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Literature Text
You gave me breath.
I took from you the peace
I carry between my shoulder blades,
arching my back as I walk.
You bleed into me persistently,
a transfusion of soul
from one friend to another.
I wonder, then, if I renew you,
or if you sift away:
an hourglass, filling slowly,
top to bottom, bit by bit, with air.
I took from you the peace
I carry between my shoulder blades,
arching my back as I walk.
You bleed into me persistently,
a transfusion of soul
from one friend to another.
I wonder, then, if I renew you,
or if you sift away:
an hourglass, filling slowly,
top to bottom, bit by bit, with air.
Literature
Antes
We are We, the Hunters of greatest knowledge and spell-blood. We use spell-words to hunt and to Change our bodies to rocks or trees. It has long been forbidden to Change to other Hunters or Hunted, or to kill others of We; yet it happened, and without it We would not be living.
This is that tale.
This is a tale from before the Fire, before the Dark, when the world was still green and the sky was still blue.
We had a Pack in the north, running free under the moon. The hunt was good. The Pack was strong and the prey was weak. The prey was a Hunter, a small running-Hunter; and so he turned, hissing spell-words, but he was claw- and tooth-stro
Literature
snowbones
holding my hands over the kettle
the skin on my fingertips peels back,
like dated wallpaper,
like flowers blooming.
they're burning from the inside out,
nails turning to varnish, turning to steam,
bones click-clacking their way out;
spreading like wildfire.
the whistling stops, and
blink
and my fingers are just fingers,
ink stained, bitten nails.
sunlight streams across the kitchen,
my fingers warm and
slightly damp, i trace patterns on
steamed-up windows.
Literature
illuminate my heart
September falls outside his window and the two-story house feels June. Time tilts here, the days canted to the left like the apple tree their grandchildren planted sometime last winter. It hasn't grown much since then, a few leaves on dry branches but no blooming flowers when spring arrived.
Today his fifty years seem like thirty. Sitting up in bed is easier. He doesn't feel as weak as before. The Pacific breeze touches his hair, chills his pale face and he thinks, Maybe Anna and I could drive down to the beachfront today.
He rolls to his side. She's burrowed under the covers, a blue blanketed lump, white hair poking out over dark blue pill
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