(no subject)
this story was written for teenhearthrob. i will be nice and share it anyway.
We begin slowly, viewing the picture at a distance:
The stars are falling from the sky, being replaces by vacant oranges, yellows, and white. They each clang as they hit the ground, their delayed melodies quickening with the overwhelming light of the sun. The wailers come out to sing the song, humming, moaning-shifting across the ground in a crawling motion. Each one joins with another sound, their woes melodic and melancholy. The clinging [of the stars] echoes and a slow beat begins within the light. The mourners continue, their chests empty, following the rhythm, begging mercifully... We need to feel, once more. It was no agony, their pain, but an absence of itself. Once they reached the place, they began to sway. Closing their eyes, holding their hands up in the air, and waiting for the harvest. The crowd builds, climbing up from the dirt unto their knees, unto their feet.
There are fields where hearts grow, blossoming, and smiling in the sky. The sun ripens them, bursting with blood, turning red as it exits the blue stems. The rush of blood replenishes the field of life for the spring. Veins and arteries burst out from beneath the coronary foliage. The sun beats in tune with the hearts, drying them out for life, to be drafted and fit for human consumption.
Nearby wallowers begin work in rhythm with the heartbeats, laboring, sweating, straining their backs. A wind comes and sooths them, shifting the heart field northward. These hearts, these hearts will be ours.
Faster, and faster, they act despite shortnesses in breath. Their labor turns into a dancing motion, a worship of the sun above them. These are our hearts, these are our hearts. Their emptiness sways in the wind.
Until finally, the day has broken them at full speed. The sun has closed its eyes and a haze covers it-the haze begins weeping upon the laborers. It strikes the earth in anger. The wailers, the laborers, wallowing, all cover their ears in unison.
Their dancing ceases and the ground begins to suck them in. The music if the thunderous sky overpowers the beating hearts, overthrows the workings of this false nature. No more hearts, no more dancing, no more shallow melodies. Strike and repeat.
The sky had poured out its miseries long enough, but before it ceased the sun had departed cowardly. The clinging stars took back their places. The laborers chests were full of mud, and they trudged their way home, stomping harshly in attempts to create their own rhythm, defeated by the day. The hearts absorb the skies tears, the wailers continue their stomping rhythm into the night, hoping the lord might return once again. The blood might return unto their bodies.