Dovalys
TMF Regular
- Joined
- May 31, 2010
- Messages
- 247
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- 0
Aah, it’s short, but it isn’t something that can be dragged out. Not a heck of a lot of tickling scenes; but there isn’t meant be I suppose; in my opinion, the mind is by far the best weapon. One of the first stories regarding tickling I’ve written, and personally, I don’t like it much, but critics are what I I need to figure out what I’m missing.
Bit of an odd viewpoint here, going out on a limb, and I wrote this in one night, once I started I couldn’t stop, I’m not going to lie, I had no idea where this was going until I ended it. Opinions would be great
x-x-x
Blinking back desperate tears, my feet slap the hot desert sand, still cooling after another 45 degree Celcius scorcher, my breath comes in sharp bursts as I run towards what was the setting sun before it sunk beyond the horizon, but now I’m not so sure, as long as I’m running. Behind me to the naked eye there’s nothing to see, only what one would expect of the Simpson Desert, central Australia. I don’t look back to the rolling sand dunes, the swirling sand storms that disturb the pressing silence with their eerie howls, mingling with the ethereal whispers that followed behind me, I knew I shouldn’t have done it, Misa told me not to, old Misa told us all the tales, but as cheeky children, we ignored her, as ignorant teenagers, we’d marked her as mad, and now, I was paying the price.
The story flicks rapidly through my mind, as a local, having grown up in the small town of Kirra Kirra, I was raised to know the local folk tales, including that of the Eastern Desert. It was a simple rhyme she sang to us
Don’t venture into the Desert children
Never go out to the East
For they lie in wait, for the spring of your step
And the silent slap of your feet.
You never encroach on their land
Nor abuse the rights we are born
You never go out alone
And never even in swarms
For children the desert there moves
It whispers it sings and it moans
The spirits there lie in waiting
A burial ground long made home.
The Arrente they knew it, they told us
Yet it happens again and again
You venture there, yes I have warned you
You may not ever return
Not that you should lose your way
For if you simply wander to west,
You always will find your way back
To the area they judge as best
Simply a new disappearance
Though one will always return
Changed for the good or the better?
That is a lesson you’ll learn.
Heed these words and these warnings
Acknowledge that your ancestors did not
The winds they whisper, they know
Never pretend what you’re not.
It echoed around me now, the winds walling and jeering silently, the warnings lying unheeded. Looking back to it now, it was obvious what had happened to old Misa, and now I had foolishly followed in her footsteps; an unending cycle. Orion is gone, he was next to me, then he wasn’t, not a whisper or a warning, his voice had just cut off, as though the wind had picked up all 6 foot of him and simply swept him away. I can still see him in my mind, a picture taken not a month ago at our engagement. Orion towers over me ‘Oh Jocelyn’ people would say ‘Orion makes you look like a dwarf.’ Considering I was but 5’3, he really did. We contrasted perfectly, he was olive skinned, the epitome of tall dark and handsome, his jawbone jutting out roguishly, grinning like the idiot he was. Next to him, my fair skin and auburn hair shone, light and dark, short and tall, we were opposites.
My thoughts are snapped back to the sand in front of me as what felt like a whip bit at my ankles, now bare, my thongs having long since been lost. ‘Don’t be silly Joce, what’s the worst that could happen?’ well I’ll tell him what could happen, and now what am I to do? I’m running, I’m trying, but it’s been hours, perhaps days, I knew we shouldn’t have angered them, I told him we shouldn’t have done it, but as always, he insisted, and as the sook people call me – I gave in again, against my better judgment. I heeded the words Misa, I promise, I just didn’t acknowledge them, and I have a feeling, I’m about to be very sorry…
* * *
It’s … silent. I blink in the light, my eyes adjusting slowly to the orange glow, it’s the colour of the sun, the sand, and eerily enough, the music box that was given to me by the elder that visited on year. I try to groan, I try to roll over, but it’s impossible. I don’t even know which way is up. Squinting into the glow, everything is the same, I assume I’m the right way up, and vertical, as my hair is moving idly on my back which is… bare? Something shifts against the small of my back, I realise quickly that it’s sand, the glow around me is somewhat like a cyclone, of which I’m in the eye. I close my eyes, they aren’t doing a heck of a lot for me anyway, and feel out the situation, calm situational awareness, keep a calm mind, my Dad would say. I can hear nothing bar the quiet howl of the wind whipping itself into a frenzy and my somewhat panicked breathing. I can’t move my arms or legs, which are spread in a ‘T’ shape, I suppose you could call it, leaving my body practically vulnerable. I can’t feel much else, my feet don’t touch the ground, or a platform, and yet, there isn’t a pressure indicating my weight being supported by anything. Odd. Eyes flying open, I glance around nervously, still nothing, though I thought I heard some sort of impatient huff. What were they waiting for?
A shiver runs down my spine and I blink in acknowledgement of movement – that’s a new one. I turn my head, I’m sure I couldn’t do that before. Perhaps I could, I’m not entirely sure. Thoughts flying in every direction, the only one that I could pull out from the insanity that I sometimes claim as my mind, is that I was unbelievably, irrevocably screwed.
* * *
Hours later – it had to’ve been, I’d been here trembling in my own mind for so long.. Maybe that’s the point though? Isn’t the mind the best weapon, it reminds me of when you break something, and your parents send you to your room to ‘think on what you’ve done’ you never thought on that, you thought on what your punishment was to be – would I have to apologise? Dishes for a week? Grounded for a month? Can’t go to Natty’s party this weekend? Now my thoughts jump to far more serious matters, how many ways could they, whoever they is, make me regret venturing into the Simspson? ‘If you go into the woods today you’re in for a big surprise’ the old children’s song jumps into my mind, consciously replacing Woods with Desert. I think I’ve snapped, they’ve driven me barmy, they can see everything apparently, I wonder if they can hear my thoughts?
* * *
Movement, grey eyes wildly darting after the brown blur that slipped through the constant wall of sand, my muscles tense further, awaiting reproval, braced against the ever constant lick of the dust, flinching idly as it nudges areas somewhat sensitive. Then I feel it, a gentle caress, a ghostly finger making its way slowly down the centre of my spine. I would have squeaked, or given any other sounds associated with being startled, should I have had the ability to speak. Then It starts, electricity shoots through my body as I feel fingers pinch at the skin just below my lower ribs. My mind shoots into a frantic overdrive, If I were a computer, I surely would have burnt out by now. I’ve always been ticklish, always. My feet, my ribs, my knees, my back, my belly, everywhere; you name it, I probably am. My older brother Damon knew it, Orion knew it, and damn them to hell, they knew it. Memories pushed themselves at me of being tormented by Damon, poked at by friends, the playful scamper across the ribs that Orion so loved the reaction of. He told me once that he loved it, that if he had his way, he’d tie me up, stick me in his closet, and have his way with me to his hearts content. God I love that man.
I twitch violently to the right as two nails walk themselves up my ribs, laughter wells up in my throat, but – nothing. It’s like a dam that tries to overflow, a wave washed over the edge, and when it can’t escape, is turned around and pushed right back the way it came. My head shakes back and forth as the two fingers, try to grab onto one of the ribs just underneath my breast, electric sensations and waves of ticklish laughter washing through me like a current, faster,a nd more vital than the blood I can hardly hear pounding in my ears. Never have I felt anything like this, I’ve never wanted to laugh when someone’s tormenting me, but I can never help it. It’s excruciating, now I know why I never acquiesced to Orion’s playful queries of bondage.
The nails scamper up and down my sides, wriggling an impossibly long nail in between the gaps, like one does into the Pringles tube, trying to con the last dregs into your grasp, without upturning it and possibly losing it the dog waiting hopefully at your feet. I’d scream if I could, and I’d be glad to.
Scream. Show us your voice.
The voice is like a whip, and at the same time, a leaf blown on the wind, and it’s cold.
Jocelyn Marsden, you are charged with the trespassing of lands that never belonged to your people.
The nails evolve into hands, craning my neck, I can’t see them, I can see the slight indent where a nail drags itself just above my quivering navel, but nothing causing the miniature volcano that wells in my gut, long overdue to erupt. Pinching at my hips, what feels like thumbs, kneading the bone that juts out, rubbing the skin over the bone and itching the muscles next to the bone in circles.
You are charged with the intrusion upon areas you were forbidden from stepping on – like those before you, you are hearby sentenced to Servitude at the hands and whims of those that came before you, the protection of the lands so neglected and ignored.
I’d scream apologies if I could, I swear to any God that is listening that I would, and I’d mean every word of it. My mind flicks around desperately for an escape, trying to deny what was happening, knowing that if I got out of here alive, that I may not be able to return to Kirra Kirra, and a word of this would never be breathed.
The fingers slide up my sides once more, never breaking contact with the skin to press themselves into the hollows under my arms, two fingers in each bicycling erratically, jumping and jerking smoothly, and in a pattern my crazed mind failed to pick up on, preventing my thoughts from tearing themselves away from the phantom fingers that held me so enraptured. Yet still, like a hammer, I heard them.
You will serve, and your lesson will be learned. Jocelyn Marsden, you live on the land of the Arrente, and like those before you, have desecrated it. Now, you learn, and you will speak, only once you can speak the truth, will you truly live. Only then, and then only, speak, and your turn will come.
Speak? I couldn’t think about meanings, all that ran through my head that was intelligible was my current inability to make a sound. My eyes are scrunched up, my head still shaking frantically from side to side. New fingers send alarms ringing loudly as they pinch the skin on my thighs, my eyes open wide, my mouth following in a silent scream as the fingers relentlessly scratch patterns on the creamy skin there, yet untouched by anyone, and horribly and surprisingly sensitive. Like ripples in a small koi pond, my entire body tingled, as nails now scratched at the hollows of my arms, the skin over my thighs, and a new set that may as well have been digging to China with the way they were burrowing under her ribcage. Nothing could equal this, the fingers solid, yet not hard enough to provoke pain of any sort, delicate and soft, yet sharp and to-the-point, it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt, and likely never will again if I get out of this
You will talk. You shall speak our words to your brethren
I couldn’t consider the implications of this past the acknowledgement of them wanting this story to get out. This, which should be buried in my mind, never to surface except in the worst of nightmares.
Don’t venture into the Desert children
Never go out to the East
For they lie in wait, for the spring of your step
And the silent slap of your feet.
I swore, mentally, my train of thought was listing off Cuss words that would have me emptying my whole purse into the Swear Jar had my mother heard me, as I felt a single solitary nail trail it’s way over my left ankle and down towards my foot.
You never encroach on their land
Nor abuse the rights we are born
You never go out alone
And never even in swarms
I’m Sorry! I swear it, I knew it was wrong, I was wrong I was! Mercy, Dear Gods please have mercy.
For children the desert there moves
It whispers it sings and it moans
The spirits there lie in waiting
A burial ground long made home.
It touches my foot, and jolts that both alarm and confuse me shoot up my legs and join with the currents still being created with the casual massage of my ribs, the playful pinching of the waist, the careful nail sliding down my spine, creating a harmony of sensations that both counteract each other and fight for attention. A nail scratches out a figure eight on the ball of my right foot – I wasn’t expecting that, nor was I expecting the sudden jump from my left ankle to the base of my toes, such conflicting sensations sending my broken mind to start the walk down insanity, assuming, I hadn’t been there already.
The Arrente they knew it, they told us
Yet it happens again and again
You venture there, yes I have warned you
You may not ever return
I won’t return from this, I won’t. I know it now, if I survive this, it won’t be me Jocelyn Marsden, it shall be me as whoever I’m deemed worthy of being, and suddenly I knew what happened to Lyra Tikashi all those years ago, which co-aligned with the appearance of old lady Misa. Something we were never meant to notice, nor would have, had we not been allowed to notice.
Not that you should lose your way
For if you simply wander to west,
You always will find your way back
To the area they judge as best
A nail wriggles its way into my ‘innie’ navel. I scream, the molten flow that had been rebounding and growing since the start hours, minutes, days, years, perhaps millennia ago, escapes in a single scream that reflects the desperate state I’ve reached, the nails and pads of fingers never ceasing in their casual exploration of my body, a single nail scratching at the walls of my belly-button, as though vying for escape, just as my maddened mind still strains to do. Though I know I’m gone, I know I’ll do it, I’ll take old Misa’s place, as per the instructions they instilled into me. I’ll provide the words of wisdom that comes in the form of a song, a rhyme that is meant to haunt and to prosper.
Simply a new disappearance
Though one will always return
Changed for the good or the better?
That is a lesson you’ll learn.
It stopped. Desperate peals of laughter, still flow as the currents leave through the furthest points in my body, like a ping pong ball in a pinball machine, I twitch away from now non-existent fingers, or perhaps they were never there in the first place? Changed for the good, the better? Maybe. Maybe it’s necessary, someone has to suffer. My poor Orion, on whom my thoughts past this day will never turn; for I am Cala, and I am of this land not in ownership, but in slavery. I serve them as Misa served, as I had sealed my fate by walking the grounds that should never have been walked. And I’ll tell the stories of the Arrente, and those before event them, and I will. Until someone walks to take my place, which I shall endeavour to prevent, as long as my broken mind can stand.
Heed these words and these warnings
Acknowledge that your ancestors did not
The winds they whisper, they know
Never pretend what you’re not.
For now you walk in the pathways
Now you are not of your world
Now you are grey, the voice
The wisdom, who follows it back.
You child shall heed these warnings,
And the fear that you feel all too real
We live, we exist and we’re angry
The neglect you sowed and now reap
Cala the wheel is now turning
Do unto others, to them.
Tell them, warn them, teach them
Before it becomes far too late…
x-x-x
The Arrente were a real people, one of the indigenous tribes of Australia, look it up if you don’t believe me (; the town of Kirra Kirra is not, and remains a figment of my warped imagination, as do them.
Bit of an odd viewpoint here, going out on a limb, and I wrote this in one night, once I started I couldn’t stop, I’m not going to lie, I had no idea where this was going until I ended it. Opinions would be great
x-x-x
Blinking back desperate tears, my feet slap the hot desert sand, still cooling after another 45 degree Celcius scorcher, my breath comes in sharp bursts as I run towards what was the setting sun before it sunk beyond the horizon, but now I’m not so sure, as long as I’m running. Behind me to the naked eye there’s nothing to see, only what one would expect of the Simpson Desert, central Australia. I don’t look back to the rolling sand dunes, the swirling sand storms that disturb the pressing silence with their eerie howls, mingling with the ethereal whispers that followed behind me, I knew I shouldn’t have done it, Misa told me not to, old Misa told us all the tales, but as cheeky children, we ignored her, as ignorant teenagers, we’d marked her as mad, and now, I was paying the price.
The story flicks rapidly through my mind, as a local, having grown up in the small town of Kirra Kirra, I was raised to know the local folk tales, including that of the Eastern Desert. It was a simple rhyme she sang to us
Don’t venture into the Desert children
Never go out to the East
For they lie in wait, for the spring of your step
And the silent slap of your feet.
You never encroach on their land
Nor abuse the rights we are born
You never go out alone
And never even in swarms
For children the desert there moves
It whispers it sings and it moans
The spirits there lie in waiting
A burial ground long made home.
The Arrente they knew it, they told us
Yet it happens again and again
You venture there, yes I have warned you
You may not ever return
Not that you should lose your way
For if you simply wander to west,
You always will find your way back
To the area they judge as best
Simply a new disappearance
Though one will always return
Changed for the good or the better?
That is a lesson you’ll learn.
Heed these words and these warnings
Acknowledge that your ancestors did not
The winds they whisper, they know
Never pretend what you’re not.
It echoed around me now, the winds walling and jeering silently, the warnings lying unheeded. Looking back to it now, it was obvious what had happened to old Misa, and now I had foolishly followed in her footsteps; an unending cycle. Orion is gone, he was next to me, then he wasn’t, not a whisper or a warning, his voice had just cut off, as though the wind had picked up all 6 foot of him and simply swept him away. I can still see him in my mind, a picture taken not a month ago at our engagement. Orion towers over me ‘Oh Jocelyn’ people would say ‘Orion makes you look like a dwarf.’ Considering I was but 5’3, he really did. We contrasted perfectly, he was olive skinned, the epitome of tall dark and handsome, his jawbone jutting out roguishly, grinning like the idiot he was. Next to him, my fair skin and auburn hair shone, light and dark, short and tall, we were opposites.
My thoughts are snapped back to the sand in front of me as what felt like a whip bit at my ankles, now bare, my thongs having long since been lost. ‘Don’t be silly Joce, what’s the worst that could happen?’ well I’ll tell him what could happen, and now what am I to do? I’m running, I’m trying, but it’s been hours, perhaps days, I knew we shouldn’t have angered them, I told him we shouldn’t have done it, but as always, he insisted, and as the sook people call me – I gave in again, against my better judgment. I heeded the words Misa, I promise, I just didn’t acknowledge them, and I have a feeling, I’m about to be very sorry…
* * *
It’s … silent. I blink in the light, my eyes adjusting slowly to the orange glow, it’s the colour of the sun, the sand, and eerily enough, the music box that was given to me by the elder that visited on year. I try to groan, I try to roll over, but it’s impossible. I don’t even know which way is up. Squinting into the glow, everything is the same, I assume I’m the right way up, and vertical, as my hair is moving idly on my back which is… bare? Something shifts against the small of my back, I realise quickly that it’s sand, the glow around me is somewhat like a cyclone, of which I’m in the eye. I close my eyes, they aren’t doing a heck of a lot for me anyway, and feel out the situation, calm situational awareness, keep a calm mind, my Dad would say. I can hear nothing bar the quiet howl of the wind whipping itself into a frenzy and my somewhat panicked breathing. I can’t move my arms or legs, which are spread in a ‘T’ shape, I suppose you could call it, leaving my body practically vulnerable. I can’t feel much else, my feet don’t touch the ground, or a platform, and yet, there isn’t a pressure indicating my weight being supported by anything. Odd. Eyes flying open, I glance around nervously, still nothing, though I thought I heard some sort of impatient huff. What were they waiting for?
A shiver runs down my spine and I blink in acknowledgement of movement – that’s a new one. I turn my head, I’m sure I couldn’t do that before. Perhaps I could, I’m not entirely sure. Thoughts flying in every direction, the only one that I could pull out from the insanity that I sometimes claim as my mind, is that I was unbelievably, irrevocably screwed.
* * *
Hours later – it had to’ve been, I’d been here trembling in my own mind for so long.. Maybe that’s the point though? Isn’t the mind the best weapon, it reminds me of when you break something, and your parents send you to your room to ‘think on what you’ve done’ you never thought on that, you thought on what your punishment was to be – would I have to apologise? Dishes for a week? Grounded for a month? Can’t go to Natty’s party this weekend? Now my thoughts jump to far more serious matters, how many ways could they, whoever they is, make me regret venturing into the Simspson? ‘If you go into the woods today you’re in for a big surprise’ the old children’s song jumps into my mind, consciously replacing Woods with Desert. I think I’ve snapped, they’ve driven me barmy, they can see everything apparently, I wonder if they can hear my thoughts?
* * *
Movement, grey eyes wildly darting after the brown blur that slipped through the constant wall of sand, my muscles tense further, awaiting reproval, braced against the ever constant lick of the dust, flinching idly as it nudges areas somewhat sensitive. Then I feel it, a gentle caress, a ghostly finger making its way slowly down the centre of my spine. I would have squeaked, or given any other sounds associated with being startled, should I have had the ability to speak. Then It starts, electricity shoots through my body as I feel fingers pinch at the skin just below my lower ribs. My mind shoots into a frantic overdrive, If I were a computer, I surely would have burnt out by now. I’ve always been ticklish, always. My feet, my ribs, my knees, my back, my belly, everywhere; you name it, I probably am. My older brother Damon knew it, Orion knew it, and damn them to hell, they knew it. Memories pushed themselves at me of being tormented by Damon, poked at by friends, the playful scamper across the ribs that Orion so loved the reaction of. He told me once that he loved it, that if he had his way, he’d tie me up, stick me in his closet, and have his way with me to his hearts content. God I love that man.
I twitch violently to the right as two nails walk themselves up my ribs, laughter wells up in my throat, but – nothing. It’s like a dam that tries to overflow, a wave washed over the edge, and when it can’t escape, is turned around and pushed right back the way it came. My head shakes back and forth as the two fingers, try to grab onto one of the ribs just underneath my breast, electric sensations and waves of ticklish laughter washing through me like a current, faster,a nd more vital than the blood I can hardly hear pounding in my ears. Never have I felt anything like this, I’ve never wanted to laugh when someone’s tormenting me, but I can never help it. It’s excruciating, now I know why I never acquiesced to Orion’s playful queries of bondage.
The nails scamper up and down my sides, wriggling an impossibly long nail in between the gaps, like one does into the Pringles tube, trying to con the last dregs into your grasp, without upturning it and possibly losing it the dog waiting hopefully at your feet. I’d scream if I could, and I’d be glad to.
Scream. Show us your voice.
The voice is like a whip, and at the same time, a leaf blown on the wind, and it’s cold.
Jocelyn Marsden, you are charged with the trespassing of lands that never belonged to your people.
The nails evolve into hands, craning my neck, I can’t see them, I can see the slight indent where a nail drags itself just above my quivering navel, but nothing causing the miniature volcano that wells in my gut, long overdue to erupt. Pinching at my hips, what feels like thumbs, kneading the bone that juts out, rubbing the skin over the bone and itching the muscles next to the bone in circles.
You are charged with the intrusion upon areas you were forbidden from stepping on – like those before you, you are hearby sentenced to Servitude at the hands and whims of those that came before you, the protection of the lands so neglected and ignored.
I’d scream apologies if I could, I swear to any God that is listening that I would, and I’d mean every word of it. My mind flicks around desperately for an escape, trying to deny what was happening, knowing that if I got out of here alive, that I may not be able to return to Kirra Kirra, and a word of this would never be breathed.
The fingers slide up my sides once more, never breaking contact with the skin to press themselves into the hollows under my arms, two fingers in each bicycling erratically, jumping and jerking smoothly, and in a pattern my crazed mind failed to pick up on, preventing my thoughts from tearing themselves away from the phantom fingers that held me so enraptured. Yet still, like a hammer, I heard them.
You will serve, and your lesson will be learned. Jocelyn Marsden, you live on the land of the Arrente, and like those before you, have desecrated it. Now, you learn, and you will speak, only once you can speak the truth, will you truly live. Only then, and then only, speak, and your turn will come.
Speak? I couldn’t think about meanings, all that ran through my head that was intelligible was my current inability to make a sound. My eyes are scrunched up, my head still shaking frantically from side to side. New fingers send alarms ringing loudly as they pinch the skin on my thighs, my eyes open wide, my mouth following in a silent scream as the fingers relentlessly scratch patterns on the creamy skin there, yet untouched by anyone, and horribly and surprisingly sensitive. Like ripples in a small koi pond, my entire body tingled, as nails now scratched at the hollows of my arms, the skin over my thighs, and a new set that may as well have been digging to China with the way they were burrowing under her ribcage. Nothing could equal this, the fingers solid, yet not hard enough to provoke pain of any sort, delicate and soft, yet sharp and to-the-point, it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt, and likely never will again if I get out of this
You will talk. You shall speak our words to your brethren
I couldn’t consider the implications of this past the acknowledgement of them wanting this story to get out. This, which should be buried in my mind, never to surface except in the worst of nightmares.
Don’t venture into the Desert children
Never go out to the East
For they lie in wait, for the spring of your step
And the silent slap of your feet.
I swore, mentally, my train of thought was listing off Cuss words that would have me emptying my whole purse into the Swear Jar had my mother heard me, as I felt a single solitary nail trail it’s way over my left ankle and down towards my foot.
You never encroach on their land
Nor abuse the rights we are born
You never go out alone
And never even in swarms
I’m Sorry! I swear it, I knew it was wrong, I was wrong I was! Mercy, Dear Gods please have mercy.
For children the desert there moves
It whispers it sings and it moans
The spirits there lie in waiting
A burial ground long made home.
It touches my foot, and jolts that both alarm and confuse me shoot up my legs and join with the currents still being created with the casual massage of my ribs, the playful pinching of the waist, the careful nail sliding down my spine, creating a harmony of sensations that both counteract each other and fight for attention. A nail scratches out a figure eight on the ball of my right foot – I wasn’t expecting that, nor was I expecting the sudden jump from my left ankle to the base of my toes, such conflicting sensations sending my broken mind to start the walk down insanity, assuming, I hadn’t been there already.
The Arrente they knew it, they told us
Yet it happens again and again
You venture there, yes I have warned you
You may not ever return
I won’t return from this, I won’t. I know it now, if I survive this, it won’t be me Jocelyn Marsden, it shall be me as whoever I’m deemed worthy of being, and suddenly I knew what happened to Lyra Tikashi all those years ago, which co-aligned with the appearance of old lady Misa. Something we were never meant to notice, nor would have, had we not been allowed to notice.
Not that you should lose your way
For if you simply wander to west,
You always will find your way back
To the area they judge as best
A nail wriggles its way into my ‘innie’ navel. I scream, the molten flow that had been rebounding and growing since the start hours, minutes, days, years, perhaps millennia ago, escapes in a single scream that reflects the desperate state I’ve reached, the nails and pads of fingers never ceasing in their casual exploration of my body, a single nail scratching at the walls of my belly-button, as though vying for escape, just as my maddened mind still strains to do. Though I know I’m gone, I know I’ll do it, I’ll take old Misa’s place, as per the instructions they instilled into me. I’ll provide the words of wisdom that comes in the form of a song, a rhyme that is meant to haunt and to prosper.
Simply a new disappearance
Though one will always return
Changed for the good or the better?
That is a lesson you’ll learn.
It stopped. Desperate peals of laughter, still flow as the currents leave through the furthest points in my body, like a ping pong ball in a pinball machine, I twitch away from now non-existent fingers, or perhaps they were never there in the first place? Changed for the good, the better? Maybe. Maybe it’s necessary, someone has to suffer. My poor Orion, on whom my thoughts past this day will never turn; for I am Cala, and I am of this land not in ownership, but in slavery. I serve them as Misa served, as I had sealed my fate by walking the grounds that should never have been walked. And I’ll tell the stories of the Arrente, and those before event them, and I will. Until someone walks to take my place, which I shall endeavour to prevent, as long as my broken mind can stand.
Heed these words and these warnings
Acknowledge that your ancestors did not
The winds they whisper, they know
Never pretend what you’re not.
For now you walk in the pathways
Now you are not of your world
Now you are grey, the voice
The wisdom, who follows it back.
You child shall heed these warnings,
And the fear that you feel all too real
We live, we exist and we’re angry
The neglect you sowed and now reap
Cala the wheel is now turning
Do unto others, to them.
Tell them, warn them, teach them
Before it becomes far too late…
x-x-x
The Arrente were a real people, one of the indigenous tribes of Australia, look it up if you don’t believe me (; the town of Kirra Kirra is not, and remains a figment of my warped imagination, as do them.
