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Oh my heavens, over eight thousand five hundred comments in the last post alone. I feel so tardy and yet I briefly felt compelled to wait until we had over nine thousand, hoohoo~! Oh, even the oldest of memes gets a rise out of my... big and manly heart.
SHIN MEGAMI TENSEI: PERSONA 4 KINK MEME
PART FOURTo beat the dead horse (or beat off the ( Read more... )
SHIN MEGAMI TENSEI: PERSONA 4 KINK MEME
PART FOURTo beat the dead horse (or beat off the ( Read more... )
Determination
Three years, five months and twenty-one days (thirteen-hours-and-forty-eight-minutes) ago, Dojima Chisato was killed in a hit-and-run incident. Dojima Ryōtaro had lost a wife and Dojima Nanako a mother on that sunny day.
They get by, although sometimes (only all the time) Ryōtaro comes home late, wearing the scent of cigarette smoke and alcohol like an expensive cologne and bleeding frustration all over the floors.
A manila folder is hidden in the drawer of his desk. He takes it out when he thinks no one is watching.
Sightings of a white sedan crowd the front. Newspaper clippings dated with 11th June 2008 clamor in the middle. Chisato sits quietly at the back.
Sometimes he feels her eyes burning into his skull when he wants to give up, after another late night with a sake bottle, out of grief and out of leads.
(So he doesn’t.)
Three years, five months and twenty-one days later (and the day after, and the day after), Ryōtaro is still chasing the phantom killer.
Decent
Izanami-no-Mikoto was once a sister.
They had been the first of their kind, reclining on trodden damp clouds. The days were long: they had all the time in the world, and nothing to do.
If she wished hard enough, he would weave flowers in her hair, a shine of sleek sliver crowned in a halo of gold. She sat in the circle of his arms.
He pats her head then, mindful of the fragile threads coiled around her tresses, and she kisses his cheek.
The night turns over, fish-belly white in a star storm.
He took her hand and they danced across the splitting sea.
Izanami-no-Okami was once a lover.
She was married. She gave birth. She died. He came to get her.
And when he saw her he screamed and fled, branding one eternal stretch of sun a molted grey.
She had thought she was trapped forever to lap at darkness with a tightening throat for eternity, a thousand lifetimes ago. Hands scrabbling at the dark moss on the boulder splashed with liver spots -
(a thousand lives, she screamed and screamed,
her decaying voice peeled black.
He shrugged, leaving final memories in the padding of his feet among whispering reeds,
a song of brittle bones cawing against granite)
- at the base of Yomotsu Hirasaka.
When she resurfaces again, the accursed place will not be a cave, but a flat plain that stretches wide as eternity, blue as sky.
Izanami was once a mother.
She likes to think that she still is, that she is still remembered. (The children of Man are just that, children; had he forgotten that his children are hers too?
Children she fought and died for?
He must have.
Bastard.
A thousand more will swim in Yomi when the heavy night comes.
Because -)
All mothers love their children.
She will grant their wish to float in the dense fog until their disputes all blur together and disappear.
They want serenity and obliteration.
She delivers.
Let no one say she is not an indulgent mother.
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