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Literature Text
As if from ashes I’d been buried beneath, I rise. Sluggish, bombarded, my body is damp to the touch within and around streams, smears, and sludge of tears and this white-gray, heavy powder; however, I am dried to cracks where wetness is not. I am weakly sat up. The others are not. I rise, feeling some sickening lucidity to will myself to live. The others do not.
My dominant side is the first to crack to life amidst the ash-snow and whitened mess of once black-brown hair of curls. I peer at it as it does, my arm sounding as what a glass doll would if it had life in it to move, the shards grinding together, flexing as if they were flesh tissue. On my forehead there is blood glowing red and splattered over my frontal lobe. All of it stains the dead peacefulness of the ashen, calm graves I lay betwixt, at the heart of, and I raise my artist, killer hand to touch the unharmed skin. It is dry—old—but somehow it begins to stain everything, dry and peeling: my legs, bust, inner thighs, the ash, the scene. This grave site is a battled massacre. Boot-prints are loitered. Any grave is unmarked.
No question is spoken as to where I am, however I have no knowledge of it, or as to its history. I do not stand; my body is rooted to the ground by my curls, every lock I feel being anchored down by something else; something I sit atop. But my soul stands, and I see what I would if I were physically at that five-foot height through cataracts.
It is ongoing—everlasting—into the far end of my sight, but all things must come to an end that are not love.
My toes clench, crunching some porcelain-glass thing beneath my white, barely flesh feet, bagged. My soul and body both feel it. My soul looks down to see.
There is a body, faint between the powder and the plastic; a man’s. He is dead, thin, and collapsible, and I stand upon his stomach, caving it in with my weight, touching the hardness of his spine just barely. His body is thin like mine, but tall unlike mine. What is clearest is his face, shut to the world by burial and eyelids, but somehow able to pump blood, my heart, and beat through me, despite the death in my veins, my arteries.
I face forward again, abandoning his face to my back. There is no world for me to survey. I walk, each step slow, those ones fluid similar to a ghost’s saunter. My body left behind.
My dominant side is the first to crack to life amidst the ash-snow and whitened mess of once black-brown hair of curls. I peer at it as it does, my arm sounding as what a glass doll would if it had life in it to move, the shards grinding together, flexing as if they were flesh tissue. On my forehead there is blood glowing red and splattered over my frontal lobe. All of it stains the dead peacefulness of the ashen, calm graves I lay betwixt, at the heart of, and I raise my artist, killer hand to touch the unharmed skin. It is dry—old—but somehow it begins to stain everything, dry and peeling: my legs, bust, inner thighs, the ash, the scene. This grave site is a battled massacre. Boot-prints are loitered. Any grave is unmarked.
No question is spoken as to where I am, however I have no knowledge of it, or as to its history. I do not stand; my body is rooted to the ground by my curls, every lock I feel being anchored down by something else; something I sit atop. But my soul stands, and I see what I would if I were physically at that five-foot height through cataracts.
It is ongoing—everlasting—into the far end of my sight, but all things must come to an end that are not love.
My toes clench, crunching some porcelain-glass thing beneath my white, barely flesh feet, bagged. My soul and body both feel it. My soul looks down to see.
There is a body, faint between the powder and the plastic; a man’s. He is dead, thin, and collapsible, and I stand upon his stomach, caving it in with my weight, touching the hardness of his spine just barely. His body is thin like mine, but tall unlike mine. What is clearest is his face, shut to the world by burial and eyelids, but somehow able to pump blood, my heart, and beat through me, despite the death in my veins, my arteries.
I face forward again, abandoning his face to my back. There is no world for me to survey. I walk, each step slow, those ones fluid similar to a ghost’s saunter. My body left behind.
This is the first piece of the prologue to the novel I have been writing for some time. I finally have the time to devote myself to writing it fully, so I would like to post bits and pieces for feedback before printing it.
Thank you
-Sabrina Jade Viñas
.Edit. I originally had this in a much smaller font, and I realize precisely how small that font was seeing it from another computer.
Thank you -Sabrina Jade Viñas
.Edit. I originally had this in a much smaller font, and I realize precisely how small that font was seeing it from another computer.
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