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    dots Submission Name: To The Star-Childdots

    Author: notune
    ASL Info:    21/male
    Elite Ratio:    3.31 - 9/13/8
    Words: 769
    Class/Type: Prose/Nostalgia
    Total Views: 1532
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 4668

       This is something small that I wrote in response to my star-child's latest e-mail.

    With all my writing, every grammar "error" and un-capitolization is done on purpose. Everything else, if deemed wrong, is wrong.


    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotsTo The Star-Childdots

    their world is cut as black linen that intersects the room. the dancer strays behind, her christmas lights send shadows that seem to strut and fly along the surfaces. the star-child melts into her sheets and rose-colored blankets, her eyes light and following the lines as they bend and break.

    (It was night-time, around 11 pm, when the world transformed into something they were unintentionally waiting for.)

    the outside world shook, on fire. wind came down in jagged peaks, rain swirled a snowstorm of confusion and lacking pity. their ancient stone fortress stood, seeming to shudder in raped orgasm, clutching it's foundation as thighs, not wanting this but needing the release that was granted it.
    the dancer froze and the star-child sat up as their world became black.

    nothing. complete and startled silence. darkness.

    the star-child felt her way through the hallways, her eyes and fingers out-stretched to the black felt thickness. in her mind, she saw faces and hollow mouthes staring. but, being strong, she gathered up her candles and found her flame behind her tongue, her teeth.
    the dancer had with her a little boy that kept to himself, naked under her pillows.
    It was difficult for them to be afraid.

    The walls and ceilings begin to sigh and flex and moisten.
    the dancer pulls down her pants, her little boy helps her out of the clasps. the star-child, alone, undresses and closes her eyes, pretending that his hands are hers and the warm air spinning is his breath, escalating.
    but their world still becomes thick and the dancer and the star-child prepare to leave.

    their palms upturned, pools of fire between the ridgelines, they slide through the hallways, tiny figures intent of fresh breath and deep exhales.
    the star-child smiles and laughs...the world outside is alive!
    they both climb out and dance in the abandoned streets, the rain pulling into their skin, the wind carrying them across the city like painted paper dolls. they become all types of phrases and roving prose. the star-child becomes a dancer as well, they hold hands with fire and climb the limbs. the dancer becomes a star-child as well, they lock arms and skim the clouds.
    but they belong to their castle, those walls are their lust. and in time, they move back inside, their bodies drip and run until they become the black felt hallway.

    an angel stops them.

    apartment number eight opens, and the cherub pokes his head out, just for a moment.
    time stops as the dancer is in mid-stride.
    time stops as the star-child smiles into his eyes.
    time stops as he stares at them with never-ending grace and supplication.
    an echo calls him to shut the door and their hearts bleed because the look on his face was one of sleepy happiness and certain reassurance.

    (how could anyone that young have this evident ageless understanding of exactly what was happening to them?)

    How many times, thought the star-child, have i been too quickly afraid and was denied and occurence or perception like this?

    and as time went on,
    our star-child awoke to someone screaming.

    "When I woke again, it was someone playing the flute. Tonight, Iíve dreamt of salty tongues, and tears that drip from the sky and subsequently down my legs. The boy was screaming in the dreamÖ please lie still little one. Itís just that wind blowing out past the faraway.. it blows away past the hills and then the sea. And I tell him not to be afraid of the cellar door, thatís where the music comes from. And it feels good to talk to the big picture in its frame, even though the emptiness is quite overwhelming. I then walked slowly out to the shore, and shouted at the silent rocks. I hoped tonight you would touch my hair and draw soft ghosts on my back."

    Her imagination, my little star-child, has a ridiculous way of winning.
    And I, the half-breed, half of startled sight from the golden framework above the clouds, half of the blood-red remains of the underworld...her half-breed...
    I will touch her hair in my own waking dreams. I will close my eyes to the rich sunlight and feel it dance through my fingertips.
    I will draw soft ghosts on her back, even as I fall asleep a world away. I will lean over her and drag and drip black and white color into her skin in the shapes of constellations and treese breeding hearts.

    Her imagination has a ridiculous way of winning.

    Submitted on 2006-02-02 12:58:50     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    Rate This Submission

    1: >_<
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    ||| Comments |||
      Umm...It sounds as if this child is being raped by some strange being from the underworld. It's rather unusual. I was confused through the whole thing. If you could send an explanation of the poem to me I would be grateful.
    | Posted on 2006-02-20 00:00:00 | by __symphony__ | [ Reply to This ]
      EXCELLANT- This piece held me from beginning to end. Is it the beginnings of a short story perhaps? There are so many character implications you can play off of. The way you described everything is as if a veteran poet (which you quite may well be) wrote this. BRAVO

    your friend

    OH YEAH! Straight to my fav list
    | Posted on 2006-02-02 00:00:00 | by BenCollier | [ Reply to This ]
      this was verry verry good like insainly good you are extreemly talented. keep it up seriously dont you dare think abouy stopping

    that girl
    | Posted on 2006-02-02 00:00:00 | by sweet sorenity | [ Reply to This ]

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