Cloud Prince
You cannot believe this.
King Abaddon just bought you a slave at the visiting market. And sure, you'd been expecting a roughed-up thing, but this? Is unacceptable.
She's about your age, barely 15, and she's almost a whole head taller than you, but she holds herself like a wounded pup. Well. That's not too far from the truth, is it. Her tan skin is painted in a violet watercolor of abuse and neglect, and you can see a heavy black-blue bruise in the shape of unforgiving fingers around her throat. Her lacy dress is white as a fresh lily, and bare feet shift nervously on the stone floor of your castle.
Your hands are in your pockets, and you remove one to pull off your necklace: a thin silver chain with a sand dollar hanging from it. When you offer it to the girl, she flinches pitifully, and you frown slightly, but quickly wipe it away and give a gentle laugh. At least that has her relaxing slightly.
"Welcome to Sky Castle, young lady. Prince Cecil Sky, brother of Prince Titus and son of Abaddon Sky, at your service. No pain will come of you here."
Performance for the Devil’s pleasure
Pale fingers lace around a wrist;
Biting down hard on bleeding, violet lips.
A bruise has been placed on the inner corners of her thighs;
Lilies erupting from beneath her unblinking eyes.
Sand dollar shaped marks just above the collarbone;
Breast assaulted by fists as an ocean surface broke through by stone.
Mascara and tears run down like watercolor on a page;
He is an actor and she is his stage.
Lilies and Lace: The Story of a Most Inspirational Walk
"It's due in a week." said the intimidating manager of my art exhibit. I mean, it is important to have all my art there BEFORE my grand opening, but still, does he have to be that mean???
And I was out of ideas. And I mean it. I just couldn't find inspiration. And people would rather see a 2 year olds art gallery then an empty one. AND his would be adorable, cute, etc.
If I didn't get this in, my career would be over. OVER! You know what? Maybe I just need a break. An inspirational break. At this point, I was willing to try anything. I decided on a walk. A breath of fresh air.
So here I was. I stepped along the pebbles, the sand, the sand dollars, the stones, and the shells of the beach. My feet are no doubt getting bruised and scratched from the sharpest of these objects.
"Ahh, that step was definitely softer." I think to myself.
"Wait! That step was SOFTER, funny!" I look down do find a now crushed single white lily. The beach was was the perfect setting for my next painting, and I felt bad about destroying such a beauty, so I decided that that lily would be my subject. It was the creamy white of lace, and just as delicate.
As I set up my easel I thought of what I'd paint. For the first time in my life, I thought I should paint exactly as I had seen it. Such a great example of contrast. A rocky beach against cream white. I painted the waves, the sea, with violet, gray, blues, and greens... yet
half way through a master piece the sky turned gray. Then it started raining. Then pouring. I searched desperately through my pockets in search of something waterproof. My dog's unused poop baggie. Only enough to cover the lily. But it'll work. It has to.
I cried as I tried to pack up against the wind. And then it all stopped. I took off the baggie and there, in there, in the middle of a streaked,smeared, yet beautiful background, was a flawless lily. I stepped back as I let the sunshine dry my soaked, soaked hair, and realised, hey, it's a watercolor.
The price.
The price of the bandwagon is, bruises the color of violet created by stone smashing flesh.
Skin being rub raw by a sand dollar,
Tight lace around your hands until they turn watercolor blue.
Finally the last step to get on is tattooing a lily in the center of your back.
They will finally except you if you can withstand all that's needed to get on.
Bruises filled her arms, of a violet color.
She traced the laced fabric, wishing,
hoping, praying, that life was not set in stone for her.
She paints a lily with watercolor.
admiring the flower.
She counts each sand-dollar.
Wishing, praying, hoping, life was not set in stone for her.
Death she was sure it would come.
To be buried with amongst the lilies.
With violet arms no more.
And with all the sand-dollars she could count
more.
Losing
She tugs at the lace at her throat
A constricting collar
Not wanting to be among the
throngs of lying people
So she expresses herself secretly
In vibrant lilies and blooming
violets
Delicate sand dollars and broken
seashells
Her watercolors leaving beautiful
bruises on her blank canvas
They settle like a stone in her
stomach
Reminding her
Not to speak
Because no one will understand
And she will lose
Everything