The two once sat on a midnight sunset, when they held hands. Because they were not suppose to be out so late that night, they made sure to leave the house in as quiet a fashion as possible. Sitting in the swing sat, they viewed the stars in their brightness; how so many things have changed since then, and yet even now she still wondered whether the other girl wandered off to, even now as she would journey to the stars in her mind.
Winter splinter sprinter land. Sprinting splinting during winter. Of all the shin splints she ever had, this one was especially bad. Snowflakes falling on the land, like little dust of clouds. Let the snowflakes cover in shrouds, all the land covered in white. Goodnight daylight, welcome rainy night. All the dust is in the air, enough to smoke the world everywhere. The lamp lights a beacon, early morning frying bacon. What’s shaken pig, in the frying pan. Enough bacon to fill my mouth, all that sensation around my lips. Let me fatten up my very hips, that bacon to fill my mouth. Narrative of a dead pig.
Girls jump rope in wooden shoes, all the boys sing Portuguese and French blues. The rope can’t jump itself as they go inside, for the bacon they open wide. There was a woman whose hair was red, about as red as a lobster on its last boil. So many curls on her head. We called her lobster girl with the red curls. She wore an old dress handed down, from her mom who always frowned. Yet it was better than not being around, since the scanners came. Daylight eclipsed, while she ate nothing but corn chips under the dimmed lamp while the rained dropped; you could hear the sound of frogs and birds chirping in the air. Wooden shoes were left on the chimney top, while she chilled and ate corn pop. All covered in turmeric and cumin spice. All that zest flavored grease so nice. All the silence of the world filled the airwaves.
Life wasn’t always filled with lyrics, but neither was it lollipops, or tins filled with non popped corn pop. Simply the flavor of nothing, but those snowflakes. She chilled to the sound of nature sounds, while taking off all her clothes, as if to shower, but it was all for the sensation of her black sheets, under the snowflakes. And the sounds of frogs and birds that filled the air, where the only things that broke the silence as she began to sleep. And in those distant dreary dreams, the only time she could blow off steam. Instead she melted under the sheets, and became an ocean covered in ice sheets. Like the sound of distant ocean worlds and ice world at the edge of space, while playing the sound of Moonlight Sonata, and French tap dance.
Life was not a cinquain, or any other consistent rhythm. But the rhythm of a distant life; Not a cinquain, but an astronaut without a spacesuit.
She suffocated in her sleep.
Midnight sonata.
“No trespassing, radioactive.” said the nuclear waste dump actor, wearing a fake hazmat suit and yellow plastic helmet. “System alert.” The scene was like a replay of an old disaster movie set, carefully improved lines gone over ahead of time before forest exhibition. And to top it off, a real grand daddy long legs crawling the waste. The actor liked the sensation of fog as she pressed the button, and made sure to keep pressing it. At home she wrapped around her wrist an old black bandage tape, she used to affix a flash drive for sneaker net communication. She liked the sensation of being bound with a paper thin canvas bandages, like Gothic mummies. The sound of spider web crawling the midnight forest over brush.
Midnight inactivity, midnight thirst.
All hammering in, in large bursts. Diving in head first, brushing through dream-like galaxies with sparkling glittering blood spewing from a severed neck, the head rolling in her lap as she reclined in her bed.
It was then she remembered her childhood friend, how she would every now and then come and visit her house, where a birthday cake was made. And they ate about a whole tin of ice cream, and listened to some birthday music largely liked by nobody. However it was tolerable enough for the special occasion. In her mind eye, she knows looks onto the memory with a vague sense of irritation. It was a time before she had actually came out as trans, and people still viewed her as largely being male, despite her obvious femininity. And it was only when she was at home that she was even able to hide the fact that she would dress in women’s clothes. To think as times have changed, it would be yet another swing set that went by the wayside as the world was slowly consumed by Nuclear Winter, and those who survived would be sent to live underground. Although the reality of this slowly faded from memory as she went on with her life. It reminded her of the sense of grimness when she played as a radioactive inspector on a Halloween set.
Yet at home she binds one of her hands, and sometimes one of her legs, with self-adhesive black cloth. The sensation made her feel comfortable, like being held tightly. And she could carry around 32 gigabyte thumb drives, and sometimes MP3 players through areas of the city where she was not suppose to carry electronics. There was a large scale device ban, when the state began mandated more bag checks, so she needed alternative areas to put her stuff. But it allowed her to carry data around, and as long as she shaved for the days in which she could go to movie, then nobody would know that data was being carried on her person. She savored the days in which it would be cold and rainy, and savored the sunset.
As she was unsure how many more would be left.
Yet now she once again began to sleep, she watched old historical dramas set during the French Revolution. She especially liked it when young aristocratic women would be caressed by the strapping executioner, as she was slowly lowered on the plague. And waited for the angular blade to bloodily whisk her dark brown curly locks away into a wicker basket. She had memories of living the life of Marie Antoinette, and few other girls from later centuries. Yet had grown to acquire a taste for girls in wooden shoes.
It was this that reminded her of when she was almost sold into slavery.
It was roughly a year ago to this day.
“But we need the money Adelina.”
“I have no intention of having sex with anyone.”
“Look, I want this as much as you do.” She wasn’t the type of room mate to take no for answer, especially from someone like Adelina. Although she never got around to actually being sold, it was a close enough call that it reminded of the kind of person that her room mate really was, and their relationship was never quite the same sense. And now as the rain drops dropped, the imagined snowflakes falling in the air, and girls outside playing jump rope in wooden shoes, creating imprints in the snow. To think that the reincarnation of Marie Antoinette had fallen so far down the totem pole, and yet she would not leave it for the world. And soon, in her dreams, she imagined nuclear weapons being dropped from stealth wing jets. Turning the world into a perpetual wasteland, where the snow had long sense melted.
But as she focused on the present, it was simply the ghetto she always lived.
A world the same as always, where nothing really changed.
And she was the dust of the Earth.
For a lot of people, it was generally easier to communicate their feelings, but she had grown up with the expectation that she should keep her feelings hid away, except when she was alone in her bedroom and numbed by the sound of spattering raindrops, under the glow of the monitor light. Goodnight sleeping nights, goodnight world of tomorrow. Goodnight all good things that always come to an end, flicking like city lamp lights, as she fluttered away like blood butterflies, the spirits of women with their heads chopped off. Goodnight walls that creak but never seem to crack, good night ghost in the hallways, the imprints of distant time, or perhaps from some distant dimension. Time flowing like a network of lifetimes from distant eras. Era where the flowers always bloomed in the fields, and the flying wing had yet been invented. Goodnight wasteland of dirt and decay in a glimpse into the nearest of possible futures.
Here lies the blood butterfly.
Withered into dust. She traveled to ancient cities, and rusted ones at different periods of time. Flowing like a web work of HTTPS addresses, chased by unseen things, always with the feeling of constantly being watched. But she would wake up in pod, with her ear buds still in her ears, while listening to Fado and Flamenco music. And with the last French lesson being paused until the next morning.
She lived most of her life, before the next war, in anticipation.
Expectation that more souls would burn away in the fire. A fire that could not easily be burned out, fueled by the sadistic humor of people on different websites, calling for the demise of different primitive nations. And her constantly reaching out her hand to help someone, with nobody to answer the call.
Like falling off into a cliff.
And no obvious floor below. Only darkness, darkness...
Below.
In a distant life, she rode in a coach, driven by the strongest of horses. Her hair had begun to grew with age, before she was reincarnated into the present. She wore a torn white dress, with her wrists tied behind her back. She walked up the scaffold, is lowered onto the plank. The crowd pointing and laughing at her. Then a slight chill went through her neck, as she saw for one last glimpse the angular blade that went through her neck.
Blood poured on her face. Then darkness came.
She floated in space, then more darkness. And she was on an emergency room table. With surgeons cooing and cawing at her. They promised to her mother that they would take nice care of her, after she was sucked out with a vacuum cleaner.
And now she pleasures herself to blackened bandages, binding different flash drives, keeping her more cherished illustrations. Various girls in Birkenstocks, and the most casual of she legged jeans and short sleeve tee shirts. Hoping that someday she could get robot girl companion, who she could install with artificial intelligence. But the last few months have been slow with the development, as she finds other things to do with her time. She hoped that maybe, in the next two years she could at least finally gender transition, and change her name to Adelina, while working toward getting the career that she’s always wanted.
Go to various talk shows, perhaps talk with different robotics companies. And talk about various ways to build human-like robots, with increasing levels of realism, hoping that they themselves will never have to worry about being reincarnated from the 18th and 19th centuries, and simply live the normal life of robot girls, reincarnated by open source software nodes. And find lovers like she could not.104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡApbv0fkDzP
It didn’t matter if she never found anyone to blow her.
As long as some other girl in a long flower wedding dress, got a decorated pair of wooden shoes that she would cherish in some church in Europe. That she would wear whenever she wanted to be reminded of their wedding.104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4tte5k7Iu8
And not live a distant unmarried life.
Or that of a blood butterfly.
104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZKobDQWCC8
