(no subject)
untitled 02 (-∞, ∞)
reads: all real numbers from negative infinity to positive infinity, exclusive
icarus!apocalypse!wing!fic. Inspired by Don't Be Afraid to Help Sharks.
warnings for general (pomo) nonsense.
He was stumbling back with dark awe, and tripped, and fell, and tucked an ankle bent and painful under his weight, and stumbled a word from the curl of his tongue. It was a time when sky blended with the sundering ocean, it was a time when clouds and waves shifted together in a new puzzle, it was a time when brilliance was discovered in sounds, it was a time when melody was uncovered in coldness, it was a time when sand rose and skies fell and death died. They taught tastes. They were unsure of their selves.
Under the sweeping canopy of such troubled trees Sirius saw the hovering gulls. He was the erasable figure of flicker-oil in the eerie peach-colored painting. The artist erred for the #219th time and the artist took a knife to the canvas and scraped it clean. The artist’s canvas survived but Sirius’s figure did not. Sirius did not mind being erased like that, what he minded was the hole in the fabric of the artist’s painting where the sun was supposed to be. He thought it was strange.
But certainly not as strange as the strangeness of this river before him. There was no end on either ends, nor a bridge, nor a depth, nor a surface. Sirius leapt across it and he was still on the same bank.
-This is a river of only one bank.
-Is this daydream?
-No. I think this is the world.
-Remus?
-Hmm
-Are you Remus?
He had already fledged his wings by then, after the transformation. But he could not lift himself, he could not move. He was already growing roots from the soles of his feet and every time he set himself aflight he was always pulled back, finding himself closer, closer, unapart. It, too, was, perhaps, fate, perhaps, faith, perhaps, bond.
SO BY INSTINCT HE REACHED FOR his wand but remus must have took it because it was not there the serious number but he was not sure at all what the world had come to see he had always known the presence of the transformation but it escaped him that he would still be looking backwards when he arrived at the end of things and he had always assumed that he can use his wings then if he ever needed to wrong because who ever cared that Icarus fell so violently back to the sea whose very width he was so intended on crossing who ever really cared about anything that happened so long ago but for the white rapture of winged figures that splash-splashed at their fiery ends
sirius whispered, in the warmth of morning and bed, the story of this dream. the planes of his back are unbroken but his arms are clumsy and light, as if his bones were hollow.
Sirius told Remus about the setting and the sameness of the one-banked river.
-You are still dreaming.
-No I’m not. You lie.
-This is the othersideworld your job is to dream. Your job is to dream. Your job is to dream.
Remus held up three swan-feathers as proof, the same ones Mian gave in gold silk to the Tang court kneeling as he proffered the skybirds’ fragile paleness.
reads: all real numbers from negative infinity to positive infinity, exclusive
icarus!apocalypse!wing!fic. Inspired by Don't Be Afraid to Help Sharks.
warnings for general (pomo) nonsense.
He was stumbling back with dark awe, and tripped, and fell, and tucked an ankle bent and painful under his weight, and stumbled a word from the curl of his tongue. It was a time when sky blended with the sundering ocean, it was a time when clouds and waves shifted together in a new puzzle, it was a time when brilliance was discovered in sounds, it was a time when melody was uncovered in coldness, it was a time when sand rose and skies fell and death died. They taught tastes. They were unsure of their selves.
Under the sweeping canopy of such troubled trees Sirius saw the hovering gulls. He was the erasable figure of flicker-oil in the eerie peach-colored painting. The artist erred for the #219th time and the artist took a knife to the canvas and scraped it clean. The artist’s canvas survived but Sirius’s figure did not. Sirius did not mind being erased like that, what he minded was the hole in the fabric of the artist’s painting where the sun was supposed to be. He thought it was strange.
But certainly not as strange as the strangeness of this river before him. There was no end on either ends, nor a bridge, nor a depth, nor a surface. Sirius leapt across it and he was still on the same bank.
-This is a river of only one bank.
-Is this daydream?
-No. I think this is the world.
-Remus?
-Hmm
-Are you Remus?
He had already fledged his wings by then, after the transformation. But he could not lift himself, he could not move. He was already growing roots from the soles of his feet and every time he set himself aflight he was always pulled back, finding himself closer, closer, unapart. It, too, was, perhaps, fate, perhaps, faith, perhaps, bond.
SO BY INSTINCT HE REACHED FOR his wand but remus must have took it because it was not there the serious number but he was not sure at all what the world had come to see he had always known the presence of the transformation but it escaped him that he would still be looking backwards when he arrived at the end of things and he had always assumed that he can use his wings then if he ever needed to wrong because who ever cared that Icarus fell so violently back to the sea whose very width he was so intended on crossing who ever really cared about anything that happened so long ago but for the white rapture of winged figures that splash-splashed at their fiery ends
sirius whispered, in the warmth of morning and bed, the story of this dream. the planes of his back are unbroken but his arms are clumsy and light, as if his bones were hollow.
Sirius told Remus about the setting and the sameness of the one-banked river.
-You are still dreaming.
-No I’m not. You lie.
-This is the othersideworld your job is to dream. Your job is to dream. Your job is to dream.
Remus held up three swan-feathers as proof, the same ones Mian gave in gold silk to the Tang court kneeling as he proffered the skybirds’ fragile paleness.