then. She has been having too much fun without them. Even though she didn't know them and they never even met, they were resentful of her so much. Why wouldn't they be, everything was pink about her in the last days of summer. Why would they stop now, she wasn't going to. Do not quicken just now. Not yet.
She was moving too fast now. Suns and stars trying to catch up with her scrambled, scurrying after her, in her wake like she was a heavenly blade that was promised.
She was blurring every woodland animal, making the fronds slur.
The boles of trees leaned backwards, arching back unnaturally, parting open, making way for her, as she hurriedly marched on the dry tracks, covering the game trail with her footfalls, still barefooted. Hastening, she passed by so many cairns piled up in her path, on the side of the road. The crumbling midden ground trodden by her callused feet bearing witness to her intentions. She ran past so many strange things calling out to her, none stranger than her though.
Searching wildly, she fanatically tried finding the wolves that had claimed her homeland from men. Monsters. Though at times, she couldn't tell who was which. She couldn't tell them apart, because they were the same. All the monsters here were distorted by the spillage of very good deeds. She was Witch, that she knew, she knew that.
Looking down at her, all the remaining planets were quickly rearranging themselves, trying in vain to mirror her movements, carrying her forward while she carried their hopes and aspirations, in her emptied out but still beating heart that pumped more than just her blood.
She was happiness in a basket and just as tangible. She looked just darling in that decorative dress, all the swallows wanted to pat her.
But.
She looked fallow in her departure, her farewell not a goodbye. She looked like what Septembers ought to look like. September always felt carmine to her, so full of wolves, studded with night. So was she. She wasn't pretty at all. She was beautiful like that.
Although in the moment of that moment, she was moonlit, the moon was completely innocent of her. Even though she was awashed and aswirl in its bleak glow, she was lit up by the moon in the dark of the crimson canopy. The moon was everywhere, moon was in her, in her very name, moonlight limning her violent tresses even now, highlighting their madness real nice, likewise she was swelling inside the moon making it even more bloated.
She was within the very moonlight, and yet the moon wanted to rename itself after her. It wanted to change the nature of its course for her and nurture what could not be named. Nor should it be.
She was in her black tee shirt now, wearing just that and not much else, in fact nothing else. Her shirt washed in the receding moonlight was further proof that the moon was accepting its defeat. Its rage was deafening. So so bright and golden like all the lights, she loved this loss. After all, she wasn't the one who had lost the Battle of the Loos, that too in September.
Don't wake me up, she reminded the trees, all and sundry, that were not there. She shushed what was left of her. She was potent enough even here in this version. She made the journey like a real northmen though she was no man, even reached her destination, and didn't stay there like a true moken. She knew where not to linger.
The sole of her feet were wary, but at long last all the wastelands were hers. There was no one there, not even men, none there but her and yet not even her.
She seemed very one dimensional by now, but still so heart wrenching to behold. She was so well versant in their art of mindless warfare, though her accent was thick and indistinguishable, they understood what she was not saying. By burning her own palate, she had turned truly unpalatable. But despite that, they were trying so desperately to beguile her in their guileless cruelty, she was mindful of that.
She couldn't care less if they thought of her as rebellious and sinful. They could call her slattern, it matter naught to her. She wasn't insolent, though she belonged to an insolent nation, she was just developing critical thinking. Incantations and connotations, they deemed her neglectful, but what sins have she committed, against whom exactly?
She didn't bother with them anymore anyway. She could shamelessly borrow from time, she'd be timeless and in 2007 again. All the gryphons were hers to command now, so what did she care about the rest of denizens arbitrarily dying around her. Keep dying, she'd tell them. All the remaining artisanal fishermen can drown, what was that to her?
Don't let this sense of ending get to you, she reminded herself, don't be sad little one.
In the end, poison was so much kind compared to her, but she was just as dreadfully fatal. But of course, she was definitely worth more than a penny. Obviously. Her whole worth was so much more and heavy, clearly.
Fattened by the fawning moon, flattered, her entire existence was just a patchwork of whorl by this ending that wasn't the end.
She has finally turned caustic, so fulfilling. Now it ends and how. How it ends is not up to her.
This is how.
The summer is here to stay, and this July will never end.
Carefully with extreme caution and righteous acumen, she went on walking in there. She was very well versed in this lore. The woods were gladdened to have her within them once more.
It wasn't the greatest of treks she ever trekked, far from it, but she trudged on anyway, merrily trundling along. Her breath hung verdant and supple in the misty morning air. Though it wasn't morning yet, nor was it day, or even night for that matter and it did not matter.
She could distantly hear the faint evensongs far away in the distance. What else could be heard, she wasn't inclined to say, all too happy to ignore. She wasn't telling much, she was too telling, too much, of what was to come.
But she was content at the moment, for now, as she moved on and onward, but not forward.
Though under the green flyleaf, she was happy. Because. Finally, it wasn't just the monsters that were seeking her out, when in this reality, it was the other way around. It was the other way around for her, for the forbidden was interested in Her, only her.
She was casually strolling on the dirt back roads, lonely but not alone, arms spread wide, out of her skin not inside her mind, fingers stretching forth, beads of water webbing between the brittle phalanges. But there were no trees for her to touch here, stripped or otherwise, so she strode on regardless.
However, she spoke the language of the felled trees, she did, and in these woodlands her hair were more at ease and soft around midnight. They felt nice too, like much more pleasant times from kinder by-gone days gone by, and coming still. Just around the corner. Coming for her.
Her eyebrows hirsute and heavy in this chapter. Her eyes looking elsewhere, elsewise seeing other things, those doleful eyes watching something else entirely in its entirety.
Her face porcelain white, sharp, used, virgin, dirty, about to be smashed in and broken into. Crow's feet around her eyes standing out, beautiful, she looked utterly careworn the expression on her face, peaceful. Her nose-pins double and fading twice from this story. Her swollen mouth dark darkened darkening. The small corner of her chin bore her own mark, a John Hancock of sorts, it glistened wetly, almost angrily.
Like a certain slant of light, she was whispering the kind of jingoism only the fabled forested creatures responded to. She was cackling in an ole and forgotten tongue, her laughter harsh, so harsh.
Her simple dress was quiet and as black as her thoughts. Her bra-strap visible in the gentled forest, the color of a dying leaf, and quite matching her thoughts, blackening even further more. Fearless tattoo of that bird on her willowy goose-pimpled right arm, dull and gleaming.
Her body like shape of water moved like one too, lithely soothing, a delicious draught all ready to be drunk in a single go; a wonderful blend of nondrink. A tasty treacle made up of sugary fabric.
She could handle the sorrows of her past, she wasn't surrendering to it just yet. She could breathe just fine, but she wasn't free. She twitched, shifting her weight, she breathed in something different, moving on. Straight into October she went, her scent was the pollen in the air, imbuing everywhere, and on these pages too, corrupting every dream.
She was more like the tendrils of smoke, her skin made up of roughened plumes, so she was more of a beautiful death than what Robert M. Ball failed in his imaginations to capture.
She was elated, she was celebrating in her head, for days now, going whirl whirl whirl in her mind. It was the Fete of the Dead, after all, and she was the only living one there in the dell, though she was far from being truly animated. Unnecessary Hint: She wasn't alive. But that was the design of her dust.
She was the only warm thing there, she was redundant. All the gargoyles wanted to see her in pain, excruciating and pure. Because they were feeling so generous toward her right then. She has been having too much fun without them. Even though she didn't know them and they never even met, they were resentful of her so much. Why wouldn't they be, everything was pink about her in the last days of summer. Why would they stop now, she wasn't going to. Do not quicken just now. Not yet.
She was moving too fast now. Suns and stars trying to catch up with her scrambled, scurrying after her, in her wake like she was a heavenly blade that was promised.
She was blurring every woodland animal, making the fronds slur.
The boles of trees leaned backwards, arching back unnaturally, parting open, making way for her, as she hurriedly marched on the dry tracks, covering the game trail with her footfalls, still barefooted. Hastening, she passed by so many cairns piled up in her path, on the side of the road. The crumbling midden ground trodden by her callused feet bearing witness to her intentions. She ran past so many strange things calling out to her, none stranger than her though.
Searching wildly, she fanatically tried finding the wolves that had claimed her homeland from men. Monsters. Though at times, she couldn't tell who was which. She couldn't tell them apart, because they were the same. All the monsters here were distorted by the spillage of very good deeds. She was Witch, that she knew, she knew that.
Looking down at her, all the remaining planets were quickly rearranging themselves, trying in vain to mirror her movements, carrying her forward while she carried their hopes and aspirations, in her emptied out but still beating heart that pumped more than just her blood.
She was happiness in a basket and just as tangible. She looked just darling in that decorative dress, all the swallows wanted to pat her.
But.
She looked fallow in her departure, her farewell not a goodbye. She looked like what Septembers ought to look like. September always felt carmine to her, so full of wolves, studded with night. So was she. She wasn't pretty at all. She was beautiful like that.
Although in the moment of that moment, she was moonlit, the moon was completely innocent of her. Even though she was awashed and aswirl in its bleak glow, she was lit up by the moon in the dark of the crimson canopy. The moon was everywhere, moon was in her, in her very name, moonlight limning her violent tresses even now, highlighting their madness real nice, likewise she was swelling inside the moon making it even more bloated.
She was within the very moonlight, and yet the moon wanted to rename itself after her. It wanted to change the nature of its course for her and nurture what could not be named. Nor should it be.
She was in her black tee shirt now, wearing just that and not much else, in fact nothing else. Her shirt washed in the receding moonlight was further proof that the moon was accepting its defeat. Its rage was deafening. So so bright and golden like all the lights, she loved this loss. After all, she wasn't the one who had lost the Battle of the Loos, that too in September.
Don't wake me up, she reminded the trees, all and sundry, that were not there. She shushed what was left of her. She was potent enough even here in this version. She made the journey like a real northmen though she was no man, even reached her destination, and didn't stay there like a true moken. She knew where not to linger.
The sole of her feet were wary, but at long last all the wastelands were hers. There was no one there, not even men, none there but her and yet not even her.
She seemed very one dimensional by now, but still so heart wrenching to behold. She was so well versant in their art of mindless warfare, though her accent was thick and indistinguishable, they understood what she was not saying. By burning her own palate, she had turned truly unpalatable. But despite that, they were trying so desperately to beguile her in their guileless cruelty, she was mindful of that.
She couldn't care less if they thought of her as rebellious and sinful. They could call her slattern, it matter naught to her. She wasn't insolent, though she belonged to an insolent nation, she was just developing critical thinking. Incantations and connotations, they deemed her neglectful, but what sins have she committed, against whom exactly?
She didn't bother with them anymore anyway. She could shamelessly borrow from time, she'd be timeless and in 2007 again. All the gryphons were hers to command now, so what did she care about the rest of denizens arbitrarily dying around her. Keep dying, she'd tell them. All the remaining artisanal fishermen can drown, what was that to her?
Don't let this sense of ending get to you, she reminded herself, don't be sad little one.
In the end, poison was so much kind compared to her, but she was just as dreadfully fatal. But of course, she was definitely worth more than a penny. Obviously. Her whole worth was so much more and heavy, clearly.
Fattened by the fawning moon, flattered, her entire existence was just a patchwork of whorl by this ending that wasn't the end.
She has finally turned caustic, so fulfilling. Now it ends and how. How it ends is not up to her.
This is how.
The summer is here to stay, and this July will never end.
