Her hand drifted in the air beyond the window, rising and falling with the current of wind, fingers cutting through it as if tracing something only she could see, feeling for something hidden within it.
I wondered what she must have been thinking in that moment, if her mind had made up a fictitious tale, if she imagined the wind was a large wave to surf, or a harp she could simply run her fingers along, let it run through her to produce beautiful notes that paper could not contain.
I wondered if she thought of me in these quiet moments of transition between one place and another, where there is nothing to do but think because I thought about her.
The thought arrived so naturally that i hardly noticed it anymore. Like breathing, like watching the scenery pass and finding her somehow woven in to it.The dark water beneath the bridges. The spruce trees lining the road. The mountains in the distance. Her.
Like a trees spindling, spiralling roots; for years they had gone unnoticed beneath the surface, hidden beneath stone and soil, asking for nothing. yet all that time they had been moving, spreading becoming. altering the landscape beneath me before i ever noticed thr first crack in the surface so that by the time i recognised what i felt for her, the roots had already reached everywhere they intended to go.
We moved houses five months after you died. Mum couldn't bear sleeping in your room. Were only down the road, around the corner. Close enough that, if you came looking; you'd still find us.We sold your car a little after your funeral.
I couldn't bear to watch it leave. I needed my last memories of it to belong to us; your hands draped over the steering wheel. The long way to get petrol, The long way home, The long way because there was time. I couldn't watch someone else sit where you sat, couldn't watch someone else's hands rest where yours should be.
I couldn't watch them drive away with something that felt like you. I'm still waiting for you, Though the world has done everything it can to convince me you're not coming back. Though we've moved house, Though your car is gone. And i dont know how youd find us, or how you'd get here, but I still believe you will.
I'll hear the exhaust first. The familiar roar of your engine turning onto our road. Then the lock turning, Your voice in the hallway. Your arms. For the sound of you. Before reality remembers itself. You'll just be my dad, coming home from work.
340 words, Carla looks back on a childhood memory where she and Stella explored a forest, their love slowly unfurling beneath the blanket of sun.
Summers where the air smelt of pollen, the sun, relentless. Humid and hot. Nostalgic. Sticky sweat clung between skin and clothes. The pigeons cooed from where they were perched up in the trees, their quiet murmurings blending with the distant cries of red bellied kites which circled in the sky. Bruised knees and grass stains, complaining about the fresh sting of nettles after hacking through dense shrubbery. The water glistened, it's surface deceptively calm as it rushed over protruding rocks, worn smooth over time.
The trees seemed to lean in, their branches swaying in the wind as if beckoning them closer. Beneath the shimmering surface, their fingers brushed accidental, fleeting. For a moment, the world above didnât exist. There was only the warped light filtering through the water, the tan blur of skin, the swirl of blonde and dark brown curls tangled like seaweed. Hands wandered, tentative at first, then bolder, roaming the curves of each otherâs clothed waists. Fingers grasped, desperate and wanting, as they kicked against the riverâs pull, fighting to close the distance between them.
When they burst from the surface, miles downstream, a mess of gasps and giggles, the river spitting them out at the mouth of a lazy lake. Stella's hand lingered, light but deliberate, mapping the length of Carla's arm, brushing a lock of wet hair behind her ear.
Carla's lips parted, her breath catching as if to speak- a question, a confession, something fragile and unspoken.
âVoices carryâ Stella would say, she pressed the softest kiss to Carla's temple, silencing her before the words could escape. Carla's brows furrowed, lips trembling as she swallowed the unspoken plea.
Stella turned away, her back to Carla, the sun casting her in a golden halo until she seemed to dissolve into the light. The crickets chirped, their song a steady backdrop to the silence that stretched between them. Stella waded further into the water, her figure growing smaller, more distant, until she was no longer a girl but a silhouette, a mirage, something just out of reach.
Reader doubts her role as Empress, Commodus must make that right. 1,118 words
The day started just as any other did, the sun scorched the earth, making the air heavy and thick, stones sucked dry of moisture, slightly lighter in colour. The silk sheets of your bed clung to the sweat from your body, a welcomed light breeze flowed through the window of your sleeping quarters, cooling your back. However you weren't sure you could face the day- in fact, you dreaded leaving this bed. Something hung over you, it had been hibernating in the back of your mind but it weighed heavy upon you now. You felt immovable as you curled in on yourself, bringing the sheets over your head.Â
Your arm stretched out to where Commodus would usually be, but as the gods would have it, of course, he was not there. He was Romes before he was yours, after all. You were romes as well, though, in an entirely different sense, you were not born into noble blood, but as all those who came before you, much was expected from the Emperor's wife. The pillar of the house, the perfect Roman woman, but- you could not care. Rome was a relentless mistress and you were merely a flash of light caught amongst its glory. You did not care anymore, you could hardly wish up enough energy to crawl to the floor.
Time passed, the day had slipped through your fingers like grains of sand, the sun sank below the horizon. You weren't sure if youd fallen asleep or if you'd been staring at the same frescoes since you awoke.
the door creaked open, and you didnât need to turn your head to know who it was. Commodus stood in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the faint light from the corridor. He was dressed in a simple white tunica, the fabric edged with a purple stripe denoting his imperial status, and his golden laurel wreath sat slightly askew on his brow. He crossed the room in a few strides, his sandals clacking against the mosaic floor. He grabbed the small basin from your bedside, the one filled with olive oil and lit up a small lamp which crackled off to the side of your head.
âYou've been in bed all day, are you unwell?â He spoke softly, yet stern, brushing a small lock behind your ear.
âNo, i am merely tiredâ You mumbled, You wanted to tell him your mind, how you felt unworthy of the crown, of the senator's cruel words, the recurring dream you had, where Rome is rendered down to fire and ash, how you believed you were the reason for its downfall. You feared his reaction most, if he would banish you from Rome with nothing but the clothes of your past life upon your back.Â
âDo not lie, I have seen exhaustion, this is not thatâ His temper was short lived, a sheath which thinly veiled his concern for you. His hand slid between the sheets, his fingers brush against yours in a whisper of touch, a question- permission, his touch light and uncertain.
âYou do not know what you wish me to sayâ You cracked, you turned your hand and he grasped it in an instant, clasping it between his hands as he clumsily flowered it with kisses from where it met the joint to the very tips of your fingers.
âConfess it to me quietly, shout it at me, I only wish that you tell me the truth, tell me why you torment yourself so, Dulcissima.â His lips tickled the soft hairs that peppered the back of your hand, his thumb caressing careful shapes upon the softness that cushioned your knuckles, he appeared almost hurt by your uncertainty.
âI fear the gods do not favour me, Commodus, I dream Rome dismantledâ You gasped, the tears began falling. âI see it reduced to fire and ash. The Augurs read the signs, and they whisper that I bring great misfortune to Romeâ Commodusâ face began to twist ever so slightly, twitching faintly with the effort of restraint, his hand held yours closer, a grip too firm to be just casual.
âThe Gods have smiled greatly upon Rome, The Augurs attempt to understand the gods, but their wills are not easily understood, it does not dictate fateâ His tone masked the molten that threatened to spill over with each breath, a boiling pot with a rattling lid.
âBut even then, why does that matter? The senate believes, they question my every movement, they spout their vile words as if I am not there.â Your chest ached, your throat burned as the words clawed their way up.
âDo not let the superstitions of men cloud your heartâ He said, his voice low but firm, like the rumble of distant thunder. He placed a soft kiss atop your temple, his lips lingering for a moment, as if to seal the words into your skin. âRome was not built by blood alone but by the strength of its peopleâ its women.â His tone was sharp, yet his touch remained tender.
You took in a final breath before letting the words tumble from your tongue âHow can I stand by you as an Empress? I soil your good name with my un-Roman blood.â His resolve cracked, splitting apart like crumbling pottery.Â
âQuiet, I won't listen to thisâ He leaned closer, his forehead resting against yours as he took your face in his hands, his thumb brushing away the tears that clung to your lashes.
âDo you believe I care for their approval? The senate's words are nothing but wind- empty and fleetingâ The tension in his jaw had softened as he kissed your face between words, âI am the Emperor of Rome, I took you as my wife because I trust your insight, you are my name, my empire, my Rome.â His words hung heavy in the air, for a moment you could have believed them, you truly wanted to, but doubt lingered like a shadow.
âPromise meâ You searched his eyes, the intensity of his gaze burned
âFor as long as I'm able to draw breathâ The weight of his words settled over you, but not the kind that set off a war in your mindâ the ache deep in your chest dissipated, you were not what kept Rome down but was what brought it up. You leaned into his touch, kissing the palm of his hand. One of your hands wandered to the fabric which wrinkled across his chest, feeling for that familiar thumping warmth which always bought comfort. Rome was a relentless mistress and you were merely a flash of light caught amongst its glory. But that did not have to be a bad thing.
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