May 28, 2015
seen from Germany
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
seen from Germany
seen from China
seen from China
seen from China
seen from China
seen from China
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Canada
seen from Chile
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Argentina
seen from Australia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from China
MY LONELINESS
IS KILLIN ME
AAAAND IIIIIII--
ok have a number 7.
Maeve enjoys the walk from the settlement to the Cradle.
It’s a moment that belongs only to her. Just her and the wind on her face as she slowly unwinds the strip of blood-stained cloth around her face. At first the air makes the lower half of her face throb achingly, but after a few minutes it feels nice. Liberating. A chilly trickle of slaver runs out from between her teeth and down her chin. It drizzles down to her dress, stains her white shift faintly pink.
That’s okay, she needs to do laundry anyway.
It’s a nice day and before long the Cradle peeks blue and shining through the trunks of the trees ahead. Something rushes through the branches alongside here, hooting, but Maeve’s always found they’ll leave her undisturbed.
Not hard to imagine why.
It does not track her all the way to the shore, but hangs back crooning mournful notes after her. Maeve knows better than to look back. Instead she kneels at the edge ever-so-carefully, tucking her dirty bare feet under her butt.
Today, the Cradle runs straight down. Down, down, down like a perfect cylinder. If she looks long enough things seems to move down there. Ponderous, gleaming bodies. Maybe not. Leaning over so far causes the spit to drip into Cradle, disturb its perfect mirror-smooth surface. Images flicker and flee.
Pretty.
She’d love to look on forever, but she came here for a reason. Refocussing her sight, she studies her reflection in the water. The gaping, twitching hole below her face looks red and angry today. Inside the discoloured stump of her tongue curls uselessly and needle sharp teeth scatter haphazardly along the rim where her lips ought to be. There’s sores between them.
Maeve sits back, sighs. Braids her long black hair and produces the teacup.
Don’t drink from the Cradle they say.
Well, the Cradle made her this way. Maybe, if she drinks enough, she’ll be able to say thank you to her neighbor for the endless supply of poultices he provides for her. That would be nice.
Maeve dips the cup into the water of the Cradle. Sticks out her pinky.
Bottom’s up.
also i went to a dress maker to get my dress taken up and the lady is russian
so that was cool