The Tale of Aurore and the Careless Ones

How many times have you snuggled back into your pillows with a complacent sigh as the book closed with a satisfying thwock of pages?

“And they lived happily ever after….”

It’s the stuff dreams are made of.

Every cloud has a silver lining.

Every sunset has a blissful couple riding into it.

Every story should have a happy ending…….

This is not that kind of story.

How her heart was turned and her will became all she needed to both rend and weave the fabric of her reality is for a different kind of telling,

in a different

safer

place.

But the tale of the dark day she discovered that lies can taste sweet,

so sweet,

even when brimful with poison,

is the one we will tell today.

Softly

softly

with a handful of salt ready for tossing.

Listen…..

Aurore was a soft and gentle girl

with a delicate flower face.

Quiet eyed and quiet voiced and wrapped in a coat of twilight

she moved with slow and silent grace.

It would be difficult to tell as you watched her tranquil steps,

her compact movements,

that inside her heart was burning…

Not a warm and welcome smolder like a campfire on a crisp evening,

a large, fiercesome,

hungry

burning.

One that scourges,

one that leaves nothing alive behind.

There was a man,

of course,

a man like a pond of glimmering waves and flashing sundrops,

but shallow,

and alas,

even the shallowest water can drown the unwary.

He tossed his careless grin at her and she caught it and swallowed it whole

and thus the flame was ignited…

and each smile or glance thereafter

was another twig or twist of dry grass

to feed the blaze.

She sat patient and mousestill through many long nights of watching,

waiting

biding her time

counting her beads

and the stars in the sky.

Until,

inevitably,

one evening

that careless grin oiled by songs and aged honey wine,

aided by a tongue no stranger to the steps of that ancient dance

tossed a silken web taut around her

and

half crushed under his weight,

she then counted the stars once more,

as the uncaring sky hung silent above.

The exact exchange of words a tumbleful of days later is unknown and unimportant.

But careless hands fumble and careless hearts

take no care for the fragile treasures laid freely,

hopefully,

at their feet.

And careless grins

sometimes

fold into a smirk.

Or a shrug.

Or…

laugh.

And in that one long and ponderous moment

hanging thickly

like an oil slick on her ears,

her artfully hidden burning heart

erupted.

There is no man

or demon

that can stand before the unrestrained,

the unfettered rage of a woman.

And the very earth rippled in the aftershocks of her fury,

and the veiled parts of her mind awoke

to a cataclysm felt too deep inside to be charted.

She seized it

used this fracturing

as a double edged sword and with both blades bloodied

she dug down

and down

and raised her arms in release and allowed the power to run wild through her,

and through her,

and back in,

molten silver scored paths made in an instant and sealed with lead and broken oaths.

Nothing could be heard through the howling,

nothing could be seen for she had blackened the eye of the sun.

Of the careless grinning one not even a single foolish fingernail was left,

merely a smudge,

a skullshaped ash mark in the grass

soon blown away by the maddened stampede of the winds….

Since then her feet have never slowed,

her eyes have never closed,

and there is nothing in heaven or hell that can cool the blood that pounds in her neck and wrists, like lava in her veins.

Still quiet eyed and quiet voiced,

wrapped in a coat the color of bruising,

she moves as a shade

a scent,

a barest rustle in the hedgerow.

Of her past she gives no hint,

even her name burned away with her humankindness.

There is only,

perhaps,

a slight slant to her lips,

sparse evidence of the bitter taste still left in the mouth of one who has bitten hard…

Of the careless and shallow ones who cross her path not much can be told,

they are removed from the skin of the world by her limitless,

white hot,

unending

rage.

And their ashes sometimes float like vagrant snowflakes

resting briefly on her shoulders

as the sun rises warily.

And her shadow draws thinly out,

long,

longer

and disappears….

©jayetomas2015

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.