Doodles and Stuff

No, not my puppy. Just me trying (and kind of succeeding) drawing a gryphon; otherwise known as a combination of two things I fail at drawing. Quite honestly, I'm rather proud of this one.

Art is mine, all work done in Adobe Illustrator was Dad's.

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As for the other stuff, I was writing a bit earlier in the week, and am just getting around to posting it for your possible reading pleasure. This idea came to me partially whilst sitting in chorus one day, letting my mind wander as I listened to our teacher instruct the bases. As always in my writings, any resemblence to anyone, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

"Jellyfish"

Through the haze around her, she can see dark shapes; blurs of shadows. They whisper in hushed voices as they glide about the room, dark shapes against the foggy white. She knows not what they are doing. She is past caring.

One of the dark things leans over her, its edges soft and blurred like a long-haired cat's fur. It speaks in a strange tongue, the tones as fuzzy as the beast itself, the syllables furred and weird. She tries to respond, but cannot move. She knew that already. The thing sighs, there is a prick in her arm, and then there is only welcome darkness.

___

Once again, the light is burning into her eyes, everything still fuzzy and soft. She is aware of the thick, abrasive straps that hold her captive to the bed, that keep her pinned in this half-world.

There are more shadow-beasts now, and their furred speech grates on her ears. She wishes she could wince. The beasts are talking to her, or so it seems, a wrong energy sending sparks across the room. She wishes she could cry.

Again, she feels the prick of the needle in what she once called an arm, the liquid sleep-velvet flowing from its tip; an ichor in disguise.

___

This time it is the jellyfish that wake her, stinging barbs of noise plunging themselves into her pulsing brain. She opens an eye, the orb naked and strange. She has no secrets anymore. The tubes winding in and out of her body have seen to that, like worms ventilating a corpse.

The shadow-things are back; back with their cheese-grater voices. As they speak, the jellyfish flow from their blurred maws, like glowing bubbles in the ether. The word-jellies pulse with light, their bells as light as dandelion silk, as rough as the sheets that cover her naked and emaciated form. The jellyfish sting her, prodding her with their tentacles, poking her with the stinging pain of words.

The shadow-beasts are leaning closer now, fuzzed forms with sharp-edged voices. She whimpers, trying to escape the stings of the sound-jellies that torment her. The sound-jellies seem to retreat, then, their pulsing bells flashing with deep blue sound. The shadow-creatures, too, fall back, weeping in harsh voices. Once again, a beast comes forward, and she feels the now-familiar pinch of the needle's tip, and the faint burning fire of the liquid sleep. She blinks, falling into the darkness, going completely still.

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In the room, a woman wipes the tears away from her eyes, her makeup running into a gooey mess that runs into long, dark streaks. Closing her eyes, she gently touches the dead girl's hand, and mourns the passing of her daughter.

Memories I Will Never Know

I awaken to the feeling of hands on my shoulders and back; warm hands not yet callused with age. Slowly, I begin to move with a slight groan, gently loping down a ramp and into the early morning.

We are walking through grass. I can feel the dew clinging to my legs, can feel the early morning mists still wrapping around my body as if that will protect them from the burning sun.

With a sudden bump, the grass changes to worn pavement, the surface still faintly radiating heat from the cars that pass in the night. I am brought to a halt, the hands shifting their positions on my frame. As always, I feel the welcome weight of someone on my back, their body warm and full of life not yet lived.

One gentle kick, and we are off into the morning's light. Once more, we are two parts of one whole, a boy and his bike out on a morning ride.

Not Quite Sure What This Is

"Rain"

Pitter-pat. Pitter-pat. Rain is beating on the windows, liquid fingers tapping on my mind. Outside the streaked glass, a world is waking up, not really paying attention to the rain coming down.

Slowly, the crowd leaving for their jobs vacate the houses, and I leave my lonely post, creeping down the stairs of the silent house.

The door is ajar, never closed in the bustle of waking. I slip out into the rain, reeling the water wash cares from my mind.

The mud is cool and soft under my bare feet, and I lie in its wet embrace. I know the police will be here soon, with their dogs. They will find the bodies inside, and they will take me away. Maybe it's for the best.

Already I hear the sirens in the distance, and I am smiling. I am not worried anymore. The rain has washed me clean, and against the wails of the sirens, I cry the hot tears of joy.

Pitter-pat. Pitter-pat.