Floréal Xandra Keeni :: D6 :: DONE

Floréal Xandra Keeni :: D6 :: DONE May 1, 2012 5:54:45 GMT -5

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Post by meg. on May 1, 2012 5:54:45 GMT -5

Everything.

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But, swallow your lips, and you can hear Them.

The winter stream tugs at her hair, paints it a darker shade of cream, tries to take her away. She attempts to deflate her potbelly, to whittle herself so she is but a feather, but her brachiums extend- cobbled roads- for far too long. Perhaps if she weighs less, she can be with them. Can be beautiful, like them. But her meals are already fairy meals- blinking grapes, a petticoat of lettuce, a unguis of ham. Her ribs already protrude, a procession of cursive ‘e’s. The grunge of the riverbank she lies on feels so elegant. She can feel the dirt seeping under her tissue-paper skin, staining each erythrocyte. Artificial vibrancy of blood is replaced by filthy musical life. It passes through her taunt peals of waterproofer towards her organs. She is surprised that they work, really. They are not hers, after all- just borrowed. Just borrowed.

One after the other, her ponded eyes tooth-wiggle open. A fresh-faced sun opens its hand at the very furthest point of her vision. It darts past the forest’s guards to thicken her delicate features- piping nose, naked lashes, bottom palpebral thick with a million years worth of tears. They are so, because they hold the magic potion of emotion. The salt that dries so often on her face is her own perfect potion- she just cannot yet use it.

Slowly, she crumples her spine up from its lying position. Cervical, thoracic, lumbar, sacral, coccygeal. The last word is hot soup, pushed through the sides of her mouth. The way they convulse and echo in her mind is beautiful. It makes her sternum jump, and the ravines behind her clavicles quake. If only these words would be in miniature, no bigger than two millimetres, they would be perfect. Foetally, she sits, and if it were not for the rise and fall of her wormy belly one might believe that she were not even human. Indeed, to her own, perception, she is not.

Now, before the Ignorant wake, but as the worlds eyes lie wide open: now is Their time.

Tender carpals bound in petal-coloured ribbons push her to her feet. She walks silently, her heels never once touching the ground. And yet, she does not wobble- meditatively, her bare toes glide over the mossy ground, looking for them. Pine needles prick at their bare soles- far too bare, for a girl who does not wear shoes. In her satin purse that she takes to school is a grater- intended for cheese and other such delicacies, but works on feet just as well. In her breaks, she whittles away at the rough dermis, trying to perfect her body piece by piece. One time a girl had walked in on her, and gave her a narrow look that stank of everything that Floréal was trying to avoid. The girl awoke the next morning half-drowned in an ocean of nostaligic drug-fog and with grazes along her cheekbones.

This morning, it does not take long before her first sighting. The creature sits upon an accord, blue-frosted by mould. She points at it, gesturing to no one in particular, and to all those that don’t believe her. But when she looks back again, it has gone, fluttered into the Never. Perhaps she moved to fast, scared it off. Cursing, she vows to move slower next time. It is one more thing that she must bring to perfection.

She doesn’t understand why they don’t believe her. Surely, her family at least would have the patience to stop for a while and watch these creatures that have consumed the girls life. The anger that they cannot stand still long enough to see the disgustingly wonderful beauty that she can sits heavily in her ilum. She is but a new leaf, falling on the surface of the stream- not even heavy enough to have her ripples touch those around her.

Sometimes, the anger from this total ignorance burns so hard, it creeps to her mandible, and her ethmoid. Although she can think of times where she used to release this pressure through gathering other’s skin follicles under her fingernails, now she sits with ‘Thorpes’ Medical Encyclopedia’ between her folded femurs, and writes out the name of each part of her far-too-human body in the tiniest script she can manage, hoping that somehow that part will too become miniature, and she will join Them, somewhere in the forest that she loves so much.

Where she comes from, it’s a mad house. The energy of all the humanity in there agitates her, a canary in a cage, and so she spends most of her time in the forest that her house is scratched into. Here, she can be sane, working away to reach the perfection that They hold. For as long as she can remember They have been her friends, her playmates, her guidance. And although she has never actually made contact, she knows what They want her to do, so that she can be like Them. Her aspiration one day is to be the size of her words- necessary, no more. Her days have been compacted into the molecules inside a tablet, and she cannot place them in an order. Instead, memories are recalled from a lottery behind her patellas.

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