A bride to be, the kind to slip off a canyon, talks to a carousel in a city park. Her royal ball slippers drag up, humbled by gravity, as she sat on the crusader horse. His rust handle, like a pike through his body. He's filthy like Arthur's sword. Never white, never grey. And his pretty saddle chipped, chipped, not plated gold or sparkled violet anymore. His majestic mane, unshaven, is swollen with bird territory residue. He looks painless. She chose the horse with no nervous system in him. For now, this horse carries her baggage.
She is shallow and thin, legs in elegant black lace nylons; a champagne dress corkscrewed onto her like a goddess, bodiless, not absorbing to her form. Pieces of glass garland on her chest, digging through her to hold the dress. Arms are draped in the finest black silk. Her fingers cusp the bar of her old stallion. The weakest of her fingers is buoyed by the 24kt gold encrusted diamond ring. Creamy black kohl spreads over green eyes, in circles, epically shimmering in posthumous brightness. A stilt-like leg peals through and the abandoned autumn evening light illuminates her dying, looming glare. Like a prayer of grace, her mouth breathes pink lipstick, dangling from her lips, teeth, lip indents. Peaches hover off her cheeks. Bones lapping in and out of her face exhaust, creeping away from the muscles. The gesture softens and slows. Hair, flies away, loosens and sweeps dust from the air. It is a long, still lake of muddy brown. Her hair descends, staining her waist. Baby breath grows in the threads of the shaft. There is no groom to compliment her. Just a young lady, seeming deathly close to closure.
When our bride holds onto the carousel, any burdened cardinal and any charming blue jay would realize her daydream state. The horse she leans on rotates forever, pacing slow hooves into the ground. The funeral like procession continues, like the return of a heroic dead cowboy.
She blinks once. She is removed.
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Submission Name: Succubus
