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.
mazu (tianhou), chinese goddess of the sea|secret santa gift for mel (@patroclusgf)|via femmefatalenet.tumblr.com
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)
she spins gossamer in the night
a punishment, a testament
foolish girl who dared
challenge a goddess,
now a spider
you have become
part one: favorite myth (via femmefatalenet.tumblr.com)
the last breath of a year exhausted
turns to ephemeral fog when it touches the cold
she walks along the forest path lined
with mushrooms the color of trees’
blood, sap dripping in amber
hues that are golden like the sun that
shines through spots in the leaves and
her hair flows like the orange river that
cuts through dying leaves the color of
earth and blood and fire and
she smiles, knowing that the end has come
The numbness wears away
the edges of the photograph
memory, blurring together colors until
it’s nothing but a fuzzy, faded mess
of what used to be.
Inspired by a post that said taking too many pictures while you’re having fun actually diminishes your ability to remember the happy memory.
she prostrates herself at the feet of the mother, a hymn to the dead on her lips. veils thin and the thrum of power echoes across the space between worlds, seeps through cracks and pours out into the night. a fog on a Halloween night, one that whispers of ghosts long past. it arches over the girl, words still spilling from her mouth.
in the darkened room, the fog is shadows. they shift and swirl, forming shapes that go unnoticed. and then She is there, lady of the underworld with Her crown of thorns and roses. Her smile is saccharine, too much morphine in the drip as it washes over the lovesick worshipper, a gentle hand tilting the girl’s face up. eyes wide, the words stop, the girl gazing at her mother goddess.
“Have you ever tasted death?” She asks.
from here, the girl can almost see the skull beneath the hair that covers Her face. “No,” she answers, the word escaping like a last breath.
the goddess’ lips pull back into a more wolfish smile. “Then let me show you,” She says, and leaves only a rose petal behind.