Forever Wonder

I’ve taken once again to the bottle. Oh no, not the bottle of spirits, but the bottle of blood. That liquid rust that tastes of melted coin and women. I am unlike the the vampires of old, or that of the hungry crow. Do not mistake me for a monster, for I only speak in metaphor. However, if we do speak in metaphor, I am a monster unlike anything that I had before known to exist. For I have taken to the bottle once again, and this time I don’t mean to stop short.

“What was found there under lock and key? Was it the secrets that the family held so dear, or was it the burns on photographs that were meant to engulf the household? Either way, the dishonesty has always been present with these...folks, and frankly I’ll take my dogs and chickens over those pale faces any day.”

The Shadow Of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

This town has been torn apart by your sorrow, and I’m tired of it. I’m tired of paying homage to your black statue, to your dead relatives, and most of all, to your fake legacy. I hate you. No I’m not jealous. There’s no forlorn envy lying in wait in a circuitous cocoon of denial. No enigma. This truth is the denouement. For the mirror holds no blows.

Margaret Atwood, Oryx and Crake

She had finally convinced him of her love. It had taken years. Years of giving him everything she had. Years of him casting doubt around every corner. Why had it been so hard? What was it that had been missing? What had changed? It was enough to give her the chills. Yes, she still got the chills even now. This many years after it all happened she could send herself into a fever trying to find that chip from the weathered vase. This many years after being free. This many years after her escape.

It was a day build for sinking teeth into. The Flowers seemed without color. As did the universe. Stomachs were growling across the infinite vastness of space, and it was happy to supply sustenance. It had after all, been in the kitchen since it all began. Hoping that there might come a day when someone would wake from their slumber with the aroma of tamed, time, and space. Serve it up! Serve it up on a plate of scrambled eggs, toast, jam, butter, and hope.

The tower fell. Not because it was not strong, but because it hadn’t seen rain for many moons. It sat like a sea urchin washed ashore. Each pore that searched for moisture had become a vulnerability. The thickness of spilled blood could not satisfy, and hot oils could only stain. The tower had fallen thinking the cold tears of the heavens were guardian angles ascending.

He found that her love was genuine. It set in like a broken status that he just couldn’t quite get his head around. Had she been born able to break the wall down that had surrounded his fortress? Or had she learned to deny such a useful skill in favor of pain?