Child of Winter (little writing that you may think worth the read)
AsPrivilegedAsAWhore
Posts: 109
In the first few months of winter it's easy to tell the path from the grey and sullen wick. But now as the second month swiftly freezes the rats out of their homes, the surface bleeds. Bleeds of pale green. The snow falls through a sift... sprinkling gently on the rims of iced flyer wagons and the snouts of docile pups. The grass still glows thick... bright as spring would carry, but so pale under the sheets of winter.
Children slip along the spots they had once hosted picnics with tea. Dragging their zippers to a choke... tis the time to build up castles. Mother would scurry out, cloaked in floral apron of the missing season, clutching with shielded composure a pot of steam. Through the thickness of the drapes I kept hung to elude the reflection of the winter... I could see the children bite off their gloves and reach for the rising heat. Scooping up snow as they went for the pot... dipping into the sweet flowing watering hole. Such sweet syrup for such a rotten clan.
Peeling away I found myself looking with my hands for a pain. Clinging to the hopeful presence of my comfort in the distance. I squeezed so tight, the blood drew from my palms. I fell to the sink... hit on the cold... I cannot bare to use the heat for cleansing anymore. I watched my hands turn to a purple shrivel of stink as the frozen pipes followed my command to the fullest. My fingernails still laced with blood, I stole back to the window. Though the only place I find true comfort in this hole, I've yet to rape it with the garnish of cushion. Not even a pillow or feather of warmth. Instead I find comfort in theirs.
The children licked the rims of their mouths as they ignored the snot dripping blood to their lips and the blackening of their toes. Their fingers crack and break at the tossing of ice... but they feel none of it. So numb that all they know is joy. Darting into the streets as their tweed clad bringers watch with not a smile of worry. Such cult the winter brings. Seems if you've still the ability to think for your young. Winter is the best time to share in frozen smiles.
~EL
Children slip along the spots they had once hosted picnics with tea. Dragging their zippers to a choke... tis the time to build up castles. Mother would scurry out, cloaked in floral apron of the missing season, clutching with shielded composure a pot of steam. Through the thickness of the drapes I kept hung to elude the reflection of the winter... I could see the children bite off their gloves and reach for the rising heat. Scooping up snow as they went for the pot... dipping into the sweet flowing watering hole. Such sweet syrup for such a rotten clan.
Peeling away I found myself looking with my hands for a pain. Clinging to the hopeful presence of my comfort in the distance. I squeezed so tight, the blood drew from my palms. I fell to the sink... hit on the cold... I cannot bare to use the heat for cleansing anymore. I watched my hands turn to a purple shrivel of stink as the frozen pipes followed my command to the fullest. My fingernails still laced with blood, I stole back to the window. Though the only place I find true comfort in this hole, I've yet to rape it with the garnish of cushion. Not even a pillow or feather of warmth. Instead I find comfort in theirs.
The children licked the rims of their mouths as they ignored the snot dripping blood to their lips and the blackening of their toes. Their fingers crack and break at the tossing of ice... but they feel none of it. So numb that all they know is joy. Darting into the streets as their tweed clad bringers watch with not a smile of worry. Such cult the winter brings. Seems if you've still the ability to think for your young. Winter is the best time to share in frozen smiles.
~EL
They filled me full of drink
And led me round the rooms
Naked and cold and grinning
Until everything went black
And I came down spinning
I awoke so drunk and full of rage
That I could hardly speak
A fag in a whale bone corset
Draping his dick across my cheek
And its into the shame
And led me round the rooms
Naked and cold and grinning
Until everything went black
And I came down spinning
I awoke so drunk and full of rage
That I could hardly speak
A fag in a whale bone corset
Draping his dick across my cheek
And its into the shame
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Comments
Otherwise the story has a brooding, sustained menace. Most notable to me in this piece is the psychology of the narrator/watcher/outsider who cannot feel what the others feel in their winter scene, and can only experience their ontological presence and vitality through immersion in lacerating physical pain:
"Peeling away I found myself looking with my hands for a pain. Clinging to the hopeful presence of my comfort in the distance. I squeezed so tight, the blood drew from my palms. I fell to the sink... hit on the cold... I watched my hands turn to a purple shrivel of stink as the frozen pipes followed my command to the fullest. My fingernails still laced with blood, I stole back to the window. Though the only place I find true comfort in this hole, I've yet to rape it with the garnish of cushion. Not even a pillow or feather of warmth."
Thanks for this, APAAW.