Tale #95: In The Garden Between

In the evening we could hear her, calling us out by name from the walled garden at the centre of the town, in the gap between the shops and the houses, somewhere behind the church.

In the night we could hear her, crying softly to herself about imprisonment, about captivity and despair. In the morning we could hear her still, her voice strong and clear, cutting through the noise of the day, singing defiantly of hope and freedom, of escape and revenge.

Each year we built the walls higher, dug the foundations deeper, made the structure stronger as best we could. Not to save our children, although that was the lie we told. But to save, here and now, ourselves from the consequences of our own crimes.

Yet we knew, deep down, one day she would be free. That a retribution would come no matter how much we tried to avoid it.

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Notes:

1. Written on September 25th, 2017

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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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