She was in a middling sized valley sitting on the bank of a river that was really more of a trickling stream. The sun bounced rays with abandon, off of amber lenses and scabby knees.
“I’m so pale,” she murmured. “I’m porcelain.”
She took off her glasses and squinted at the white hot sky, vaguely wondering if it was already on its way.
She looked back down at her naked self, dusted a palm down a long white leg. Fine fissures appeared, running from ankle to calf. She beamed at the trees. “I’m coming undone,” she told them proudly. The breeze blew, scooped up a leaf on a lazy draft and kissed her rounded cheek with its edges.
The tiny lips of flesh that were peeling back seeped a golden incandescence that drew glyphs on her body that she couldn’t decipher. It was a tale from a time before words were needed to tell a story; what leaked from her now was pure, and it was ecstasy.
The fissures played a merry game of chase across the expanse of nerve endings that had been her skin, was still her skin, but cracking open and sloughing off to the ground around her. She was a hatchling, her body the egg broken out of, useful but no longer necessary.
Something was staying behind to shape itself into a new figure altogether. Maybe this one will have wings, she laughed. The noise dripped into the air like liquid, stretched out and elongated, a melted candlewax of sound.
She slid, glided and schmoozed her way toward the water, a whirling dervish not quite in control of her dervish. Idly she wondered what life might be like as water nymph.
The soundtrack to this short story is Skrillex, because nothing is more life affirming than music that makes you want to move.
There was a moment of inspiration in the comments section of a favorite blog yesterday. The author isn’t having the best of times at the moment, and the commenter left a really thoughtful and insightful comment that ended with the question: “What color are your wings?” For some reason it really stuck with me.
I got to pick the Master Class prompt line this week, as I obviously bribed the teacher or she’s just a silly bugger, so I went with Clive Barker’s The Great and Secret Show: She took off her glasses and squinted at the white hot sky, vaguely wondering if it was already on its way. The prompt had to be used in the middle of the story this week, which was tricky but worked okay for me because my paragraphs are short as shit.
If there is anybody who happens to read this that isn’t already playing and wanted to jump in on the Master Class game, it really is a blast. Each week a different line from a different place in a different novel is picked by a different person to use in a different way. Just go check out SAM at www.frommywriteside.wordpress.com, we would love to have you.