Queen Consort of Gloom

JournalWord: Storm

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The Queen Consort of Gloom is a leviathan of billowing cobalt clouds and vapor. Her face is obscured by her nebulous crown; curling over her taunt, pale cheekbones and sharp jaw.


Her shoulders are rounded, bony, blue in pallor, and hunched into her chest. They strain under the weight of her overcast headdress; neck elongated and exposed through the fog skimming over the top of her arched spine.


The mist lazily swirls over her pointed ears, crackling in the darker concentrations; building steam and smoke in its own condensed reaction. Her tracks are lazy under her skirts of dusty frost and vapor. They're unseen and soaking into the soil. She pauses her solemn trek through the mountains she towers, murky indigo lips, shaped like the clouds she reigns, sighing a puff of air that blows the snow piled on their peaks.


Like the goliath she is and with the thick air of a goddess, she freezes the landscape in a mixture of awe and horror. Successfully snatching back the breath of her spectators, she glares, her eyes dark and a storm in themselves.

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Poison Prince

JournalWord: He is poison.

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His first memory is war and starvation.

His next memory is of darkness and crying bodies.

He can hear the sobbing of other children beside him, quivering and howling in the pitch dark. He feels the walls behind him, pressing his hands against the rough stones of the cave. 

The howls and cries are so loud and don't stop for nights and days; time he can't decipher anymore.

 His tears of fear have dried from listening to the other children, and he can't find the heart to care about them. After fending for himself all his life on the merciless streets, scraping for days on rotten fruit and dried crumbs, this is an opportunity he must pull through with. 

They are feeding us, he reasons, and that is enough for him to ignore the cries and darkness. Just knowing that there is food to eat, albeit cold because he is squished far back by the walls, he can continue to bear with this hellish hole.

Slowly, his patience and perseverance prove worth when retching sounds start to intermingle with the screams and sobbing. The ground has become soft underneath him and he pushes away the thought of why. The bodies huddled and squished around him are losing their heat, so he pushes them away from him, without a care that they don't make a noise of protest.

The noises are silencing, and the sobbing cries are dwindling to whimpers that snuff out in due time. His food steadily becomes warmer by the time it gets to him until, finally, it comes served piping hot, straight from the oven to his waiting hands. 

He hasn't moved from his place from the back of the cave, eating whatever is given to him without a sound escaping his lips, even when the stomach pains ached for him to scream. The pain has long since passed, along with the cries, without any indication of it being present in the first place.  

He still eats, and the other children die beside him, spoons and bowls clattering around them, but he still eats until his spoon scrapes the bottom of his bowl.

When the first light peeks through the opening at the other end of the cave, a bellow hollers for any survivors to come get their meal. On shaky legs, he makes his first attempt to walk, ignoring the smell he has almost become accustomed to and the mounds of rustic clothes he has to walk over. 

He is met with surprised congratulations at the door and light, and when someone breaks through the crowd to rustle his long, dirty hair, their hand burns black. He passes by the scream and writhing body, walking through the silent path and heading for the table, towards the steaming pot. He sits on the bench, alone, and helps himself to the porridge, having not been fed in nearly two days. 

He has become the poison that he is fed.

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Blown Out Star

JournalWord: Burned out from revenge.

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The sky is a sea filled with stars, and he is the one fading sparkle in the depths, drowning in his own ambitions. The fire of his bitter regrets creep higher and higher, burning his flesh and blackening the edges of what little twisted soul he has been trying to salvage. 

It’s too beautiful a sight for something so tragic. Gazes are drawn away, in frequent intervals to document the destruction’s progress. The focus is on the tip of the blind side, just enough to watch the spectacular show. 

There is no applause, much less a sound to forgive. The crackling of the embers is enough to convey any last words. The flames welcome back their devil, releasing fireworks to the lowering sun as a reward. 

The horizon blinks it’s last wink of sunshine for the day and everything disperses. Coals glow, in solemn satisfaction, and the ashes flutter in the dead air, floating upwards toward the stars. They spend the night searching for a star that has burned itself out.

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What others would see of a man after he has accomplished his revenge.

I'm also on FictionPress now, so if you're on there as well, I'd love to read your stories :)
I'll be posting the stories from here there, but all my stories will originate from here (this is my original home and I'm not straying!).

~mera!

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Ax-Amore

JournalWord: She's sex.

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She's sex, with stiletto heels and dragging her bright red ax behind her. Her thin heels click on the tiles of the building's floor as she exits the elevator. Her hips sway, tantalizingly slow in her catwalk march away from the open metal doors and petrified man. 

The impeccably suited businessman's lips tremble, sporting her vibrant lipstick, tremendously confused and terrified as he brings a trembling hand to slick his hair back into its original gelled-down state. 

She doesn't look back when the doors completely close, instead, continues down the hall, sliding her ax over the tiles, hoping it will scratch. She regards the secretaries with a challenging smirk that sets them back down onto their seats when they notice the ax. She knows that security is going to be sent, so she better hurry this up. 

Interns drop their stacks of documents when she passes them, shocked into frozen spectators, moving out of her path with gaping mouths. She finds his office fairly easy and doesn't knock. When she opens the door, he's on the phone, face low to his desk, writing down as he amicably speaks to the person on the other end. He doesn't even look up from his papers when she closes the door. 

She softly tuts at his inattention and transfers the ax slowly so it rests comfortably between her manicured hands. Her fingers flex before hefting the ax up onto her shoulder. She walks forward towards his desk, and before he can fully acknowledge her presence, she slams the ax down. 

The ax chops through the wood of his jomocha desk, trapping the papers he was writing on as it embeds itself into the grain. The edge of the ax peeks through the wood, inches from his nose. The pen in his hand drops onto the desk, rolling to greet the ax that is inches away. 

He is silent when he lifts his head, and she greets him with a perfect, angelic smile, cracking open her devilish lips to display her pearly teeth. While he is still speechless, she pivots on the ball of her black heels so he can see the splash of crimson on her soles before she struts to the door. 

When she opens the door, security waits outside to swarm her, but she holds her hand up to stop them. They look into the office to see her damage and are as stunned as he is, producing a pathway for her in their shocked stupor. 

She sways her hips tantalizingly slow on her exit, a little smile on her vermilion lips. Her hand tosses her hair over her shoulder when she approaches the elevator, a coo of surprise when the man she had left in the elevator is still there, still stunned. She enters the elevator, presses the button for the ground floor and to close the door, and grabs the paralyzed man's unwrinkled tie to pull him in for a kiss.

***

I'm still thinking about red (teehee!). But I've got to say, this is my ideal woman, the epitome of sex: the devilish goddess. Now, how sexy is that! Everyone can feel sexy (especially when doing something down-right naughty and dangerous!), just need the self-confidence to achieve it.

Purposely lacking in description and detail, because, hey, this can be anyone. A dangerous smile and something that makes you feel pretty (seductive) is all that is needed. In this case, it's manicured nails and a pair of gorgeous shoes (I love-love-love shoes.).

I liked using words for surprise here, if you can tell ;P

Now, be good,

Mera ;)

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Sunshine Caress

JournalWord: What spring looks like.

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And it's still raining, as it has been, non-stop for the last three weeks. 

He pauses at the crosswalk, stopping a couple feet from a puddle that is continuously being disrupted by the vehicular traffic in front of him. His gray hood is pulled up to effectively shield the rain from tumbling down his leather jacket and his hands are stuffed into his jean pockets, clenching to generate a pin-prick of heat. He blows tiny clouds of steam from between his lips as he waits for the signal to cross, taking notice that someone has joined him in the rain. 

He can't remember what spring looks like, but if he had to guess, it would be her. 

Dressed in a powder blue raincoat and matching galoshes, she hums a soft, bright tune. Her pale hands grip a floral handbag that she swings against her thigh. Her other hand twirls a neon yellow umbrella between her pastel painted fingers and thumb. He stares, stunned as he realizes that she has pale pink, choppy hair that escapes the hood of her raincoat, framing her face and highlighting her earthy eyes. 

She notices his staring and smiles lightly in greeting, lifting her tiny, rose bud lips fleetingly. 

His heart lurches against his rib cage and he abruptly turns away, feeling ashamed. He can feel his face burning up from staring at the mystical creature beside him. He almost misses the signal to walk when he catches flashes of her light blue boots splashing through the street. 

Practically jogging to make it across before the cars crush him, he gathers the courage to peek at the spring being he had just witnessed. Her light steps bounce her yellow umbrella as she merges into the street crowds. He watches the beacon bob until it disappears among the other umbrellas, diminishing under the dreary sheets of rain and dark ponchos. 

A raindrop manages to slither down his throat and creep into the collar of his shirt. He shivers, turning away from the girl again, and clutches at his collar to deflect any other clever raindrops. He trudges on into a street crowd, disappearing without the same ambiance of a beacon of hope.

***

I love the image of pale, pink hair. It's just so ethereal and beautiful, almost angel-like. And I wish I could have my own cute collection of umbrellas! I live in a semi-desert that rains very briefly, unlike where I grew up, which is famous for it's rain :) I miss the rainy season and I have to say that fall and spring are my favorite seasons! The perfect combination of cool and warm (and excellent for sweaters! Gotta love sweaters!).

Reviews would be appreciated, please!

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