Saturday, August 18, 2007

~ Untitled 13 by Easywriter~



We painted our bodies, our faces, our limbs. We arrayed ourselves in feathers; with solemn countenances and hearts beating their own rhythm in anticipation of the drums we were prepared, to dance into madness.

***Management Note: These are all so hard decide upon. Thanks Easywriter for a very sudden fiction that leaves much to the imagination (in a good way)!***

4 comments:

Cynthia said...

"What do I do now?" she asks through barely moving lips.

No one responds.

She tries again.

"What's the next move?"

Again, no one will acknowledge her desperate question.

So she closed her eyes and just danced.

Dragon said...

"When I don this headdress," he said, "I will become as the eagle. You may see me as a man, but in spirit, strength, and ability, I will be a mighty raptor."

He paused as he lifted the alar crown to his head, then looked each of the company in the eyes before inclining his head to the second splended array.

"Whoever dons that headdress will become as the falcon. Only one of you can follow me."

Then he framed his face with the feathered crest and closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were not the eyes of a man.

He leaped.

easywriter said...

We painted our bodies, our faces, our limbs. We arrayed ourselves in feathers; with solemn countenances and hearts beating their own rhythm in anticipation of the drums we were prepared, to dance into madness.

Rion said...

Objects of power and of grace, crafted from cafeterias of pain. Carved from mocking laughs and hateful stares. These paradisical creatures strut through streets and make them magic again, beating secrets into the wormy ground with each footstep marched.

Angels raised up on the bleachers, spiked funny and awkward and angry with stolen vodka and bruises, watch the muscled golden boys as they become something more. Each crisis becomes a fetish to draw upon for power. A new feather in the wing.

Pretty, glamorous angels for Carl, who watches from an office lunchroom window. Pretty, unreachable. Carl endures the flirting of the secretaries and dreams of being his own shaman, his own gilded lily.