Wren Handman's Blog, page 17

The Mother of us All

The air is a presence against my skin. Strangers here have called it oppressive; air that you can taste, that you can feel trickling down your throat. To me it is home, my mother’s arms. She is with us always, and how can you doubt such a thing when you feel her surround you? The warmth of the night is gentler than the warmth of the day, more invigorating. This is my favourite time in the jungle.

I make less noise than a jaguar as I prowl through the underbrush. The vines are dense and tight but they make way for me, recognizing a fellow in their midst. The others behind me curse and stumble, unwelcome strangers in our land, and it brings a subtle smile to my lips. They will never know the beauty that surrounds them. All they see are shapes in the dark; monsters created out of shadow and pulp. I know better. I see the great ferns at our feet, the moss-covered stones that can twist underfoot. I hear the skitter of the giant ants retreating at our presence; identify every night cry for each bird it is.

I tease them as I would children, for they are as lost in these climes as a litter of new-born rodents; but then, they have lived in the jungle for only a matter of hours, while I have counted every breath beneath these trees. No spear catches its first fish, so the saying goes, and no one is born with words on their tongues.

I lift a hand to hush them, then copy the gesture with my voice. They settle in a crowd at my back, barely breathing. We are here. I see the small lake glittering in the moonlight that shimmers from a break in the great and terrible canopy above. There is a whole world above our heads, but we are concerned only with the moment that will play out before us. The tiny lake is a perfect blue jewel in the twilight, and a rare white lily grows near our feet. I point it out to them, feel their awe like a shiver along the tiny hairs of my arms. This, at least, they appreciate. I hush them again, and we settle on our haunches to wait.

She will be here soon. The great spirit of the jungle, the mother of us all. She comes on the full moon, to bathe in the waters of the lake of her life and return to us in the water in the air. I feel the shiver of her presence approaching. Soon, they will see. They call it al legend, call us savages for believing, but we know. We have seen the mother of us all, and she will be here. Soon.

Picture by: Emily Lampson. Emily is a Canadian illustrator and fine artist. Check our her work at Emily Lampson.com

The Demon Within

The fire paints the night black. In the village there were stars in the sky, a faint blush of dawn on the horizon. Here, in the forest, the bright light drowns the subtleties around us. We are alone in the shadows, each linked by our breath and the sounds we make, shapes in the inky pitch. A drum begins to pound. Another. We hit the stretched leather skin with the palms of our hands, swift, sure. Build the beat until we feel it in our bones, until it is a part of us and draws us together. Ba-bum. Ba-bum. Ba-bum. A narrow shriek pierces the rhythm, winds through it. We bring her forward, push her roughly to the ground. The fire is a ring around us, protector and destroyer. The bowl is passed. We each touch the acrid berries to our lips, careful not to use too much, tying a knot in yet another string. Ba-bum. Ba-dum. The drums move through us, lend a primal resonance to the ceremony. She wails against, twists and pulls. The demon is strong in her. The bowl reaches the end, leaves the beginning. The mashed berries are smeared across her eyes, blinding the demon. “Hrmmm. Hrmmm. Hrmmm,” we chant, timing the wordless vocalisation to the gaps between the drumbeats. The demon stirs in her, and her body writhes. Ba-bum. Ba-bum. Ba-bum. The drums grow louder, they are everything now, and the night is a painted landscape, two dimensional; the sound completes it. We can feel it on our skin, we breathe it in and out. The berries swim on our lips, tingle and burn, and the demon begs for mercy. We carve the sigils in her skin, barrier and defender, sword and shield to her. She screams, falls to her knees, and we release her as she screams the demon into the sky, rips her hair out at its roots and howls the demon into the dark. Ba-bum. Ba-bum. Ba-

The silence seems complete. No one moves. No one breathes.

A cricket chirps. She whimpers. Falls. The night slips quietly back into place. We breathe, shuffle. Someone coughs. Someone laughs. Strong arms lift her up, soothing cloth against the torn skin of her forehead. She’s carried away, and we follow, simple men and women returning to the world.

Model: Missy Anne

Makeup: Scott Hurr

Today’s image comes to you courtesy of Rene Blais. Check out his work  on His Facebook Page, and see more about him on Lucid Dreaming’s Contributors Page.

That Witching Hour

[Deadyetawake149] (1:42am): You there?

[Whispersthroughthemadness] (1:42am): Always.

[Deadyetawake149] (1:44am): I’m thinking again. Too much.

[Whispersthroughthemadness] (1:45am): Wish I could help. I’d hug you.

[Deadyetawake149] (1:45am): Tell me more!

[Whispersthroughthemadness] (1:46am): I’d wrap one arm around your neck. Nuzzle my face into your back. With the other hand I’d trace figureeights on your thigh.

[Deadyetawake149] That sounds nice.

[Whispersthroughthemadness] (1:48am): There’s a watertwoer near my house. I’ve always wanted to bring someone there, someone who would get it. We’d sit up there and stare over the fields.

[Deadyetawake149] (1:50am): I’d kiss your arm where it passed near my face. Make a stupid comment about the pretty sunset and you’d laugh at me, but we’d be laughing together.

[Whispersthroughthemadness] (1:50am): Are you still thinking too much?

[Deadyetawake149] (1:50am): Yes.

[Whispersthroughthemadness] (1:50am):

[Deadyetawake149] (1:51am): Now I’m thinking about you.

[Whispersthroughthemadness] (1:52am) I always think about you. Especially late at night. I dream about your face but it’s never quite in focus. Like when you’re high and you have a really great idea and then you sober up and you’re still reaching for it. You can’t quite grasp it.

[Deadyetawake149] (1:56am) I used to dream about waves. Crashing over my head and I was drowning.

[Whispersthroughthemadndess] (1:57) Used to?

[Deadyetawake149] (1:57) ^-^ Maybe tonight I’ll dream about a water tower.

[Whispersthroughthemadness] (1:58am) I’ll write your name on it!

[Deadyetawake149] (1:58am) Really?

[Whispersthroughthemadness] (1:58am) Yup!

[Deadyetawake149] (1:58am) I wish you could see yourself the way I do. You make the world… better. Just being here.

[Whispersthroughthemadness] (2:00am) If you could see yourself the way I do, you’d have a head the size of euroepe!

[Deadyetawake149] (2:00am) *blush*

[Whispersthroughthemadness] (2:01am) Now od I need to sing a lullaby to your brain>?

[Deadyetawake149] (2:01am) Yes please!

[Whispersthroughthemadness] (2:02am) Go to sleeeeepy litttttle brraaaaaaaaaaaaaainy…

[Deadyetawake149] (2:03am) lol

[Whispersthroughthemadness] (2:03am) Time for bed.

[Deadyetawake149] (2:03am) awwww. Okay.

[Whispersthroughthemadness] (2:07am) Goodnight. Sleep well.

[Deadyetawake149] (2:07am) Night!

[Whispersthroughthemadness] (2:12am) Love you.

(whispersthroughthemadness has logged off)

[Deadyetawake149] (2:12am) !!!

Image courtesy of Hayley Mechelle Bouchard. Her work can be found at Little Cat Photography, and on Our Contributors page.

The Case of the Smoking Gun

I knew she was trouble when she walked through the door. No one wears an evening gown at two p.m. on a Tuesday in July unless there’s something afoot. And when I say afoot, I don’t mean those legs that went from here to Heaven, though now that you’ve brought it up, they sure did. This doll had skin like a porcelain – well, doll, and that red dress did wonders for what God gave her. She didn’t walk in so much as she slid, making every step look like the mile she took when you gave her an inch. She was smoking one of those fancy cigarettes in a long holder, that make you look like a dame of class even if you’re dirt off the road, and her lips touched it like she knew just what she was making me think. She breathed smoke as she leaned across my desk, brown curls tumbling off her shoulders as she whispered, “Hey there.” Well my suit and tie had never felt so tight, never mind the ratty grey fabric I touched when I adjusted my tie. She lifted delicate painted nails and between them was held, gingerly as a butterfly, a smoking gun. She laid it across the desk, motes of gunpowder like pepper on a steak, and I knew I was in over my head. But I’d be glad to drown in a smile like that. The tip of her tongue touched her ruby lips and she grinned. “Seems I have myself a problem.”

Image courtesy of Kieran Macanulty. Check out Kieran’s website, Purple Sock Studios, or read more about him on Our Contributors Page.

 

Love [luhv] – noun. 1. You.

Shakespeare compared his love to a summer’s day, and when old words lost their luster, he crafted new ones to honour love.

Browning counted the ways she loved thee, with language and capitalization that only Victorian poets can get away with.

So what’s left for me? I can’t say the moon pales before your beauty, or tell you how I carry your heart with me; these things have all been said. I could say that love is to know you, and hope you’re not well read; but I do know you, and I think you were with me when I saw that play. I could whisper that I love you like the red red rose, but I can’t remember how that poem goes, and anyway, you love Robbie.

Every way to speak of love has already been spoken, don’t you see? If I could, I would write new words out of you, and offer them up on an altar (how unoriginal, I know!) of my love.

The moment of silence before you laugh would have its own etymology.

Children in classes could conjugate the way you smile with just your eyes, when you watch me from across the room.

I would make a word that meant how my skin tingles in that precious moment right after you have kissed me.

The sharp intake of breath before you gasp would be its own phoneme.

If it was in my power I could hear the syntax of the slippery way you slide into bed and press your too cold toes to the hollow of my knees.

Tell me how to speak those words, and I would write you a poem that all the world could read, and know my love for you.

Image courtesy of Hayley Mechelle Bouchard. Her work can be found at Little Cat Photography, and on Our Contributors page.

The Red Rose of Shelby

They called me the Red Rose of Shelby. I’m not sure if it was supposed to be sweet, or sultry, or damning. The attitudes they had and the attitudes they expressed never seemed to fit; like a patchwork quilt, every piece screamed the lie of the others, and the only thing holding it together was everyone’s tactic agreement that it was, in fact, a whole. The Town Feels, they would chide me as they draped a shawl across my freckled shoulders; or The Town is Concerned That, as they white-washed my bright purple fence. As if everyone member was in accord. As if they didn’t whisper secrets in my ear and turn away when the lights came on.

There was never a dinner-party I wasn’t at, never an event I wasn’t asked to take part in. Always slightly above, slightly to the left. I draped flowers over the shoulders of bright sparkling girls whose mothers would steer them away when they saw me on the street. I pinned medals onto the gowns of women who would turn their signs to closed when they saw me coming, fearing the scandal my presence would bring. I was the guest of honour, seated to the left of the host, and the opinions they asked for where snickered at behind white powder gloves.

The Red Rose of Shelby. I don’t know who started it, or whether it was clever or a simple off-hand remark. I thought about it more than it deserved, imaged meanings in it that were far too deep for its creators ever to have intended. Red is the colour of lust, of desire, the colour of wanton women and loose ladies. The colour of the lanterns they light in the cities and the dresses they wear just to be removed. But the rose can be pure, can be sweet, can be lovely, like I can be. With thorns hidden in my leaves and a blush that women sniff at, knowing it will fade and only the reputation will remain.

I suppose I could have shunned them. Denied their requests for my presence, knocked their hands from the small of my back. But when all you are is a sparkle in the night, who dares to turn on the lantern? Who dares step out in the day?

Today’s image comes to you courtesy of Rene Blais. Check out his work  on His Facebook Page, and see more about him on Lucid Dreaming’s Contributors Page.

Crimson

And she’ll dance in the dark

with the fire at her heels

and she’ll never stop looking for more.

And she’ll dance in the dark

with the fire in her eyes,

and her feet on the ground let her soar.

I met her one day in September,

and I felt her smile in the dark.

She touched the frame of her glasses;

her skin was pale and stark.

“Come away,” said the girl in the crimson,

“Come lose your despair ‘round the fire.”

Over her shoulder she beckoned

as the sound of the drums spiralled higher.

And she’ll dance in the dark

with the fire at her heels

and she’ll never stop looking for more.

And she’ll dance in the dark

with the fire in her eyes,

and her feet on the ground let her soar.

She led me, blind, through the twilight,

while the leaves did a jig at our feet.

Her touch made me shiver with longing,

I burned with the fire’s bright heat.

“Close your eyes,” said the girl in the crimson,

and we lost ourselves, all undone.

We danced til the pain was forgotten

with our racing pulse beating as one.

And she’ll dance in the dark

with the fire at her heels

and she’ll never stop looking for more.

And she’ll dance in the dark

with the fire in her eyes,

and her feet on the ground let her soar.

I met her one day in September,

And I lost her as dawn kissed the sky.

My arms were as empty as ever

and embers burned in her eyes.

“Look away,” said the girl in the crimson,

“Nothing this perfect should last.”

And when I lifted my eyes,

the fire was nothing but ash.

And she’ll dance in the dark

with the fire at her heels

and she’ll never stop looking for more.

And she’ll dance in the dark

with the fire in her eyes,

and her feet on the ground let her soar.

(this is a song. it has a tune and everything! But, since I suck at singing, you’ll never get to hear it. imagine a wild violin, a sort of folksy/dark country vibe, and you’ll be halfway towards hearing the sounds in my head right now. trust me, they’re beautiful)

Image courtesy of Hayley Mechelle Bouchard. Her work can be found at Little Cat Photography, and on Our Contributors page.

The Shadow Within

I am the monster in the dark. The shadow under your bed, the lurking presence beyond the barred door. I am the sickness that lingers in closed air, the footprints that disappear beyond the body they have taken. I am night-terrors, the voice that whispers in your mind that your fears are more than superstition. My voice creeps up your spine, my fingers leave a trail of blood. I am danger, terror, the thrill of near-defeat and the despair when the fight has left you. I am stories and legends and whispers in firelight, never admitted but always felt.

There have been times when I have wished to be more; or perhaps less. But those times have never been, and the days creep longer. Every moment I slip into transforms me further into what I am imagined to be, and I grow tangled in their expectations. Each drop of blood proclaims, “It’s true, it’s true, it’s true.” When does my obedience become truth? When does the path I unwillingly walk seep under my skin, become who I am instead of what I am? Am I too stained by it ever to be washed free?

Is there, after all, an end to forgiveness?

A woman screams and the sound says yes. Yet the way they look at me with hope in their eyes says no, I will change you, this time it will be different, and somehow this difference will erase the years of agony, the empty years. Yet when I swallow those eyes, still proclaiming the hope they see in me, what do I then become?

What am I? And when will it be too late to continue to wonder, to see the hope and think… there are times… when I have wished to be more…

Today’s image comes to you courtesy of Rene Blais. Check out his work  on His Facebook Page, and see more about him on Lucid Dreaming’s Contributors Page.

 

Remnants

This is what he came down to. It fits in the small of my hand, these remnants. They’re meaningless. Hold no special significance. Two rings. An old key. A chain. Junk. Ephemera, never meant to hold this much weight. It isn’t me that makes them more. It’s the manila envelope, the weary wandering eyes of the man who hands it to me. It’s the cold plaster walls, empty tile floors. These baubles have been imbued, exalted by the finality of all they could have been. But won’t. Two rings. An old key. A chain. I can fit one on the middle finger of my left hand. It might mean something, probably doesn’t. It’s just a band of metal. If I sunk it into the depths of what I want it to be it would twist, distort, melt and slip away. I would have nothing, just an empty envelope. I give the key a story, make it tell tales about his gentle heart, the poetry he would write and the destroy at three a.m. after a night of drinking. Words I’ve lost but this can be a part of them, held in my memory. Except I know it’s not. It’s something he picked up on the walk, nothing he carried, nothing I could feel his presence on. It’s just two rings, an old key, the chain he wore around his neck the day I lost him.

Image courtesy of Hayley Mechelle Bouchard. Her work can be found at Little Cat Photography, and on Our Contributors page.

Damn Your Eyes

The back of the chair looks like a prison gate, and there’s a quality in her eyes I can’t bear to see.

“What?” she whispers.

I made her that hat. For some reason it’s all I can think. I made her that hat. It took me hours, days, weeks. I’m not much of a knitter, never could get into projects that take so long to bear any fruit, but for some reason, for her, I wanted to. Sylvia and I went shopping on a cold Tuesday morning in February, near the beginning of the month I think. I wanted to make it for a Valentine’s day present but Sylvia told me not to be an idiot, and she was right because it took two weeks just to learn a basic stitch. I gave her a pair of earrings instead. She said she liked them but I knew she didn’t, and even though she was trying to be sweet I hated it. I hated that she would lie just to spare me. I hated that I could tell. Why is her face so easy to read, when she never sees my own lies coming? How can she believe all the shit I spit out?

I never meant to hurt her.

She isn’t talking. Jesus Christ, she isn’t talking, does she want me to say it again? I barely got it out the first time I can’t say it again. And the way she’s looking at me – holy hell. Like a deer in headlights, like she’s just waiting for me to laugh, say it was all a joke. A stupid joke, sure, a mistimed joke, the kind of joke that rips your heart out and you never stop wondering if there was truth in and they just backed out before you could hear it… I could pretend it was that kind of joke.

She made the gloves. Why can’t I stop thinking about what she’s wearing? She’s lying on the ground like I shot her through the heart, like she actually fell off the chair, holding those – those – I can’t even remember what they’re called. Slats? – for dear life, and all I can think about is her wardrobe. That’s denial if I’ve ever heard it. It’s just, I hate that we’re both creative types, like we have to fit into some stupid stereotype, like why can’t you eat a piece of fucking red meat and still not want to date a guy? I wish one of us shaved our legs and cared about Manolo Blanic, but it’s not like I didn’t know when we started dating that she’d never read Vogue. I’m not even sure if that’s a magazine.

I have to say something. It’s getting awkward. She’s staring at me. I fell in love with her because of her eyes. How big they are, how brown, how perfectly sloped so that they look just a little exotic even though they’re not. I mean, she’s not, I mean, you know. It was her eyes I fell in love her. I never told her that because you’re supposed to tell people that you love them for their minds, and that’s good too, but what’s wrong with loving the surface? We see it every Goddamn day, don’t we? Let’s bring a little honesty into the world, I loved her eyes. I loved the way she wore her hair, the way she matched her lipstick to her clothes. I love her quirky sense of fashion and how she can smile with just her eyes. Those eyes. And now they’re staring at me and saying, take it back, take it back, laugh and make it go away. Take it back.

God, I can’t say it twice. I have to close my eyes. I can’t look into hers – I can’t say it twice.

“It’s over.”

 

Today’s image comes to you courtesy of Rene Blais. Check out his work  on His Facebook Page, and see more about him on Lucid Dreaming’s Contributors Page.