Unexpected Consort?
by j/j hastain
When they found her body on the mountain slope she was covered head to toe in blood-stained animal fur. This was not fur piled atop of her. It was fur that had obviously been sewn into a fabric-form able to encase her.
As soon as the medical examiner had her in his autopsy room, and opened her legs, following procedure as usual to fill out the rape kit information, inside of her he found something that shocked him. Though, finding a dead woman inside of a fur-wrap in the woods might imply what he found, it still fiercely rocked his perception.
Within her vaginal cavity: hundreds of small tooth-pick-like slivers bound together with a deteriorating string. What were these? Porous, yet smooth—bright bone white.
When he got the results back from the lab he blanched. Did she put these into herself? So many penis bones from dead animals, gathered together like a bouquet or bushel of dried herbs within her carnal canal.
Siren Sounds Smear The Skies of a Land-Locked State
It was in the way he lifted her, first very low, almost causing an inverted curtsy and then up and up beyond all encrusted visage. He was not a man and he was certainly not a woman. He was something else, entirely. Because he was not hindered, because he was steady, she perceived him as a clean-cut-stronghold turning into tears and ice.
In her dreams, she had long been visited by a genteel Frankenstein. He propped her up so the weight of her entire body could rest on the curve of his skinless, largess knee. He felt familiar to her. What did not feel familiar were the grandiose tankards in the background, the enormous chunks of concrete, and the alluvium deposits shaping and reshaping the shades, inundating the cues.
In order to not block them out, in order to identify with what was not familiar to her, she needed to perceive the unfamiliars’ enormity as nature: floating in the froth of the sea and not disappearing below it. To do so required an absolute floatation device: a dream boat.
A dream boat is a bias toward bliss.
Crossposted with Queen Mob’s Teahouse
About the Author:
j/j hastain is a collaborator, writer and maker of things. j/j performs ceremonial gore. Chasing and courting the animate and potentially enlivening decay that exists between seer and singer, j/j, simply, hopes to make the god/dess of stone moan and nod deeply through the waxing and waning seasons of the moon.
