October 17, 2002
the dreaming [joy]

[avalon, new jersey]


(asher)
chilled skies wrought by the seaward storms lay fine mist across Avalon's shores, mismatched (half-mast) eyes watch, waiting, perhaps already seeing the sheer white whispers of the pyre boat disappearing into the mystery darkness that wraps the island in its serenity

tell me, mockingbird, which way the wind will blow

there is idly curved (homicidal) smile on poet's lips, the silvered tongue quieted to sacrosanct silence (how long will the peace last) allowing senses pristine omnipresence without the mind's (cracked) interruption, arms folding on drawn knees

breath filling with brine (brimstone) air
rumbling waves (earthquake) breaking each other
breeze washing (fleshing) taint from bared skin
the lush surge (consumption) of water across sand
.....the music of the spears

(joy) ((jess))
7 miles of all-natural beach. Of waves that curl and clash and crash and coil onto each other, while safe within the tunnel (eye of the storm) of lead gray salt and sea the sound of thunder is conceived, and gestates, and is. 7 miles of uninterruption. 7 miles of cool, clean sand cracked by the occasional piece of pollution, swimming in the eddies. 7 miles of pristine, perfect Americana.

7 is a lucky number.
(But such legends lose their luster.)

She.

Another sound there is where the poet destruction smiles. Another sound there is, and faint, and faint, and faint. A sound like teeth scraping over bone, cracking free cool marrow, and this below the angry thunder.

A subtle sound. A night-mare sound that doubts the ears and infests the left ear-drum and whispers
oh, so sweet
a sound.

(asher)
seven
pride, avarice, envy, wrath, lust, gluttony, sloth
luck becomes deadly
sin becomes indulgence

Khaaloobh's son allows further smile to shift across his countenance, the haphazard rhythm of enamel scraping bone that whispers and tunnels (cockroach) into the amalgum of stimulations tripfiring across such sensitive nerves

dawn and night sky arise (clash)( as lids lift to reveal the second half of the world to the Galliard, casting his attention as a line to the..... left..... to reel in the attention grabbing stacatto skrrting into his consciousness, into the picture he painted into (twisted) memory

indulgence becomes consumption

what fish dances at the end of Fate's invisable line, the body unfolds to begin a slow journey, car keys (stolen) plucked from the sands to hide within a jean pocket, shirt dangling from a hand to sway in time with each strolling (stalking) step which leads him with ease towards the faintest of music

consumption becomes decay

(joy)
She is cruelly sprawled in a cradle of hard, mean stones; she is picking her teeth with something needle-thin and bone-colored.

She. What is she? She.

She is an artless creation of brutality and poison and fear, and there is something about the line of a lovely, lovely neck and muscular toned curves which--an alchemical reaction--turns the peace of day into the sweat of night. (All the sweat that is of night, and all the cold that makes it wet, and all the wets that come of terror, and all...)

She. A street-tough with an endless spill of sculpted legs and ripped shorts so short they don't deserve the word. A gang-leader with a short, wiry tangle of (blood) red hair and a bloody (.really.) bandana wrapped around that hair. A satiated smile and (tension, tension) shades low on her nose and a white t-shirt clinging to the hollows and swells of a (Lilith) well-made torso.

And the dark brown silt sand between her legs, where the foam reaches (tempted) greedy-handed--then runs gibbering in white ripples back to sea, is tinted a pale and colorless red.

The niche of beach and stone she has claimed for her own is very clean, except for a man's boot, half-wet with salt-tears.

And this is what Joy looks like in the moment that Asher finds her.

(asher)
She. Sin. Satiated. Sculpted. Smooth. Splattered.
it is the scent that greets him (the tangy afterburn of slick wet foamed cream) as an old friend, familiarizing itself within his lungs, within his frame, something that calls untowardly the very essence with which he is, that recognizes the indulged consumption with which she finishes......

whatever

..... she was up to (the switchblade symphony red run between her thighs), whatever the sand only knew, whatever made the stars recoil to the atmospheric safety of their perch (horrified by what they witnessed)

whatever it was that inspired the smile to curve (malicious) on young lips

"Did you enjoy him?"

coy, sneered, whispered in vocal elegance that belies the beachcomber look, words smelted in the silver spoon so many crave, a whisper so warm to melt the very heart it chills in fear
asking simply
if she enjoyed him

(joy)
Vocal song coils (...insidious...) under the still living (hot. heat. boiling. blood. rush. screaming. tearing down arteries, beating at the veins.) flesh and causes Joy to swing her (hostile) concealed gaze (in a riddle, behind a wall, in the darkness, of a dream) to the youthful, seraphic smile of the beachcomber who knows terror as intimately as one look knows joy. Her lips are painted into a (slow, coiling: venomous) sneer and she cants her head to the side, a restless, hungry smile lurking in the shadows of that sneer, and those cheek-bones, and those torn-frayed strings she dares call shorts.


Joy curls her toes in on themselves, and scars the sand with her heel (dig, runnel, sleep, wound) leg crooked now as she pulls herself up. The ancient sand-tribes had a name for her, but there is another one: something crow-sleek, raven-still about the movement of her, a blasphemy against the sensual tides of the sea, discordant and cordant both at once: meet Joy.

"The question is - are you enjoyable?"

The dark lenses are scull-sockets on a cruelly attractive face.
(This is the real seduction of battle, and blood, and chaos.)
Why the sailors died.

"I think not."


(asher)
"It wasn't the question I asked.... you..... now was it?"

words tempting further smile (seraphic deviltry) against his features, pink tongue sliding between teeth as if it begged desperate escape from the malcontent use his mind devises (bitter device) such slander cast at the faces of the innocents
only because he wants to hear their screams
only because he finds joy in their terror

as he finds amusement in this mermaid lounging on the (stained, tainted) sand

which is beauty, which is beast
which is hunter, which is prey
which of them..... now..... has just stepped from their element into the waiting arms of the other (to sleep..... perchance to drown) in the call of a siren song that lilts across the rise and swell (of flesh) of waters that surge paying pittance at their feet (and running, hissing, screaming, crying from their scalding touch) and a curious cant finds itself influence the Galliard's head

"How would you know if I were enjoyable.... we've only just met."

an invitation. a promise. a threat.

(joy)
"You've," she smirks, oh how she smirks: the vile murderess, "just met me."

(asher)
"So you're saying you've met me before and are at the advantage?"

soft laughter rolls thick from the Galliard like fog across the far-reaching waves, scythe smile slashing (cruel) young features, limp shirt draped over a single shoulder to free hands to the Crusade of settling comfortably in pockets of baggy (low slung) jeans

"I think I'd remember you. Oh yes....."

so she can kill
he's not impressed

(joy)
"Is meeting you such an advantage?" Her mockery (..chucklepurr..) is not soft, but metallic, knives scraping/grating against stone and wrapped in silk.

(asher)
"If you knew who I was, and I not you, I'd say, perhaps, it was..... but then it would mean we're playing a game of knowledge......."

the Galliard's words drift to pause, mismatched (metis) eyes helping themselves to the curves she so eagerly provides, liscivious smile never once turning its attention from her face

"..... and I think far more is at stake than that.

(joy)
Her smile. (Nothing hurts like.)

...and silence. (You can speak, poet-boy.) Measureless. Measureless. While her blade-hard fingers scrape against the burned skin of her cheek; a slow movement, not predatory. Does Asher understand this? Measureless. Measureless. There is nothing of the predator in her. (Only the hunger, the urge to devour.) Nothing of the animal. Nothing of the human, either, except the shape. Nothing of the spirit, and nothing of the soul: just wanton, stilled violence. It's not uncommon. It's not even unique.

...but distill it into the essence, from which such violence is dreamed...

Measureless. (Frightening. Grace.)

Her limbs unfold with a destructive, leashed energy: this time she stands. (Twisted Venus the bloody foam...) The salt runs down her legs and sand makes anguished patterns on the sweep of her thighs.

"I'd stake much on that. But you. But you. You. You--"
- suddenly, suddenly sweltering, the sound of her
cold, brittle, iron
ancient
voice.

and raggedly Joy drops the sudden lilt in her voice, the edge to her tongue, the promise of more razored edges (each promise is a threat, each threat is an oath, each oath is binding) and, in the ill-educated accent of street waste of space and breath.

"Don't have nothin' to stake. So whatareya wastin' my time for?"
(This is a moment of grace.)


(asher)
this he watches
the measureless measures of which her actions are timed (destroyed) and executed in the sudden stillness that brings even the sea's chaotically chorused voice to a standstill (do you longer hear the waves) he watches the thoughtful movement of fingers indenting trails into the curve of her cheek (nails slicing into the skin of a rosey apple) how he follows the pattern (of the fall) towards her throat, breasts, belly and thighs as she rises

bloody. goddess. rising.

[.......you are nothing to Sian's Kali.....]

the names of Fates written in the pink foam clinging to muscled thighs, what patterns drawn in them we will, what spiraling dance will the droplets sway across taught skin...... he has nothing at stake, but she. She has everything. He can take, everything. And the god watches the disciple rise.

"But you...."

chuckled (mocking) amused

"..... called me."

the transient sounds drifting down the beach, the syncopated rhythm that speaks of spirit, that speaks of death (that speaks of indulgence) as it rang against his ears, bewitching the time and temple of space patterns strewn the beach between them
what brought him here
what summoned the demon
what called the spirit of the endless

"Perhaps I should ask why you have wasted my time."


(joy)
Joy angles (a dull-red shean of [radiance in negative, that dull glowing hue when your eyes are closed and you press your fingers against the thin shell of your eyelids] pale light sparks behind her shades) another flat look at Asher. All womanly mortal and in-yo'-face thug. But, concise about it, with each word like the stroke (senses, nerves; feed, to, flame) of an executioners axe. [First, the executioner is a child who believes he is playing a game, and horrified, his parents come home to find him sitting beside his sister and his brother, and putting their heads back on, and saying, "One more time, Lily."]

Then she laughs.

In and of itself, a normal [winter] sound [soaks] that [the bones] any [ringed in fire] teenage [with] might [ice] make.

Mad-sounding. (But maliciously measured, even as it loses control... until... until... finally...)

"...No."


(asher)
"What then...."

spoken in step, carried to circle, surrounding her mad (but to the madman?) laughter, it's contagion infecting the very air humming between them, the shark that surrounds the seal already bleeding into the waters, each movement smooth (animal) as the boy (predator) studies the girl (prey) - she can see it in him, so easy to witness the magnitude drive (indulge) to crush (consume) whatever may come to his hands (decay) without reason, without drive, without direction save one. specific. instigation.

lust

his voice tangible against the back of her thighs (violating caress) climbing to the small of her back and to the nape of her neck, eyes of balefire never once drawing from their scald of skin

"..... would you have me ask."

a game
a toy
are you willing to play my game
are you willing to risk your stake.....

(joy)
balefire?
speak not of what you don't know, child.

As the heady ripples of laughter subside (in smaller tide by smaller tide) then re-surge then subside (by smaller tide by smaller tide) and finally fade into a growl low, low in her belly Joy takes in a deep breath and exhales bitter life.

Listens, to the (would be) poet.
Almost laughs again.

But, no. Instead, oh, wicked smile - finally loosed, and hound-hunter-on-the-scent - hungry. It curves her lips up, but doesn't part them; and her eyes behind their shades burn with all the bloodied rays of a slain sun.

Apocalypse. Now.

And, still. And, still. And, still, until: "Fucker. You aren't the teacher here, my boy; stop needing hints and help, or I might think you're nothin' but a fuckin' cripple."


(asher)
"Do I get to you..... or do you simply not have manners."

hunger
it burns in them both

in her, it is something that curves her lips by its intanigble touch, coaxing (teasing) through her frame in the mysiad scents assualting his nerves (pheronomes could not be better), his lips part to taste the air after it touches her skin, plucking telltale essence from her very pores

in him, it is a calling, an inspiration, a bloody need which rattles craving through his bones, something that must satisfy the creature his Father planted so very deeply within, all triggered by one. solitary. word.

cripple

"What makes you think...... you are so much better than I? With your thug attitude, your caustic words, and that I know the boot belonged to a man until he met you..... do something to impress me if you're going to act the better part?"

sneered taunt
the bloody sand rippling at her feet

(joy)
inspired by one. lone. word. [CRIPPLE] Inspired, the Galliard is: inspired.

Joy could smile again (the killing smile) but she doesn't. Instead, she breathes in, deeply, as if breath was life and when he exhaled he kept exhaling and she breathed all his (psyche) breath up. Just one, satisfied (...unfulfilled...) sigh. That is how she breathes, and this is what she breathes: his sudden, twisted passion. His quick, obsessive (destructive) need. The texture and the taste, tenuous or solid; the ars essentia of what Asher feels and dreams without the images. Quick, jagged rush which stabs in the dark core of her hot, hot womb and pulses, briefly, followed by - yes, now - her hungry, hungry smile.

Asher.
(You have been...)
................................... ravaged.

Now, then. Now, then: now then she swings around, her cadence an old kind of deviltry, before such words existed, before such creatures existed, before beasts, before man: oh, swing of hips and brush of hands along skin, and scatter, shatter, of sand to the ground.

"Look."


(asher)
breath

it is what begins life
it is what ends life
it is what carries.... life..... the pure essentials

to her it carries the very essence of his being, the nightmare violence that fills him with every tangible breath that's so thick, so heavy, so out of control the stab within her womb is an atom bomb shock rippling out in tiny little tendrils (the spiral's touch) snaking and weaving to actively infect (taint) the body it now inhabits

terror. animate.

mismatched eyes narrow in thought (suspiscion) as she seems the cat smoking vestigest the canary, smug, satisfied, full..... before they cast up and down the beach....... empty

inspiration.

as sand scatter shatters to the ground, it bounces to explode upwards, bloody silt snakes reaching to wrap around her wrists and ankles, body pulled rag doll prone several feet above the rippling beach (do you know they use sand in creating cement?) the bonds unbreakable

the bonds pulling outwards
slowly
she will be drawn and quartered if he doesn't let her go

"I'm not impressed."

sometimes, the god's choices of inflicting suffering are not satisfactory to us, nor are they understandable, unless innocense offends...... clearly they need some help in directing the blind fury with which they flog the earth

and she knows, oh how she knows, now, how he more than willingly helps direct the Father's fury in his suspicion, in his whims, in his joy

"Why do you suddenly look so smug....."

the bonds pull harder in punctuation is if to shape her body into question

(joy)
"You--"

Oh.
But then. He (chaos) acts.

This is a scene right out of one of those surrealist paintings: the silver beach, the lonely waves, the curdling purity of foam. The (devil) angel-Asher with sand at his command and cool, narrowed, wary eyes; the (...she has many names...) shapely, nightmare-formed girl (creature) twisted in the air by chains of sand and broken glass, throwing her head back to howl a sudden laugh: hair a swathe of blooded cloud (cap of reddest red) and wild, wild, wild halo around her head. Incarnate, and let that be bloody too.

Her teeth are abnormally white, and large; there is something (it is coiled, sleeping, in the furthermost of anals of his memory, something of the Father, something of the Spiral, something first, something after, something when there was feeling) about them.

"--well, what the fuck do you know. I was goin'," indrawn breath, of pain, then: smirk, "to say that you didn't fuckin' get it: You are beneath impressin'. But, look; a magician's touch. Blessed by one o' mine."

(( *and tags on* ))

...somehow still (unimpressed) an almost sneer.

(asher)
"I doubt one of..... yours..... blessed me."

murmured (love's damning caress) against her ear (within her mind) in a voice barely louder than the waves trickling amongst the shells laid at water's edge, fingers trailing over belly stretched taught (madman's tender embrace, stretching, pulling, screaming further) nails tickling skin

"Tell me why you suddenly looked so smug."

nails become talons
if she did anything or not
he could also read it from her entrails

.............she knows how much he wants to

(joy)
softly smiling, now, and looking at him, behind those damned black mirrors: see yourself in twos. "Do I just get to you.... or do you have no manners?"

(asher)
the bonds tighten
her shoulders dislocate

"That was not what I requested."

his (twin) reflections a maniacal smile


(joy)
Suck
sudden of breath;
and then, another,
oh so violent smirk.

"If I were you, I would stop right there. Some lines are not for crossin'." How amiable, the suspended nightmare, contemplative and cruel.

(asher)
"Oh......"

chuckled, softly, a nightmare's (deadly) whisper

"..... I think you already crossed my line......child....."

hands and feet throb from the circulation lost
sand tightens for bone to crack

"And you didn't even apologize."

(joy)
it really, really hurts; this slow, inexorable tightening of stinging sand; this monster's whim personified (and even that, a dream, and oh, feed, hunger, me. now.) and it is indeed hurtful, makes her gasp again [beg. break. beg. broken.] and is that then the sound of bones cracking that asher hears? (and are those talons, asher feels, pricking at his shoulder, innocent and innocuous - and is the bitch laughing yet?)

(asher)
wishing wells and cockle shells they swim throughout my head
my eyes are closing slowly as I'm lowering my head.....
wanting and getting
silence edging
narrowly, slowly, blowing up the dead.....

the sand snaps outward, hands around her wrists and ankles pulling unbelievably in every direction, tendon and cartilege giving to his whim as flesh begins to rip, desperately clinging together but being pulled so. far. apart.

disconnected
and falling

the illusion shatters (spent) the pieces of her body tumbling to the sand (wet once again with blood) that once held her so tightly it cradles broken (begging, bloody) form in granual pillow

the touch of (innocent, imagined) pricks on his shoulder
ignored
synthesia reigns

(joy)
hurts

doesn't it, to be so broken, so bruised, so bloodied; hurts, don't it, to see expectations shattered as surely as body should be (but the oak protecteth the brook, though it runs red, and twists its roots into knots). Her limbs tumble to the sand (clean, but clean, there is no blood, and blood is none, except where her tongue was bitten) connected. Naught but red welts where gritted sand did chain.

(Beg. Bitch.)

And she rises. (As her wrist shakes, shakes; perhaps any moment now the magician's smoke and mirrors will blow away and shatter, leaving naught but ligaments and...)

And the talons tighten more deeply, and violent, venomed the wistfulness they rouse.
A sound of wings, flutter, flutter.

"Very good," she snarls. (Vicious, angered: do you know what she was?)
"I just might be fuckin' impressed. Now, it's my turn, isn't it?"

"Still wanna know why I looked so satisfied? Let's talk of knowledge."
Child: you should never mess with the wild ones.

(to Asher: ooc - and, okay. that was wayfare three, just so's ya know. oaken shield. *thanks the gods for it, LOL* )

(asher)
knowledge?

right now he cares nothing about knowledge
he cares nothing about what she has to say
or show
or teach

right now, all that is left is frustration and hate which pushes away the poetic irony and sonnet driven phrases, the pinprick pinch (crimson) the wings rush (white) and suddenly..... rage...... (blinds)

the Galliard moves
(lunges, pounces)
talons slash toxic
brilliant green leaking into fresh wounds

right now..... all he wants to do is hurt something

he blames her for Taryn
he blames her for Decker
he blames her for Salome
he blames her for Kaj'sha's absence
he blames her for Sian's disconnection
he blames her for everything

(joy)
[pause]

Posted by asher at October 17, 2002 12:00 AM
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