Tale #87: To Follow A Child

A father was eating lunch one day in the garden of his house, when his daughter skipped past and made her way off towards the fields and the woods beyond. Curious as to where his child went when she played on her own, he decided to follow her on her way. He hurried from his chair as she exited the garden, and pursued her into the wilderness.

It was dusk before the father returned. He went to bed without saying a word, and soon after he went mad and died.

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Notes:

1. Written on April 1st, 2019
2. Following the conventions of To Follow A Cat
3. And subsequent similar formulations

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Tale #85: Married Hearts

After the ceremony, as is traditional, the bride and groom are seated together at the banquet table at the head of the hall. As their friends and family watch on, the couple each take a knife from the table, and still smiling their newly-wed smiles, cut out their own hearts and let them drop onto the silver plates on the tabletop before them.

While they wipe the blood from their hands on silk napkins, the plates are passed around the gathered families, who inspect each one for signs of defects, anomalies, lies, deceptions.

At today’s event, the groom’s heart is a slender thing, stunted and withered through years of both neglect and cossetting. Never had it needed to fight or fend for itself, never had it needed to buttress itself against failure or calamity.

The bride’s family nod their heads in acceptance, the groom’s smile thinly with imperceptible pride.

When it is passed back to the bride, she slices it into two and pops each morsel into her mouth whole and swallows them without chewing.

The bride’s heart, however, sits heavily on its plate, like a beached and blood-red whale. As the plate is passed around the room, the groom’s family make numerous comments admiring the heft of the heart, the density of the muscle, the brightness of the blood, the volume of its chambers, and the depths they conceal.

Eventually the groom receives the heart, impatient and eager, taking the plate with both hands and placing it down reverently before hime. He slices a sliver away and takes a delicate bite so as to savour the taste.

The heart on the plate looks unchanged.

The groom finishes the first morsel of his bride’s heart, takes another slice, and chews this one as deliberately as the first. The next cut is bigger, and eaten more quickly. And the next, and the next.

Still the heart looks unchanged.

Or perhaps it looks bigger now, made somehow stronger and more defiant with every cut and laceration and frenzied stab. A huge solid lump of flesh that could sustain a man for the rest of his life.

Once the guests have gone, the groom’s decorum slips away entirely. He grasps his wife’s heart in his hands and tears great chunks of flesh from it with his teeth. Blood up to his elbows, his shirt as stained as a butcher’s coat.

He keeps on eating, his face as red as fury, his teeth as black as death.

The bride picks up a napkin from the table and carefully, caringly, wipes droplets of herself from his chin. She wonders when he will stop, when he’ll finally have had his fill.

She wonders, too, whether to take her heart out of his hands. Take it back and put it back and keep it for herself.

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Notes:

1. Written between August and November 2016

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#84: The Fairy Tale Heart

There lived a girl in the forest, her blood as dark and as thick as molasses, her voice as loud and as clear and as beauitful as a bell. When the huntsman sliced her open, her blood congealed in the hole he left in her chest, a scab as substantial as the heart he had stolen, and much more precious, for what worth is a heart ripped free from the warmth that sustains it, the love that makes it beat, beat, beat.

For years afterwards she would dream of the queen in the castle, her lips black with blood, her teeth feasting on the flesh of her heart. She would dream of the meat and gristle of it catching in the Queen’s throat, choking her dead in the vast palace hall as her guests watched on, the embarrassment of it all as great as the pain, each final choking cry quieter than the last, until finally they just stop.

The dream was all the revenge the girl ever sought, all the revenge she ever needed, all the revenge she would ever get. And in her chest her scabbed-up fairy tale heart beat on, as defiant as any made of flesh, as loud and as clear and as beautiful as any drum, more vital than any of the real hearts hidden beneath the brittle rib cages of the powerful, and the cruel, and all those others who remain silent enough to sustain them.

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Notes:

1. Written on April 1st, 2019
2. This originally had slightly irregular formatting
3. on the last few words of each paragraph
4. But this wordpress theme can’t seem to cope with that
5. so it’s all gone

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Tale #83: Above the clouds, beneath the sun

Don’t go
Don’t go
his father said.

Don’t fly
Don’t fly

Keep your feet on the ground
and your heart at home

But Icarus went

Icarus flew
up towards the sun
and the shadow
that he saw there
the shadow he’d dreamt of
the shadow he’d missed
ever since he was young

And as he rose
above the clouds
as his eyes wept
from the brightness of the sun
and his arms faltered
from the weight of his wings
and questions
and doubts
clouded his mind
a voice said
down to him

“Our father had wings, but was afraid to fly”
“Our father had eyes but was afraid of what he might see”
“Our father had a wife, and was afraid she’d be free.”
“Our father had children, but was afraid we’d leave.”

And Icarus looked up at the shadow above him
and saw
the sister
of whom he’d always dreamt

And Icarus looked down
at their house below them
and at the sky around them
and the world
that stretched out
bigger and bigger
as he rose
higher and higher

He held out his hand
to his sister above him
and she took it
and held it
and never let go
and together they flew
they flew

They flew

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Notes:

1. Written on August 10th, 2019

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