On Fiery Wings by Isabelle

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Fools. All of them.

They come with their sharp swords and polished armor, so eager to be the hero of the tale. To win over the maiden with a single, life-defying act of bravery.

No words. No flowers. No real attempt at a lasting connection.

For them, she’s no everlasting love, no happily ever after. She’s a prize. A living, breathing symbol of their masculine power. She might as well be carved of gold, for all she’s worth to them. 

Driftwood by Isabelle

Source: stalecigarettes on Tumblr

Fire.

I was on fire.

I rolled around wildly slapping my body as though I could put it out with my bare hands. But there were no flames. No burns. Only sand.

Coarse, infinite sand.

Procession by Lisa

I didn’t see it happen the first time. We had just moved here, and I’d gotten the flu, possibly from spending every day after school exploring the woods behind our house, no matter what my mother told me. It’d been a damp year, but I’d only lived in the city before this. Everything else seemed new.

I don’t usually get sick, but it hit me particularly hard that year. I’ve never felt so deathly ill and weak in my entire life. I could hardly move without wanting to throw up, but then, I could hardly move anyhow.

I didn’t see it that year, but I sure heard it. The most haunting, glorious music I’d ever heard. It was high and clear and beautiful. I wasn’t sure if it was a voice or some sort of instrument—all I knew was that I wanted it. The music seemed to crawl inside me and attach to the innermost parts of me. Despite my weakness, everything inside of me wanted to find the source of that music and bury myself inside it. Instead, all I managed to do was fall out of bed.