« Reply #1 on: June 21, 2021, 03:51:55 AM »
The full moon hung from the sky like the barrel of a gun between the eyes. Larger than life. As though the stagehand working its pulleys had dropped it into the violent waters of the sea below. And the moon drowned. The waves that resembled the tentacles of a deep-sea creature dragged it down with them, to swallow it whole with the color of night.
The nocturnal landscape was saturated with shades of blue. Too much of it. From deep indigos to pale greys. It clogged the eyes with darkness that the bright moonlight could not banish. It obscured the sprawling beach in the foreground. Every stroke was minute, obsessive with the rendition of coastal dunes that stumbled over each other, in curves better suited on a feminine frame.
The sleepy sands captured the motions of shoulders and hips shifting beneath bed sheets. Of a chest that rose and fell in calm breath. Like there was someone beneath the surface, buried alive and slumbering. And yet still. At peace.
Desrosiers. 5,000. I think he really likes women. Maybe a little too much.A portrait in oils. It showed the bust of a young man with the shine of a thousand stars in his eyes. In the prime of his life. Back when the world glowed with bright potential before invasion by the muted colors of maturity. He stood against a rural background that hearkened to that primeval time. Blue sky. Green grass. A fence. Some trees. A pastoral beauty that gave context to the subject.
He was quite handsome for a country boy. Strong. With masculine features harmonized by even proportions, and stubble that traced his jawline as fresh grass on windswept plains. Dark hair framed his face as cloudy waterfalls through which sunlight pierced in shy amounts. Even his skin was imprinted with that tan complexion of those who roamed free beneath the sky.
And his cheeks! Tinted red with sanguine joy. For he smiled. Not just with his eyes, but with his teeth.
Lacy. Gift. Her favorite.A crowded cemetery on a frigid autumn night. The ornate mausoleums filled the background as a sublime mountain range that had emerged from the pale mist which framed the image like frost on a window. There wasn't a living soul in sight there, in the distance. Not even the shadow of a ghost.
But the same could not be said of the square pond built at the foot of those stone giants. The water was agitated with primeval motion. It caught the moonlight in a dream-like blur. And upon the lily pads were frogs hunting the fireflies that buzzed around. One could almost hear the crickets, those wondrous denizens of the lower grasses. And at the heart of it all was a lone swan. Paler than death. With a beak the color of bone. Its creased feathers spread out as if to take flight, but its shadow deigned not let go. That dark patch of wrinkled fluid stalked the bird, as a demon under the floorboards. Viscous as sin.
Berger's favorite. And mine too.
« Last Edit: November 22, 2021, 06:27:02 AM by Haeresis »
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