glass fingers

worm-wood toes

and a torso

of silver metal

all cold

.

dried leaves

crinkle like crows

summer tongue

thick with

prose

.

aching head

crowned

with bones

rumbling

floorboard

no one owns

.

cylindrical lies

picket fence rows

bloody sermon

empty paper

folds

.

wrapped in night silk

jewel eyes glinting

from beneath heavy brows

prowling the shadows in

between pages, lingering

between lines to someone

else's lovesick dialogue

soaking in the letters

and standing among

dog-eared stories, stalking

the world for more

more

letting myself take it,

digging my fingers into

the words like they're flesh,

like i can rip them from the paper

consume them

just become them

if only i could flatten myself

into a heart-shaped sheet

and tuck myself safely amidst

the flowery writing

, but,

i can't be confined to the parchment

which might be why i

was washed away into

the midnight sky

originally posted 2/25/21

I.

that a purple balloon flew outside my window

and i caught the string between my teeth.

then the way that your eyes adjust to the dark,

when you're a little bit nervous,

but i can make you smile.

and you're afraid of spiders, and i of teeth,

but we can pretend we're living a domestic life.

bunk beds and comic books and

you don't eat your peas.

and i laugh when you drop your soda and

spill it all over the table, a sugary pool.

so then bring you back home,

cozy in the night air, enclosed.

five chairs, like you belong, until it's time to go.

II.

that your interests are my interests,

that mine are yours, that we're the same except for some.

except for weddings and apartments and moving boxes.

except for being capable and fun and drunk.

except for not being a child in an adult's skin, like me,

like me, like me.

except we pretend we're kids again anyway,

and i wear a fairy skirt and clip colored pins to my bag.

sometimes i'm anyone because anyone is someone.

III.

that i tell you mundane secrets in the car,

and we scatter across main street like skipping stones,

past candy stores and fuzzy hats and sunglasses for kids.

and the first ride's not enough,

so we go faster.

and there are paint cans and beaded beauties,

and spaceship memories like unheld hands,

because i've been here before.

i didn't get dizzy this time, no one to press me too close.

it didn't rain,

and i didn't miss the memories.

then you drove me home in silence,

with the music just a little too loud.

i lost a pin, i walked in circles, and

some part of me is still screaming, waiting to hit the ground.

i know i think too much

about bones being bones being bones

about

being alone

in a city too big to watch me nice

not enough peppermint candies to roll in my mouth

like

nervous clattering bones

a little bit

i'm enough i'm enough i'm enough

and capable

but sinking my teeth in the sand and

spitting up bile

bile

or something anyway,

anywhere else would be the same

and

nothing's far enough away from my brain cause it

runs and speeds up chips my teeth on peppermint candies and sawdust

like a skull hitting against coffin lid

or else not like it at all, anyway, can't i be a kid again

or else let me feel safe

somewhere

please

I’m ushered outside into the orange sun, towards the Poachers’ holding cart. The Poacher holds me by the wrist, two fingers resting against my skin like she’s taking my pulse, but I know better. One twitch of a finger and she’d inject me with the same sedative that she’d given Hunter.

I don’t fight her, not yet, but do twist in her grasp as we leave the tavern. I watch Tumek lead two robed figures in the opposite direction, scuffling across the orange sand. They’re struggling under the weight of Hunter’s unconscious form, both wearing robes painted with the overlapping cross symbol of NeRaeno. My chest tighten as I realize they’re dragging Hunter in the direction of the citadel’s center spires. It means that this Tumek is powerful, or has powerful friends.

The Poacher stops just outside the holding cart, facing me but not letting go. I stare into her golden eyes, refusing to look away, even as she gives me a pitying smile. “Weapons,” she demands, holding out a hand.

“I don’t have much to hand over,” I reply evenly, shifting my helmet in my arm to reach my belt.

Her fingers tighten on my wrist, and her eyes flash. “I will collect them.”

I instruct her to the locations of my weapons–a dagger and a baton–and she removes them from my person. My strongest weapon, however, she cannot take from me, and she knows it. The energy coursing just under my skin.

“If you cooperate, you might see your friend again,” the Poacher tells me, pushing me into the holding cart.

I bite my tongue and stumble inside, eyes adjusting to the darkness. It’s a covered travel cart with a metal cage door that the Poacher locks behind me. The inside is sparse: a bench on either side and a cloth maroon banner adorned with the Poacher’s six-pointed star emblem across the back.

Two people already sit inside. The first is a bulky creature with a breathing mask similar to Tumek’s, meaning that this air isn’t breathable to them. They keep their eyes downcast, their shoulders hunched. The second is a small form, a child, whose eyes go wide as the moon when I catch them looking at me. The child shivers, their pale, almost translucent skin darkening at the cheeks.

Within moments, the cart begins to move, rolling across the uneven ground, and I stumble back onto the bench.

* * * * *

If I’d had an internal ticker installed, I’d know how much time has passed. But I’ve never been a fan of cyber enhancements, nor seen the need. Not to mention that energy-bearing bodies like mine don’t tend to agree with internal wires and metal.

Eventually a Poacher comes to collect me, a different one than before. This one bears the mark of Coale on his forehead, denoting him as priest. I wonder briefly if they plan on using me in ritual, and then wonder beyond that whether Hunter has gotten himself tangled up in the Coale following somehow. With his track record, I wouldn’t be surprised.

Instead, he leads me to a small room with a dome-shaped ceiling, the only light a circular hole at the very top, too high to reach and too small to climb. The walls are all packed yellow earth, and unmarked. There is no furniture, but he gestures for me to sit. He has locked the door behind him, the key is in his left robe pocket, he carries no weapons but I could stab him in the neck or in the eyes with his own boot spurs if I could get my hands on them.

I relax my fingers, because they have tightened into curls, and I breathe out. Right now I am meant to be Hunter’s driver, or someone equally innocuous. Not a mercenary. We’ll see how long that charade lasts, if at all.

The Poacher’s eyes are set far apart, and he stares at me wordlessly with his golden irises. My sister Murien used to whisper tales at night, one being that a Poacher’s eyes turn more and more gold with every new creature they drain of life. I never believed her, but I almost wish it were true. The real reason, I came to learn, is because the Poachers drink fovva root, which is extremely poisonous, but grants enhanced speed and vision. In just a few years they will have gone mad or blind or both.

The Poacher priest, sitting on the hard ground across from me, holds up his index finger. It hovers between our faces, his eyes unblinking from the opposite side of the room, his face expressionless. I am not familiar enough with the Coale to understand the meaning of this ritual, but I can only assume that it marks me for death.

Energy hums underneath my skin, and I wonder how fast he can really move, how quickly someone else would come running if he cried out.

Suddenly, in a flash as if he were burnt, the Poacher is standing, maroon robes flying around his heels. He still has not said a word, but the finger remains positioned upwards, tilted as if pointing.

I glance up in time to see red dust fall down the hole from above me, polluting the air, as I scramble to put my helmet on. The priest has already fled the room, and the red dust cloud hungrily envelops me.

* * * * *

part 1: https://theprose.com/post/730796/somewhere-in-space

you know this is the edge of a

_______________________precipice,

you knew the story

_______________would have to end.

take my hands (chalk purple)

and maybe a little bit of my heart (too small to see)

along with some tears (unshed)

toss them into some

________________unknown waters,

let them wallow, twist, and spin.

i'll miss you

i'll miss you many times over,

_______________________

and maybe one day i'll join you.

It was nighttime, or it should have been. Out her tiny circular window she could see the Soul Moon, bathing the entire landscape in vibrant white light. Her socked feet hit the wooden floorboards beneath her bed, her fingertips itching.

Within moments she had shoved her feet into her shoes, tucked her notebook under her arm, and clutched a handful of pencils in her left fist. She moved silently through the house, slipped her backpack off its peg by the door, and teetered on the threshold between inside and outside.

She pushed the door open, and it gave a low creak. Then, she slung her bag over her shoulder and took off down the mountainside.

The tall grasses looked silver in the Soul Moon's light, the sky like a gaping black hole punctuated with a blinding orb. The air was warm but her hair still stood on end, conscious of the wind and every whisper of movement around her. Everywhere she looked she expected to see them, the ghosts. The souls. Today was the one day a year that the planes overlapped, allowing the souls re-entry into the corporeal world. Her spine vibrated at the thought, fear or excitement making her mouth turn dry.

She continued down the mountain, eyes skittering across pebbles that shone like jewels. Every flower shone like the moon itself, stretching their necks towards the sky to absorb the light.

The mist hit her first. She hadn't realized how far down she'd traveled until she felt the softness of the grass under her feet, heard the lapping of water. There were three Crystal Ponds in the village, appearing and disappearing from the landscape over the decades. She recalled the stories the elders told her--that the souls would congregate here. Hold ceremonies for what they once were and who they've become. That they'd dip their spectral toes into the blazing crystal waters and turn into flesh once more, until the last ray of Soul Moon slipped behind the horizon. And in some of the stories, they remained mortal.

A myth, she whispers to herself. A myth, a myth, a myth.

In the mist, she wouldn't be able to distinguish between ghost and flesh anyway. Everything was in shades of grey, and she couldn't even see the mountains anymore. She couldn't see the water, couldn't even see the sky. Her breath trembled, making white clouds in the air. Her shoes sunk into wet, marshy land, and she struggled to walk forward, squinting into the mist.

A shrieking wind slipped by her ear, deathly cold, and she fell to her knees, her legs squelching in the mud. Her hair blew across her face, the sound of rushing water growing louder and closer, and suddenly everything lit up: figures swarmed in her vision, close and far, with and without features. They looked like shadows against the never-ending light of the Soul Moon.

And all at once, the world went silent. The wind stopped and her hair fell limply against her face and neck, sticking to the moisture at her temples. Her ears rang in the silence. The mist was cleared.

In front of her was the Crystal Pond. The water was calm and shimmering, sparkling in the bright spot light of the Soul Moon. Tendrils of fog still drifted off the surface of the water, but they dissipated as quickly as a breath. And the souls. The souls were real.

It looked as if the entire village were here, their bodies shining as brightly as stars. They were so bright it hurt, but she couldn't look away. Her hands numbly pulled her notebook and a pencil out of her backpack, her eyes barely blinking. Not a soul looked at her, and she wondered if they could see.

They stood at the edge of the water, none of them touching the pond. In fact, the water drew away from them if they strode too near. They walked like any humans walked, feet planted on the ground firmly, squashing the grass underneath their feet. If they didn't glow eerily white, she'd think they were simply regular people bathed in light.

Trembling, she began to draw, not bothering to even look down at her notebook as she did. She drew the souls that looked more like comets than people. She drew the souls that had beard and glasses and robes. She drew the souls the size of newborns and children smaller than herself. She drew the souls that towered over the pond like trees, the souls that intertwined with others so completely they were one, the souls that wore expressions of joy and sorrow and pain and hope.

She drew until her hand ached, watching them walk to each other and touch fingers. They circled the pond, only a few daring to try and touch it. The water would rear away from them, pull back and reveal the dry silt underneath. The souls did not speak or sing or chant or pray; they didn't need to.

And when the very last glimmer of the Soul Moon sunk behind the mountains in the distance, she watched the souls fade away. Swirling together in a mass of light and stardust, pulled past the horizon and back home. She knelt at the edge of the water, where it pooled around her legs but didn't touch her notebook. She looked down, let the wind rifle through the pages of drawings, showing her that she'd filled the entire book. Every page another person, another expression, another glimpse into something beyond her comprehension. And then her gazed wandered down to her body, which shone with the soft misty light of the Soul Moon, despite it being gone.

She watched curiously as the light emanating from her own arms and legs spilled into the water. She stood, and set her backpack on the edge of the Crystal Pond, noticing the translucence of her own skin, feeling the water lapping at her ankles. When she looked to the sky, there it was, as she expected it to be: the Soul Moon perfectly above her. Too bright to look at. She felt the water rise, felt the Soul Moon grow closer and closer, felt the warmth of its light on what was left of her skin. And then it enveloped her, as it does all things in the end.

A child found her notebook at the edge of the Crystal Pond the next morning, completely dry and owner-less. In it, there was a drawing of everyone who had ever walked the village and gone. And at the end, the very, very last page, was a drawing of the girl herself, kneeling at the edge of the Crystal Pond with her head raised to the Soul Moon.

songbird choking on black bile

.

wings cutting air like knives

.

beads sewn in between the eyes

.

caterpillar crawling in the moonlight

.

bell chimes out and over the hills

.

shoelaces muddy, tripping, trapped

.

lemon slices placed over each eye

.

silent ivy slithering against the skull

.

dragging us

bone

by

bone

underneath it all

"What is this place, Hunter?" I ask, taking off my helmet. My ears pop as the pressure changes, but at least this air is breathable, unlike some of the other citadels we've been to. My eyes scan the room, some kind of tavern, as I take in the various people, most in simple robes and scarves.

Hunter glances over his shoulder at me, brown hair falling over his shoulder as he does so. He holds out a hand, still in its driving gloves, as if to stop me from saying more. "Just go with it, Janika."

"Cymon," greets a figure with a wide neck, showing off their gills. Their head is topped with frilly fins that fall across their face like hair, and a breathing tube winds up their back and into their mask, which muffles their voice. They clap a hand on Hunter's shoulder, and my hand twitches at my belt.

Hunter removes his wide-brimmed hat and places it against his chest, bowing in return. I widen my stance and take note of the people surrounding us, just in case. The only visible weapons are a harpoon across a small woman's back and the three poorly-concealed throwing knives on the one-eyed man in the corner behind me.

If worse comes to worse, I think I could have that harpoon in my hands in five seconds flat. And then goodbye fish friend.

Hunter tilts his head back at me. "Tumek, this is my driver." I'm moderately insulted that he's called me a driver, but I nod solemnly and follow the two of them towards the round structure of the bar.

Tumek lets out a laugh that sounds like ba-ba-ba-ba as it comes through their breathing mask. "Driver, yes. You didn't come through the cargo bay this time?"

Hunter leans against the bar and flags the bartender with a raised finger, smirking. "It's official this time, Tumek. You know what I want."

I place two fingers on my helmet, still tucked underneath one arm. It helps me stay still as I read Tumek's body language for signs of non-cooperation. They shift one shoulder up, then down, their robe swishing.

Hunter has acquired a thick, greyish drink, and pushes a stone to the bartender in return. She tucks it under her long, pink tongue and turns to the next customer.

"I thought we had an agreement," Tumek says without malice. They're watching Hunter swirl the drink in its cup.

"Things have changed slightly," Hunter replies evenly, green eyes on his drink. My gaze catches on a woman entering the room, pushing the thick red curtains aside. Her boots have the signature six-pointed star spurs, and her thick hair is braided back into an intricate loop down her back. She's wearing the maroon robes of the Poachers, tied with a silver sash.

We've got to get out of here.

A flame lights to my right: the bartender breathing it into a drink as onlookers gasp in delight, and energy coalesces at my fingertips, ready for release, but the distraction worked, because the Poacher woman is already holding Hunter's hand, two welts on his wrist from where she's injected him.

Tumek looks at me over Hunter's sagging body, and smiles. "You will both be coming with us. Things have changed slightly." As Hunter's body falls limp, his drink tips and oozes out of its cup and across the counter.

The Poacher holds up two fingers in the air in front of me, a warning, so I let the energy I'd built up go, knowing I can't fight yet. Not with Hunter passed out.

"Then take me," I tell them, voice clear, even as my insides are coiled. The Poacher lowers her hand and nods reverently, and Tumek laughs again. Ba-ba-ba-ba.

* * * * *

part 2: https://theprose.com/post/736339/dust-to-red-dust

they said summertime

was made of stardust.

but the roses have died --

shriveled back into the

holes in the ground,

faces puckered up and

roots torn underfoot.

is this what it's like here?

flower beds made of lies?

prove to me that any of this

is worth it; i'm begging,

praying to the weeping willows.

while they cry pink lilies

into our hair, tender,

they also let us walk

across the dead rose thorns,

unmoved when they sink

into the soft flesh of our feet.

we are nothing but ants--

we are made to die swiftly

and softly under the heels

of their promise-lined boots.

they say summertime

is made of stardust,

but all the while they hide us

in the shade of the weeds,

just out of reach of the stars.