goblinswamps

[goblinswamps]

the longing woman’s curse

The longing woman’s curse, they called it. “Watch not the ocean with longing in your heart, for she will respond in kind, and her call cannot be ignored,” Grandmama told you, stern and sincere, but when you told your mother she ruffled your short hair and said, fondly, “Don’t listen to her folk tales, baby. She likes to scare you. She did the same to me, when I was your age.”

“Did you watch the ocean?” you asked, and she shifted in place.

“It didn’t appeal to me anyway,” she said, and changed the subject.

You watched the ocean, straying there more and more as things worsened at home. Your father liked to hurt, liked to control, and your mother was just too frightened to even acknowledge her husband’s ways. She didn’t stop him hurting and controlling, and home was not somewhere safe.

You watched the ocean. The waves ushering each other closer to the shore, whispering against the pebbles and sand of the cove by your home. Sometimes, crashing against them as though the ocean herself was enraged, trying to fight back against the people who hurt and polluted her. You felt a kinship, there. If you could have crashed like the waves against your father, you would have.

Watch not the ocean with longing in your heart, Grandmama told you, but you could not stop. The ocean understood you in ways your family could not, and Grandmama was too sick to live with you all now. Her home was miles and miles away, two hours by bus, and you had not the money or the time to visit. You were alone, but for the ocean.

You sat, submerged to the waist, and watched the horizon. “Why don’t you respond?” you asked, pressing a hand to the sand beneath you, but the ocean didn’t answer.

What you didn’t know is that the ocean, old as the world itself, does not move quickly. She does not hurry herself for anyone, and her responses are impossible to discern until it is too late. You did not know what the longing woman’s curse was, and yet you invited it with all your heart.

The ocean heard, as she had been hearing for the years you told her your heart, and her response began to come.

It was barely something you could notice, at first; you thought perhaps you had a cold, some kind of infection. Your breath rasped through your lungs, sending you into bouts of hacking coughs. It got worse and worse until you felt like you were drowning on air, every drag of it into your system scraping against your throat. Your parents didn't have much money, but they took you to the doctor, and he had no idea what was wrong.

“This is like nothing I have ever seen before,” he said, frowning. “You need to see a specialist.”

You didn't have the money for a specialist. Your parents took you home, and you wondered if you were dying. The skin on the sides of your neck was itchy and raw all the time, no matter what you tried to soothe it, and after a few months the skin all over your body felt stretched tight, as though it was too small for your body. You gained a little weight in your abdomen and lost a little in your chest and thighs, but the fluctuation did not make the tightness understandable. It wasn't enough to feel like this.

The first time you threw up your dinner moments after eating it, you sat with your head in the toilet bowl and sobbed for hours. Your father, unsure of how to treat you now that you were too fragile to bear his fists, gave you a wide berth, and your mother's touches were fleeting, worried but more frightened of your sickness than yearning to comfort you. You felt completely alone, but this time there was no better future in sight. You were going to die, alone, and you didn't even know why.

You started eating less, finding that fish and vegetables stayed down easier than carbohydrates and meats, but found that your weight maintained itself despite this, which was a relief. You spent more time by the sea, nestled in the sand, watching the ocean and wishing that things were different.

It had been months since you first became sick. Your hair was greasy, your skin dry, your stomach empty. Your heart hollow. You perched on the edge of a rock pool and watched the seaweed wave in the faintest trace of a current, the sand shifting in ripples. A crab made its careful way from one rock to another across the pool, and before you knew it your hand was around its hard little body, clutching tight. It pinched you, drawing blood, but it barely even hurt – your teeth were already cracking through its shell by the time you registered the pain. You didn't think, just kept crunching, feeling the shards cut the roof of your mouth. You finished eating, swallowed, and suddenly realised what you had done; it made your stomach lurch with fear and horror, and you hunched forwards to retch into the sand.

The longing woman's curse, you thought, Grandmama's warning in your head. Shit.

In the middle of the night, you took all the money you could find in the house and took a bus to your Grandmama's care home. You arrived in the early hours, long before visiting was allowed, and waited on the front step for hours until the sun peeked over the horizon and a startled nurse found you sat there, still as a stone. The nurse led you inside and brought your Grandmama to you; you knew she had always been an early riser, so the fact that she was already awake was not a surprise.

“Grandmama,” you said, croaking, and she came across the room to take your hands in hers, her soft, wrinkled skin brushing against the sandpaper of your palms.

“Oh, child,” she said, tears in her eyes, “You didn't listen, did you?”

“She's coming for me, isn't she?” you asked. Grandmama shook her head, touching your face with her trembling hands. Her eyes were full of sadness deeper than you had ever seen.

“She has already come,” Grandmama said softly. “She has already taken you, sweet child. You are already hers.”

“It hurts,” you whispered, pressing your cheeks against her palms. “Oh, Grandmama. It hurts so much.”

“You must go to her, my darling,” Grandmama said. “You called for her, and she always listens. You must finish what you have started.”

“I'm scared,” you said, feeling salty tears roll down your cheeks.  She wiped them away.

“If she has come for you, that means you have loved her,” Grandmama said. “She will only come if you have loved her, and she has loved you in return. The ocean is the mother of the Earth, and the mother of all of us, and she is taking you to be one of her children. Once you have gone it won't hurt anymore, I promise. But you can never come back.”

“I'll never see you again?”

Grandmama smiled.

“Perhaps someday,” she said. “But it will be a long, long time. You don't have long left, my child. You must go to her before the longing kills you.”

She kissed you, not minding the roughness of your skin. You blinked without blinking, and Grandmama stroked your human eyelids with her thumbs. “Oh, my darling, you are barely still human,” she told you. “Look at your sharp little teeth, your bright eyes, your smooth-rough skin. Your neck...” She touched where it was red and raw and you flinched back with a hiss, and she hummed. “The air is killing you. I will always love you, my angel, my little star. Go home.”

You did. The ocean cradled you like a mother's arms; you sat in her embrace and it soothed the itching of your tight skin, the dry scratch of air in your bruised throat. “You responded,” you murmured to her. “I called for you, and you really came.” The waves brushed against your collarbones, whispering their unspoken song. A tear rolled down your cheek to join her. “Thank you,” you said, spreading your fingers underneath the surface and feeling her rush between them, holding you tenderly.

Go home, said your Grandmama's voice. You sank underneath the water.

Many years later, you found yourself drawn back to that little cove, having travelled the whole ocean and realised that it was where you were meant to be all along. Never before had you come back - there was nothing here for you – but when the ocean called, you followed. She had never steered you wrong before, your oceanmother, and you trusted that she was calling you there for a purpose.

When you breached, the waters clinging to you like a second skin, you spotted a figure at the edge of the waves, hunched and small. It was one that you would recognise anywhere in a heartbeat.

“Grandmama!” you called out, feeling your heart leap, and dived towards her, the water speeding you along, feeling your excitement. She looked up, the lines in her face even deeper than when you last saw her, the last wisps of white hair barely clinging to her scalp, and smiled.

“My child,” she said, once again placing her wrinkled hands against your cheeks. “Oh, how you suit her.”

“Grandmama, why are you here?” you asked. “I've dreamed of this moment for so long!”

“I have come here to die,” Grandmama said simply. “I have lived long enough on the land. I am tired.”

Your throat tightened. “Grandmama,” you said, but found yourself unable to continue. “Grandmama.”

“It's alright,” Grandmama said gently. “I have lived for just as long as I was meant to. You know,” she said, looking out at the horizon, “I heard her call myself, when I was young. I ignored her. I had met your grandfather, and fallen in love with him, and I decided that I would not stare at the waves lest they took me from him. I never regretted that.” She looked directly at you, fond. “But I always did wonder what it might have been like, if I had called back. If she had come, and I had gone.”

“It's wonderful, Grandmama,” you said, voice thick with tears. “You would love it.”

“Ah, it is too late now,” Grandmama said. “I have chosen my life, and lived it, and been happy. If I had gone to the ocean, you would never have been born, and I can never regret you. All I want is for you to let her have my final breath, and then you must take me to the most beautiful place you have ever seen and lay me there to rest. My bones will be where I never went, and the ocean will have me, as I think she was always meant to.”

“No,” you said. “This is not the end. Grandmama, there is so much for you to see. Underwater caverns and vents and fish with the most beautiful colours you've ever seen, shipwrecks resting at the very bottom of the ocean.”

“I have run out of time,” Grandmama said, tone soothing, but you shook your head.

“The ocean will not let one of her children die,” you said firmly. “Even if you strayed from her. It's time, Grandmama. It's time to answer the call.”

You leaned forwards and pressed your lips against her forehead, pulling her as you did so so that she fell forwards into the water, your body supporting hers. You closed your eyes, and sensed that she had done the same. “It's time, Grandmama,” you said again, pressing your foreheads against each other, and when you opened your eyes hers were bright with ocean magic.

#My writing #mermaids #mermaid #writers on tumblr #original fiction #ocean

[goblinswamps]

Tooth fairies are a smaller and friendlier subspecies of the larger and much more hostile bone fairies.

#inspiration

[goblinswamps]

Watch not the ocean with longing in your heart, Grandmama told you, but you could not stop. The ocean understood you in ways your family could not, and Grandmama was too sick to live with you all now. Her home was miles and miles away, two hours by bus, and you had not the money or the time to visit. You were alone, but for the ocean.

You sat, submerged to the waist, and watched the horizon. “Why don’t you respond?” you asked, pressing a hand to the sand beneath you, but the ocean didn’t answer.

What you didn’t know is that the ocean, old as the world itself, does not move quickly. She does not hurry herself for anyone, and her responses are impossible to discern until it is too late. You did not know what the longing woman’s curse was, and yet you invited it with all your heart.

The ocean heard, as she had been hearing for the years you told her your heart, and her response began to come.

[an excerpt from a current writing mini-project!]

#my writing

[goblinswamps]

#long post #writing #ref

[goblinswamps]

Skins New and Old

(a short work of fiction by me about lesbian dragons, ty to Katza and Payton for reading it over ily)

Keep reading

#friends writing #PLEASE read this

[goblinswamps]

I lived in an old Victorian house near a lake. The world was ending. The sky was made of colors that do not exist, but I can somehow still remember them, just at the edges of my brain. There was fire and zombie-like creatures. The only way to escape was to follow the creatures that lured me towards the lake. I knew, somehow, they had caused this all to happen, but I wanted to go with them so bad. 

#inspiration

[goblinswamps]

“Howdy sir, can I top you up?”

Abigail wraps her hands around her mug and smiles thinly, the chapstick on her lips feeling suddenly too slick. “No, thanks,” she says, even though her mug is barely half-full at this point, all the warmth leaching out and into her palms. “I’m good.”

“Me too,” Max pipes up before they can be asked. “Can we get some fries, though?”

“Sure thing!” the waitress says brightly – her nametag says Lauren, but Abigail isn’t feeling particularly generous. She focuses on the smoothness of the mug under her fingers, the chip in the rim where the diner doesn’t have enough spare cash to buy new ceramics, and tries to filter out the click-click-click of the waitress’ heels as she walks towards the kitchen. Max leans over and takes her hand.

“The fries are better than the service,” Max promises, smiling apologetically. Abigail swallows the heavy feeling in her stomach and musters up a smile in return.

“It’s okay,” she says. It sounds hollow.

“It’s not,” Max says, expression suddenly serious. “Here, finish off my coffee. I can feel myself getting all jittery with caffeine; I’ll probably have a heart attack or something if I drink much more.” They pour the rest of their coffee into Abigail’s mug, slopping a little over the side and grimacing as they grab a handful of napkins to mop it up. “Shit, sorry. Did I get you?”

Abigail smiles again, more genuinely this time. “No, you’re good. Incurably clumsy, though.”

“Clumsiest bitch alive,” Max proclaims proudly, tossing their dark hair over their shoulder and then making a face. “You got a tie?”

Abigail hands over one of the hair ties clinging to her wrist, watching Max’s clumsy fingers tie their hair into a neat ponytail with uncharacteristic deftness. It’s one of the things they never seem to fumble, for some reason. Abigail pretends she doesn’t find it as endearing as she does.

“Cheers,” Max says, letting the hairband snap into place and pulling out a couple of strands near the front to frame their round face.

“No problem,” Abigail says, and tries not to think about how soft she knows Max’s hair is, the smell of the coconut shampoo they use because it keeps their hair moisturised better than expensive brands even though it’s one of the cheapest out there. “What did you wanna talk about?”

“Oh, I- let’s have our fries first, yeah? I’m starving.”

“…Sure,” Abigail says, even though their fries are probably a good ten minutes away and she’s been dying to know what Max is thinking ever since she got their text to meet here. “How’s your day gone so far?”

Max, looking perceptibly grateful, seizes on the topic immediately. “I didn’t wake up until like 2pm, honestly,” they admit, grinning. Abigail hides a laugh behind her mug, taking a gulp of lukewarm coffee. “Dad was yelling about something so I snuck out the window and spent a few hours in the woods. Hey, you wanna see the bones I found?”

“No! Gross, you haven’t even cleaned them yet!” Abigail says, wrinkling her nose, laughing as she dodges what looks like a dirty bird skull as Max thrusts it towards her. “Is that just in your pocket? You got pockets full of bones in the middle of this respectable diner?”

The waitress, who was bringing their fries over with a smile, pauses as she reaches the table and hears that sentence, her hesitant look morphing to horror when she sees the skull in Max’s hand. Abigail thinks there might still be some flesh on this one, if she looks closely, which she decides not to do.

“Fries,” the waitress says quickly, almost throwing them onto the table and fast-walking away.

“Thanks!” Max shouts after her, and abruptly they and Abigail are both laughing too hard to breathe, Max’s hand almost crushing the bird skull before they shove it back in the plastic bag in their pocket so they can press their knuckles against their eyes. “Did you see her fucking face? Oh my god…”

“Max! Don’t touch your face with your dead bird hand, come here-” Abigail gets out the hand sanitiser she’s been carrying around pretty much ever since they met, because Max has a habit of getting themself into improbable and unhygienic situations on the regular. Max holds out the hand and lets Abigail squirt some sanitiser into their palm, smacking their hands together a couple of times before rubbing it into their skin.

“Thanks, Abi,” they say fondly. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“Yeah, well,” Abigail says, flustered as always by the affectionate tone. “Can’t have you getting necrogerms all over these apparently delicious fries, can I?” She takes one and bites into it and jeez, Max wasn’t kidding – they’re crunchy on the outside, fluffy and soft on the inside, perfectly salted and maybe even lightly dusted with paprika? Abigail finishes the fry in one bite and immediately takes another, dipping it in the provided paper cup of ketchup. “These are so good!”

“Told you,” Max says smugly, taking a fry of their own and biting decisively into it, a flash of sharp teeth. Their tongue darts out to lick up a smear of grease on their broad lips; Abigail averts her eyes. “Okay, so. What I wanted to talk about.”

“Yeah?” Abigail says encouragingly. She watches Max squash a few fries together into one gross, salty, oily lump and shove the whole thing in their mouth. They must be nervous; their eating habits get grosser when they’re anxious.

“Okay, so,” Max says again, “What I wanted to talk about. Okay, so,” and then blurts out in a rush, “I have a crush on you,” through a mouthful of potato. Abigail chokes on her food.

“What?”

“I have a crush on you!” Max says again, their eyebrows pushed together, their eyes screwing shut as though they can’t bear to see Abigail’s response. “I’ve had a crush on you for months and I super don’t want to make this weird and shit but whenever we hang out I just want to kiss you and hold your hand and I can’t stop thinking about what if you were my girlfriend, y’know? It’s okay if you don’t like me that way, honestly, I can deal and I’d rather be friends than not be anything, but I just wanted to tell you in case you, y’know, also maybe like me, but if not then-”

“Oh my god,” Abigail interrupts. “You like me? Like, romantically?”

Max makes a noise like something on the verge of a really painful death. “Augh, yes!”

“Like…” Abigail lowers her voice. “Sexually?”

Max makes a noise like something that is currently experiencing that really painful death. “Do you have t- yes! Romantically, sexually, all of that. God. I want to kiss you and-” There’s a blush rising in the olive skin of their cheeks. “- I want to, ugh, make out with you, and fucking… take you out on dates, and buy you gifts, and do all of that gross shit with you. I want to feed you strawberries on a picnic blanket on a hill, and play your weird porn games-“

“They’re dating sims, not porn!” Abigail defends automatically, a well-worn argument. Max’s eyes open and they flash an unusually shy smile, the familiarity of the protest seeming to soothe their nerves.

“Whatever they are, I wanna play them with you. I want to watch horror movies with you even though they scare my ass clean off; I want to do anything and everything you want together. I know we’ve only known each other for like, a year, but I really, really like you, and I just… thought I should tell you. I think I’m kind of in love with you?”

“Oh,” Abigail says, stunned.

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

“Did I ruin everything? Fuck, I did, didn’t I, let’s just pretend I didn’t say anything and we can-“

“It’s been a year and three months,” Abigail interrupts. “That’s how long we’ve known each other. I put it into my phone a while back so I’d know our friendiversary.”

“Aw,” Max says. “Gay.”

“Yeah, actually,” Abigail says, aiming for casual and missing it completely. “For about 8 months, now.”

“Wait. Wait a fucking s- you like me? Like, girlfriend-like?”

“Yeah,” Abigail says, grinning. “Why do you think I keep stealing your clothes?”

“Oh my god… I thought that was just because your parents wouldn’t buy you feminine clothes and mine won’t buy me anything else!”

“I like wearing your clothes! I steal your plaid all the time, too, not just the feminine stuff. Not that I don’t appreciate you letting me keep the fem stuff,” she adds. “But I’d totally have stolen half your wardrobe even if your parents let you have all the butch stuff you want.”

“You bitch!” Max exclaims, laughing. “I can’t believe you’ve been using your shitty parents as an excuse to steal all my stuff!”

“I didn’t know you felt the same!” Abigail says defensively. “I just like smelling like your cologne, but I couldn’t exactly just say that!”

“Oh my- we are the epitome of useless lesbians,” Max groans, dropping their head to smack against the table. “I could’ve kissed you 8 whole months ago?”

“I mean, you still haven’t kissed me now, let alone 8 months ago,” Abigail says, hoping that Max will take it as the challenge it is. They do, of course, smiling in a way that’s somehow both sharp and soft, standing up to come round to Abigail’s side of the booth. Abigail shuffles towards the window to give them room to sit down; they do, kneeling on the soft padding of the bench and reaching out to take Abigail’s sweaty hands in theirs. Their almost-black eyes are mesmerising this close, the dark freckles clustered across their nose individually visible in a way that they aren’t from across a table.

“Hey,” they say softly, pressing their thumbs against Abigail’s palms, both of them just taking a moment to appreciate skin against skin, the intimacy of the movement spellbinding.

“Hey,” Abigail says, voice hoarse and stuttering. She’s been thinking about kissing Max for so long, been daydreaming about it looking at their lips, but now that the moment is here she thinks she might pass out with nerves before Max can even kiss her.

“You okay?” Max says, tone still so gentle. Abigail is suddenly glad the diner is so quiet, so empty; she doesn’t want anyone else seeing this.  

“I’m just… nervous,” Abigail confesses. “I’ve only ever kissed one person before. What if I-”

“I’ve been wanting to kiss you for months,” Max interrupts. “You could probably sprout fucking tentacles at this point and I wouldn’t care.”

“Oh, well, in that case I should probably tell you,” Abigail starts, trying and failing to keep a serious expression; Max’s eyes crinkle at the corners, their lips curving upwards, and then there’s soft, warm pressure against Abigail’s mouth. Max kisses her gently, their hands reaching up to cup Abigail’s jaw, not seeming to care about the roughness of her skin, the bump of a nearly-healed scab against their fingertips where Abigail cut herself shaving a few days ago. Their lips taste of coconut, just like their hair smells of it, and for a second Abigail forgets to even kiss back, so caught up in how good they feel that her brain goes completely offline. Max pulls back ever so slightly and whispers, “This is usually a two-person thing, Abi,” against her lips, and they both laugh quietly for a second.

“But you were doing so great by yourself,” Abigail murmurs. Max laughs a little louder, tucking their face against her neck and snaking a hand down to hold one of Abigail’s again, both their palms kinda sweaty now. Abigail doesn’t even care; it’s perfect.

“Dork,” they say, and now the fondness in it takes a different meaning, one that makes Abigail’s chest feel a little too big and too small all at once.

“You love it,” she says, daring to press a kiss to the top of Max’s head.

Max lifts their head to press another kiss to Abigail’s cheek. “Damn right I do.”

#original #ocs #lesbiansafe #lgbt #lgbt fiction #pthbt.. i dont know if theres any tags for lesbian writers on here :pensive:

[goblinswamps]

The ghost hums in thought. "I used to eat a lot when I was alive. I cooked almost every day."

"What kind of stuff?" They blow a smoke ring; the ghost looks impressed.

"I liked baking, mostly different cakes. Red velvet was my specialty." He sighs. "I'd die to be able to bake again."

"That might be tough, seeing as you're already dead."

"Okay, fine, wise guy," he says. "I'd come back to life to be able to bake again. There's a lot I miss."

"Like what?"

"Kissing," he says without hesitation. "Nobody wants to kiss a ghost. Baking. Going shopping with my sister. Holding my cats. I can pet cats, but I can't hold them anymore. They're too heavy for me."

There's a pause. "I'm sorry," they say. "I wish we could swap places. I think I'd like being dead."

"It's nice sometimes," he admits. "I sit here and watch the sunrise through the gap in the trees. People talk to me sometimes, about the loved ones they're coming to visit. Someone left me a beer, last time, and it wasn't the same but it was still pretty good. I always liked vodka better though."

"Yeah, me too," they say, grinding the butt of the cigarette under their heel.

"But it's lonely," he continues. "I had friends, y'know? Even if I was too caught up in being miserable to know it. They come by, sometimes, but they think they failed me. They've stopped coming, as the months have passed. They feel too guilty to see me, and I'm easy to avoid when I'm bound to this dumb graveyard." He kicks half-heartedly at his grave. "I can't feel the sun on my skin anymore. I can't hug my mum, or go to a theme park and ride all the rollercoasters over and over until I feel more in tune with the adrenaline of the sky than the reality of the ground. I can't do so much, and I didn't even realise I wanted to do any of it until it was too late. I should've stuck it out. Just a little bit longer, and I think I would've been okay. I was overwhelmed. It was too much, and I let it destroy me."

"I don't think you let it do anything," they say, pulling a pack of gum from their pocket. "It's too strong, sometimes. Being dead's given you time to think, but you didn't have that when you were alive. It doesn't mean you were weak - it just means everything else was too strong. And happening too fast. Too much."

"I guess. I just feel like I wasted it."

"Wasted what?"

"My life? My opportunities. I could've been happy, eventually. Everything was just so dark and bleak and fucking hopeless, and I couldn't see an end."

"Is that why you're still here?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you said you feel like you wasted it. Maybe you're still here so you can still kind of live a little. You can still drink, and watch sunrises, and smoke, and have friends. Be a dumbass goth. Like me. We're not all that different, beyond the obvious."

"Are we friends?"

"Do you wanna be?"

"Yeah. Do you?"

"Yeah, man. You're cool. And dead, which is the most goth thing ever. You're like, an ultra-goth. I can’t believe you died wearing all black.”

He shrugs. “Aesthetic, man. Hey, can I have some gum?”

#original #graveyard kids #smoking #suicide #ask to tag

[goblinswamps]

it’s 2am and i spent 3 hours writing this self-indulgent little oc thing, featuring kids belonging to @leviathxns and i (sal, the best boy, is his)! posting now after a quick proofread, but apologies for any mistakes i may have missed i’ve eaten so many coffee beans and it’s. y’know. 2 in the morning and i had to reformat the whole thing to post, bleh

tw for gore/body horror, unreality, some surreal/creepy stuff, blood, hypnosis & death but uh. i promise its good hgfdjsds

the songs in the scenes where i mention songs are here n here! 

Keep reading

#original #ocs

[goblinswamps]

icarus hears of apollo, the sun god lighting the days of the people and bringing life and warmth to the earth below, and he wonders.

"i wonder if apollo is handsome," he muses aloud one evening. his father laughs.

"it matters not what he looks like," his father replies. "he will burn you before you can see his face."

icarus' expression sets, determined. "i will be the first person to ever see apollo in his full glory," he says. "i will meet him in the apex of the sky, and kiss him on his fiery lips."

"it will be your death," says his father.

"i don't care," says icarus, and sets about designing his wings.

it takes him months on end of unrelenting work, candle wax burning his fingertips until he barely has feeling in them anymore. he spends weeks collecting feathers from the farms closest to his home, then painstakingly cleaning them and fixing them to his handmade frame.

"you won't come back down alive," says his father. icarus smiles, too many teeth gleaming white in the midday sun. he can feel it beating down on his back, setting coals smouldering under his skin, like apollo is calling.

"maybe i'll come back something more," he says.

icarus climbs to the top of the tallest cliff he can find, wings strapped to his back, and throws himself off with a cry of exaltation.

he plunges downwards, plummeting towards the ocean so fast that all he can hear is the screaming of the wind in his ears; he snaps his wings open at the last second, his toes skimming the waves, and hears the wood creak with the strain of stopping his descent. for a moment it seems they'll snap, his skyward journey ended before it's even begun, and then he's soaring up, up, up, the clouds rushing down to meet him halfway. he bursts through them in a puff of cool water against his feverishly hot skin, laughing breathlessly as he sweeps his arms downwards. the wings propel him upwards, closer and closer to the sun above, and as his muscles strain he begins to see the outline of a man, bronze-skinned and muscled.

"apollo!" icarus calls, mouth dry with rushing air. "apollo!"

apollo, leaning against the sun with the careless arrogance only a god can manage, peers down. icarus feels his skin start to burn. he pushes harder.

"apollo!"

icarus is barely a moment away, now, and he can see apollo in all his glory, haloed by the sun he commands. his skin is smooth, like a statue, and seems almost to glow; his eyes burn with the brightness of the sun itself, leaving spots behind icarus' eyelids when he blinks; he wears a loincloth the colour of fresh-churned butter, and his full lips are turned up in one corner.

one fine-boned hand reaches down. "i've been watching," says apollo. "i've been waiting."

"i am here!" icarus rasps, the heat of the air scalding his throat, the smell of cooking flesh heavy in his nostrils.

apollo still smiles, but there is somehow something sad in his burning eyes. "you cannot stay," he says, as his fingertips touch the tip of icarus' wing, and icarus realises with horror that his wings have begun to melt and blacken in the god's heat. "my brave little angel."

icarus falls.

#my writing #icarus #apollo #greek mythology