Painful Star by Painful Star

It was always sudden.

All of the air seemed to be pulled from his lungs. He was falling,

bridge

sky

ice

sky

the horizon spinning,

bridge
shore
ice

tumbling,

bridge
sky
bridge

fasterandfaster

and then there was pain and light and a brilliant explosion as his body and limbs hit the surface, frozen solid but not too thick, and the last of his breath was knocked away. The crackling sound wasn’t his skull, as it had felt like, though the impact drove red and green stars through the backs of his eyes, nor his legs, though they had shattered like green saplings in an unfortunate late frost. It was the ice. He’d hit the ice, and it was breaking, and he was slipping in. Even after the shock of the fall, the cold was too much to take, and he began to scream, a high whistling thing that turned ragged and red as blood wet the floes he’d broken free.

Drowning was one of the worst — isn’t that what he’d told Hoyt?

He had no strength to scrabble for purchase, and his fingers trembled weakly as the last of his scream left him, and he took one last breath, and then his head went under the water, into the dark embrace. He was carried under the surface of the ice for some time, rushing in the arms of the tumbling river, body battered from above and below, but all Kieron could think of was the look on Hoyt Redwell’s face.

The body fights.

He struggled, but he couldn’t really move, couldn’t do anything but try to hold his breath, wait to come up, to break the surface.

He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth against the darkness, against the water that tried desperately to peel him open.

His heart fluttered, and his lungs spasmed.

It burns, when you breathe underwater.

Kieron could feel it burn as his panicked body gave in and took that first breath.

You try to cough, and your whole body is on fire, getting that breath of water out, and then you breathe in another, and then your brain lights up like fireworks–

He tried to cough, and his eyes were wide, and he could see the dim winter light above the surface, and he reached out but the ice would not give way, and his hand pressed as if to glass.

–and you shake like a puppeteer thrashing a marionette, and everything is cold and dark and–

Underwater, he screamed silently as his heart gave out in a trembling seizure of agony, his limbs contorting, twisted and broken.

–it’s like a night full of shrieking stars that all start to go out–

Everything went dark, painful star by painful star.

Hello, Everyone! How did you find me?

It’s question time, here in Jonesville (…not Jonestown, they’re further south, and we think there’s something in the water) because I’ve seen an influx of new readers, and I’m curious where the hell you all came from.

So here we are, the fabulously scientific poll that I keep redrafting so I can see how influence changes over time (because science) which leads me to believe that Livejournal is obviously super rocking, since I got a bunch of you from there, last time.

Seriously, though — where the hell did you come from?

Did You Never Know

You were bliss, beneath me,
in your collar.
You were his,
but I planned to take you
and make you mine.
Such a thing,
to talk about a human being
as an object,
something we could possess.

Surely you had your own desires,
but they became mine,

became what I had wanted
more than anything:

was to have you in such a way
that meant you were
no longer your own.
You gave everything up to me
in that way,

and your striking eyes
and dark curls
haunt me now,
in my silver years,

after all the love you threw after me,
in an effort to catch
the hunter who held you
in the tightest of nets.
You had to know
that I was caught, as well —

held to the net
just as much as you were.
To let it go
was to lose you —
did you never know
I loved you all this time?

Dally With Me There

My most precious
possession.
I own her
utterly,
and so set her free
as I please,
to see the world
and fly back to me,
ever back to me,
to her gilded cage.
She does not resent the bars,
does not resent the collar
I put at her throat,
does not feel anything but pride
at how she must kneel.
She gives,
and I take,
and in return,
I am the one
who lives in the cage,
while she only must
dally with me there,
every once in a while.

Chains

Each morning, I
get out of bed from beside my
wife and I
walk past the bedrooms of our
three small children and I
go to the attic, amidst things old and new, where I
look to the secrets artists have made real, these things I
desire. I
cannot speak of what art it is I
go there to find; if I
gave it voice and made it even more real to me,
it might grow teeth and claws, and rather than scar my
own flesh, it might look for a new canvas.

* * *

Each morning,
I get out
of bed from
beside my
wife and I
walk past the
bedrooms of
our three small
children and
I go to
the attic,
amidst things
old and new,
where I look
to the se-
crets artists
have made real —
these things I
desire. I
cannot speak
of what art
it is I
go there to
find; if I
gave it voice
and made it
even more
real to me,
it might grow
teeth and claws,
and rather
than scar my
own flesh, it
might look for
a new canvas.

* * *

Each morning,
I get out of bed
from beside my wife
and I walk past
the bedrooms of our
three small children
and I go to the attic,
amidst things old and new,
where I look to the secrets
artists have made real —
these things I desire.
I cannot speak
of what art it is
I go there to find;
if I gave it voice
and made it
even more real to me,
it might grow
teeth and claws,
and rather than
scar my own flesh,
it might look
for a new canvas.

* * *

I think I like the bottom one best.
Experimenting with rhythm/meter.