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Tunnel of leafs 1. by aidheanalba

It really invokes a sense of wanderlust. I get the feeling that Wonderland is just around the bend, and if I hurry i can catch up to Al...


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Artist | Hobbyist | Varied
United States
I like writing. I like fairy tales. I like spelling things in obscure ways: Chimera? Chimaera. Mermaid? Maermaid. Fairy? Faerie. I like drawing. I dont like reading my work aloud. I like cramming my work full of weird words that mean beautiful. I'm young.


She doesn't notice the passage of time so much as seasons. it is warm, and there are many birds and ground dwellers to hunt. It is cold and they are fewer.
But, the jump from babe to child is short, and little bird now greets her with more than babbling sounds. Old Mother laughs at his antics, at his garbled speaking. Little bird walks, stumbling and like a newborn calf. Now he tries to follow her, calling "Mama" she knows not the word. Witch's magic granted animation, and Chimera's a glamour of life. Neither gave her speech.
the boy clings to her muddy dress, hands tight like mortal rope. And it's the Witch's magic that guides her, as she settles the boy on her back. He babbles into her ear now, shrieking with something like joy. The little hands wind into the braids the Old Mother had made of her hair. Her chest feels heavy with the thought of little bird's joy, but the weight is warm, and she cannot blame magic for it.
She carries him in a length of cloth wrapped tight about her front, leaving slack enough at her back. He is small still, and fits there easily. The old mother has tied knots to keep the tension. Bouda does not yet know how to manage them, and slides the cloth over her head when she must remove it. Her claw-less hands pat the lengths of twine, curious to their making, but she struggles to replicate. Little bird progress faster, able to tug on the frayed length and send himself tumbling from her back when the tension immediately slackens.
The winter is crawling closer, and Old Mother has tied the boy up on Bouda's shoulders. Little bird fusses, but the bobbles plaited into her hair distract him. The crone hoists a basket full of goods into her own arms, and leads Bouda from the cottage. They walk down the mountain, edging carefully along the deer trails. Old Mother speaks as she walks. She points to creatures that Bouda knows, and says her names for them. She points to creatures that the Chimera has never known, and says names for them also. Little brown birds that flutter and bluster, she calls Wren. Little birds like the boy on her back, a little wren.
Old Mother guides her through the village, the press of the clustering crowd. They sit on a spread blanket in the paved square, and the old mother lays out the things in her basket. A woman comes to speak with the crone, and stays for some time. She is wrinkled, like a dried up fruit. Old Mother doesn’t look so old as she. The woman has hair like spider silk, and milky eyes. A pack of children race by shrieking, and the woman leaves.
“Smile, please, you mustn't look so bitter.”  The crone whispers, but Bouda does not know. She twists her face, contorting her mouth and its flat, flat teeth oddly. Bouda attempts it. Color drains from her cheeks, and old mother shakes her head, as though shaking off a particularly annoying bird. “Never mind, dear, your smile is nearly as bad as your frown.”
they sit, and Wren begins to fuss once more, and the crone takes him.
Round the sun goes, and it grows dark and a poor time to hunt, and the Crone rises, tying little bird on Bouda’s back, and passing the emptied basket into her arms. Old Mother leads her by the wooden structures extended over the water. The woman does not look at them, does not speak to the men on boats who wave and call out to her. Bouda follows. she smells the rot of fish left too long uneaten, of things dead in the water, far below, of water plants dried up. It is not a pleasant scent, for all the crone breathes it in deep. Old mother barks at a man with nets of fish, and Bouda’s nose crinkles, and she feels her face contort, and she thinks of rotten carrion. The fish are loaded into her basket, and she turns her head. Old mother walks on. She leads Boada past a square building, the color of crushed bark. A man stands outside of it, and he sees Old mother, and jumps down from the step. He speaks with her, and Bouda shuffles behind, facing away from the wind. She does not wish to smell the rot of the sea any longer. Old Mother laughs at the man, reaches a hand into his yellow hair. Yellow like dead grass. He’s younger than both Old Mother, and the old woman from before, but he is older than the Witch was.
The thought makes her cold, despite the glow of the sun. Witch, full of bitterness and jealousy and longing. Wanted back a soul, carelessly lost. Little bird does not look like the witch. He looks like the scraps of human left on the many faced beast that had killed the Witch.
The man walks away, humming a song that sounds of mournful keening, of longing like the Witch’s.  The Old Mother picks it up, humming the tune all the way back up the mountain.

“I’ll never say it was or wasn’t so, but let me tell of a harrowing time, where the noose embraced the neck of a boy who ne’er knew his crime.”
Cowab. Chimera lives.
experimental piece, trying to capture the 'voice' of my Chimera character from an old fairytale work. Most of the pieces have been in the fairytale voice, and a few in Wren's or William's but never the Chimera's. Did this in under 2 hours, no editing.  Made some connections to old works. Like The widow's song.
Rain in my hair,
doesnt look like diamonds,
I am no lost lamb,
soaked to the bone.

No selkie maiden,
come ashore,
hidden in the storm,
dancing in the cove.

My eyes do not reflect the sea,
blue and green,
but blue-grey and
flecks of green and a spot of citrine.

But, I'm not the pitted moon,
no craters on my visage,
and no blemish more than norm,
recreate god in my image.

A walk in the park, is no easy feat,
and an uphill battle,
is a panic as the tires cut out.
traction doesnt exist on a rainy road, uphill.
They say you are what you make of yourself,
what you choose to believe, to do, to see,
and i know that my frame of reference is far too small

And I grew up afraid to grow, because that meant letting go,
and i know that it doesnt now,
but i spent twelve, and thirteen pretending that i didnt care.

And I've written a thousand poems about falling in love,
or not. Maybe I've written two,
and fell in love with the other nine hundred ninety eight.

Never marry a writer, love,
and what comes after the phoenix has fallen?
and you're like a magpie,

shivering quivering in the labyrinth of my words,
a maze of the mind, tangled with scraps of reality.

and i've always been best at over-analyzing myself,
building rock walls of no purpose and punishing myself.

but i paint pictures on the cobbles,
stories of monstrous mothers, and absent-minded sons,
Of sobbing women who only fulfill their names, Lacrimosa,

Of things dark and dreary and not  death.

of death and comatose patients on a walk in eternal forests.

but there is more, of birds without wings,
of old men hawking away the days,
foolish boys, and wizards who try to kill kings,

Of fishboys and bird-girls falling in love,
of dragons and elves and moths.

and i've forgotten my intent in this piece,
like a sailor forgets land at sea.
We couldn't climb trees,
and i never kissed you,

We sang songs,
and i played along

you understood,
and i thought, this way,

this is something i could love.

and maybe thats wrong.

its an agony,
taking a siren from the sea,

love is cruel,
a bitter tonic for an uncured ill.

and i thought, this way,
this isnt something i want.

and maybe thats wrong, but its also right.

And its written History,
all things: to be or not to be.

And no one taught us the right questions,
so we’ve gotten lost in the asking.

And they stumble to save us,
prevent us from harm,

but I’m grown,
let me fall on my own.

And love is something to want,
to live for, to die for.

and I am no Hercules,

but wasn’t Hera loved, before she was
the jealous wife?

and they tell me its wrong, these things i say.

Calm down and wish it away.
i only wish that it wasntwrongtoforgethowtolove.

If there is anything in this world,
it is the glimmering of happiness,
but thats only in this world.

I love Orion, and i am incomplete,
until i see his belt across the sky,

like clothing discarded,
in a lover’s heap,
ursa major dances across the sky,

seductive to my mind.
And why must love equate to sex

when so many people want it, and have it for less.

Why must i love, and if i do,
why must it be something else too.

There are things in this world,
dark things
beautiful things,

but, what is beautiful.

is it the scent of lemongrass in my hair?
           lavender soap and lye.
is it in my unmarked face?

and must we fear the meaning of a scar,

how a line on my wrist  
is a laundry list
of health and disputes of mind.
of a history darkened and
minds judging,
images of a knife,

when really its from an iron,
when i bent to catch a shirt,
and all i wanted was to look professional.

blood hasnt left my body through a scar,

through a hole that lets my stardust out,


We dont call them witches anymore,
just plain freaks,

and we dont hang women anymore,
for being single and owning land

and like
supernovas who burnt too fast, too hard,

the stake fires have blinked out of sight.
and we quake and shake and quiver
with fear,

and night terrors lurk,
and how does a burned woman feel?

the smell of my hair aflame, sent them running,
and as my skin bubbled and melted and

warped, like plastic under too much heat.

pinpricks and rivers and drowning,

and when i was thirteen i almost remembered

my scaled sisters, singing me down to the sea.

and at five it was so easy, so free

simple as could be,

to close my eyes, and let the water over take me.

and mother, she reached out and pulled me up.
and the adventure was done.

and i breathed in and looked at the sun.

and the only things that have ever hurt
me were
fire and brimstone

sea and sun.

and i wonder,
if love isnt one of those too.

and if you love it, let it go,

and no one ive known,
has ever
had the strength to do so.

and they take, and hold
   horde like gold.

and smaug at least took it from a
madman, diseased.

and dragons, i adore, but i

dont like humans
in greed.

I’m sorry, but the color doesnt suit you.

and My name
isnt janet
or jane
or margaret.

and i haven’t met a boy
named thomas

who had an ounce of rhyme

and the only boys i know who can sing,

worth anything,

dont need faeries, and elf kisses,
because music’s magic all its own.
(This isn't the Ballad of Tam Lin,)
and why does she need
to love him
to save a soul

Why cant i, out of sheer


And the only Carter, that i care for,
isnt Carterhaugh.
its a tv show set in the 40s,

about a woman who’s
lost a man in time,
and is prepared to go on living.

(where Howard is the prince charming, hunting for his snow white,

because Peggy knows how to grieve,

and Starks are only good as wannabe-dragons.

and what good are fathers who have other dreams…


and panic, and fear,
those legendary moons,

watch like misshapen eyes, circling the red planet,

glaring like a dried up star,

as we cut and stunt
and damage
and destroy all that we hold dear.

and silently they scream,

why can’t you see me.


from our mistakes.

and you should know

curiosity sang itself
happy birthday,

all  a l o n e ,

far from home.


and i am not curiosity,

nor am i alice,
lost following the rabbits,

because i have a german shepard,
and none of them are close enough to see.

so, pity on me,

for never meeting the hatter
and sitting down to tea

and we’ve romanticized him,
made him larger than life,
and he is bright, almost as powerful as the red queen,

in our personal mythology.

and I’ll put his name alongside the Chimera
and Cerberus,
and the Queen of Elphame,
the Goblin King,
and snow white can keep her heart,

and Cinderella can marry her prince, as
long as
her sisters keep their toes.

and Rapunzel, let down your long hair,
let out your dress’ seams,
cause Mummy Dearest isn’t a fool,

she knows where a baby comes from,

and again, love circles back, and equates to sex.

and can i not keep something for me?
and of love, that fickle beast?
So this was written after a day spent on tumblr amongst the LGBTQIA blogs, and i then got to thinking about how healthy relationships work, and how hard it is to explain my orientation to people, and just how weird it is to say that you dont want sex, you can be inlove and not have sex, that love does not mean you need to have sex. 

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4Soldiers Featured By Owner Mar 22, 2015  Student Writer
Thank you for the points. Keep up the hard work because it works. ;) (Wink) 
toxic--sunrise Featured By Owner Feb 23, 2015
thank you, lovely :heart:
artofpan Featured By Owner Feb 9, 2015  Student General Artist
Thanks for hte watch!! :D 
MrWootton Featured By Owner Oct 27, 2014  Professional Writer
Thanks for the favorite! =)
xlntwtch Featured By Owner Jun 14, 2014   Writer
Thanks for the :+fav:
BookWormMK Featured By Owner Apr 30, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for the favorite!
hippiewitch27 Featured By Owner Mar 24, 2014  Student Writer
Thank you so much for the fave! :hug:
Lydian-daydream Featured By Owner Mar 17, 2014
hey old friend. i havent been very active in the community lately. still alive and well?
somebodi-else Featured By Owner Mar 17, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Hello there! Me either. But I might be working on some stuff. Trying to get through the grieving process at the moment, but I am well. What about you? Written anything cool lately?
Lydian-daydream Featured By Owner Mar 18, 2014
im sorry for what youre going through. if you ever feel the want to talk about anything or need somebody to listen my inbox is always open.
As for having written anything lately, ive had some strong ideas that involve department store shoplifting and two deer that have their horns locked up from
fighting, and an alternate universe where Harper Lee wrote a 2nd book. Its... its gonna be something. Maybe :D
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