- storm -There was a storm, the first night he spoke to me.- storm - by Owlivia
Not that he was silent before, but so quiet he might as well have been. He struggled to wrap his tongue around a strange language, careful with the new words I taught him, as though saying them wrong would break them. For a long time he spoke a primal tone, whistles and chirps and calls of the forest animals, middle ground between our mouths- even once he found his voice in English, he still slipped into that bestial tongue when words were not enough. It lingered in his chest when he held me close, as a faint purr, or a quiet hiss when he hungered and I stepped too close. They were sounds straight from his heart, and that made them more potent than any words he would otherwise say, be they ‘stay away’, or ‘I love you’.
Still, he had a way with the little vocabulary he knew, creating complex stories from simple sayings. He told me, as I quaked under blankets and furs, that the storm was not to be f
- RIP -I was never able to rest in peace. The earth isn’t so quiet as you might think, see; it’s full of hidden life, creatures with no legs, many legs, things that scurry and bury and squirm and churn. They find your flesh like bees to honey, and they never sleep, never settle, pulling you into their grotesque celebrations and never letting you leave. One would have to sleep like the dead to get a good night of rest there.- RIP - by Owlivia
I could hear them in my head when I slept, insects tapping to each other, scratching in titbits of some secret code, etchings on the inside of my skull. Rude, intrusive beasts, they were. They flooded my ears and nose and mouth, filled every opening they could find, and still it wasn’t enough; their bites were painful as they tore away my skin, but I couldn’t do anything to sway them, my muscles stiff and bones locked. They filled my flesh and reduced the delicate architecture of my body to a festering, writhing mess; I was a crumbled palace, forgot