after the destruction comes a rebirth. of plants. of flowers. hands are twined with olive branches and flowers are made into crowns. the earth is renewed as the tides turn to peace.
many springs have come and gone, but for her, youth is a permanent state of being. flowers never fade beneath her feet. the sun is in her smile. she reminds you of a girl you once knew as a child. come play, she beckons. you follow, feeling the chill of winter fade in her grasp. in her field of eternal spring, you are reborn.
blood on her tongue. his still-beating heart, warm in her hands, and love, the sweetest taste, on her lips. a man with glassy eyes and strained breaths, helpless. such a slow devouring, each piece better than the last. fingers licked clean, bloody lips, and a last breath. her crooked smile, his last thought. there is beauty in death when rotten words no longer fall from rotten lips.
her fingers, elegant white bones now claws in his shirt. oh poor soul, better a baptism of blood than a girl’s broken heart. the words of a broken heart with something almost like love. but it vanishes with the body at the bottom of the ocean.
↳ @inkstay dare to write | 500 prompts | vile romance
i watch over the labyrinth/ golden thread in my hands/ i have seen too many/ go in but never come out again
part seven: favorite mortal woman (via femmefatalenet.tumblr)
she sings a song so sweetly
in waters deep and cold
until her heart is stolen
by men both brave and bold
part six: favorite mythological creature (via femmefatalenet.tumblr.com)
waves lap at robes redder than the paper lanterns hanging from the eaves of her village. they blow, candles in a howling wind, trying to guide ships back to shore and men to their homes. the sky is a dark gray.
she does not turn from the tide, not even as her hair whips about her and the sea sprays her face. she beckons sailors home, whispering, i will not lose another. hundreds of years it has been and hundreds of years more will come to pass, but she will never fail. Not again. Pain runs white in memories as she calms the waves to aid the ships. She is on the bow, leading the way. She is in the sea, coaxing it to sleep.
she was lin mo, a light of goodwill in the gray anger of a raging tempest.
now she is a goddess. she will make the sea obey.
hollow back sways like the bark of a sapling but she is no spring tree. with golden hair and cherub’s lips, she dances, a cow’s tail under her skirt. she smiles and beckons. ‘i am your ruin,’ she warns as they near, but they all go willingly, ignorant of the tears and the terrors their deaths will bring. when the deed is done, she steps out into the forest once more, swaying in time to music only she can hear. men still come for her. none notice the stains of tears shed before.
prompt: female mythological figure (via femmefatalenet.tumblr.com)
in white-columned halls sit girls wrapped in gossamer. light streams through sheer curtains. laughter hangs in the air. with deft fingers, they braid each other’s hair and the soft sound of a lyre can be heard. paper is strewn about covered in sketches, poems, and prose, the beginnings of a history that has yet to begin, and a star chart beautifully rendered. a girl is dancing, hymns on her tongue and a song in her heart.
they wait for bright minds to bestow the gift of divine inspiration in white-columned halls.
part three: favorite platonic pairings (via femmefatalenet.tumblr.com)
i. white lady iztaccíhuatl waits for her lover in her empire home, but jealousy is a snake in the grass and deaths are too easy to lie about. war is hell, they say. it has taken him. her heart ceases in grief and the white lady turns whiter in death.
ii. when popocatépetl comes home, he cradles her to his chest. only cold air can revive her, he thinks, so he climbs to the tops of the mountains and waits for her to wake. she does not. limbs grown leaden as his heart sinks and the cold takes him.
iii. the gods look down on two lovers, hearts broken with grief and chilled with death. pity moves in them. with godly hands, they take human forms and make them mountains, looming over the valley below. iztaccíhuatl does not wake, snow covering her form. she is a white lady once more. popocatépetl thaws and his grief turns to anger that spews forth and lays waste to the land. he is molten earth. a heart wrent open that shall never close.
iv. in the valley below, eyes turn to the pair of mountains and whisper a tale of two lovers. when the volcano erupts, it is his broken heart filled with rage at losing his lover. nearby, his lady slumbers. and the gods watch over them.
part two: favorite romantic pairing (via femmefatalenet.tumblr.com)