Solanis
 Mortified by the sight of our putrid existence, heaven mourns with the makings of an official dowager. Those marbled sheets blubber continuously, brandishing their sorrow. Never mind the threat of flood, or death by exposure -- or that these lands would benefit from less of their pity. Those clouds were bipolar schizophrenia, they'd continue wail to bitter tears of grief upon those that drown in their sight. The weather in this vast, queer land could be as deadly, mysterious and merciless as the native plant and animal life that resides here. There was little relief to be had even in sleep -- if the howls of terror didn't wake us at their witching hour, the brackish mist, pulsing with garbled voices would. The sheer inconsistency of this landscape suggests that it's entire quilt had been sewn together by crude, uneven thread. And the patches had been chosen by an overzealous, impractical infant. The demons (there are many) simply took with/without provoke -- they didn't seem capable of fighting with honor. They commanded obedience...hardening the line between master and slave. Between captive and captor. "Africa," revered, somber notes slip from ashen, dribbling lips, "I wish...you were here with me." It was a selfish, cruel desire...and half of my soul rejected the idea with instant violence, vowing in shame and disgust to never utter it again. The other part is weeping like a babe, crying for relief; begging to feel her soothing presence and silken, plush voice. That's when they come...drawn by vulnerability and isolation. The slender, damp hair on my nape and spine begin to tingle warily. A roll of thunder barrels across the sky -- these ears twist, rotating uneasily. I can feel those foreign eyes, hot on my skin like a serpent running his tongue over the pelt of another victim. Tasting, relishing the terror and pain. Someone had answered... A peculiar, unwanted presence teeters on the edge of my awareness. "Who are you?" The question is whispered, but no less powerful and resentful; my tarnished, corroded patience becomes strained. Despite efforting to remain collected, my traitorous pulse reacts, quickening to feed adrenaline. Silence is my response -- but the sensation of being watched seems to thicken, defiling me. Resentment builds as the seconds tick on, this jaw tightens -- anger lashes, stabbing desperately, "speak or leave me be damn you!" For many disgusting moments...there is no response. "We're willing to return something you've lost," the voice is flat, detached, neither feminine or masculine. Molars grind furiously, agitated optics scan the timber -- right, left, behind? Nostrils swell, drinking the taste of mildew and rot. The remaining feathered limb quivers, resettling with an agitated shuffle. The voice returns suddenly in the same monotone, sterile drawl, "you can look, but you won't find us." Fury steams, boiling in the pot. This felt very much like the old wisdom of never make deals with the devil, "what do you want?" Though the pitch and frequency of that voice doesn't change...I swear it seems to grin...a nasty, 'you've been hooked,' grin. |
OC--
Eyes follow you, even when you leave the forests behind. They should be gone, they should stay in the trees, yet still they follow. There are, it seems, no bodies to those eyes. They simply watch you, follow you, stalk you until you heart is racing and your nerves are so on edge you might jump at every snap of a twig. Do they want only to torment you? No, there must be something else, must be something you can do. To rid yourself of the eyes that will not leave and earn the Rift's help, you must…
• Steal a male Pavo Cat's tail plume.
• Trick another into stepping on the Yenda Puffball.
• Make something pretty
@rift presence
