sorry it isnt good enough yet
The doctors offered seperation. The parents accepted, knowing how innappropriate it would be,( no, inconvenient at least), for these beautiful children to live cloistered lives conjoined at the ear and the heart. Yet no sooner had the anesthesiologist put them under then the twin pairs of feathery eylids fluttered open, anticipating the severence that was to come. At three attempts the surgeons gave up,telling the family that the detachment would come in time, only not today.
The children grew into young adults, having learned to move like one animal, to slow down when the other lagged behind, to run faster when the other wanted to chase its desire. They had three languages. One was spoken aloud for the world, the other slipped silently through the tubes and cavities of the shared ear. The third language resided in their shared blood, pumped through them by the strong and solitary heart in a constant primal rhythm.
These inaudible languages would not have been understood by most, even if they had been heard. They would have sounded like murmurs, clicks, and nonsense syllables. With the disgust of the unknowing, people regarded the children and called for change. Or if not disgust, it was simply the best intentions which led them to introduce a knew life, one where people are sovereign to their own bodies and live for themselves.
Once, they hadn't questioned that nature had only granted them one heart to share. That it hadn't granted them autonomy like everyone else. But the day came that the parents and the doctors had promised. They sterilized the knives. They brought the heart before them.
This heart was not of meat and cellulose. It was not pried from the ribcage of any human or animal. It was not something of modern technology. It wasn't created in a laboratory, grown from one cell in a gleaming beaker. But it was grown, somewhere in the dark underlayer of a distant forest, on a continent that most lovers only visit together in sleep.
Sticky with syrup and not blood, one of the children desired the strange organ just as other young people desire sweets. This was the rarest of all fruits, plucked still throbbing and swollen from a tree that it certainly would have outlived given the chance. How could one behold a thing so far removed from this world and not want to possess it for a moment, even knowing that a subtle squeeze would rupture its crimson membrane? Even understanding that with new possessions those of the past disappear forever. Either risk sharing a damaged heart, or take the chance of having a single false one fail.
History never recorded the decision. Somewhere, the twins might still be inseperable, having rejected the worlds recommendations, the personal lusts. They might even be hand in hand to this day, though seperate in actual flesh. But most likely, one heart grew weak and atrophied, while the other proved a poor substitute for human cells, pumping a sweet and addictive poisen to replace blood.
History has proved one thing though, in both the myths and true tales of this world. The trees of paradise are elusive, and the ovum that contain their seeds best fall to the ground, uneaten by bodies that can't possibly contain them.
This is the last thing written...
"The knife is above us and we can't move. Now I prefer ourselves. I prefer these things that are damaged but still beat within me and always have."
The children grew into young adults, having learned to move like one animal, to slow down when the other lagged behind, to run faster when the other wanted to chase its desire. They had three languages. One was spoken aloud for the world, the other slipped silently through the tubes and cavities of the shared ear. The third language resided in their shared blood, pumped through them by the strong and solitary heart in a constant primal rhythm.
These inaudible languages would not have been understood by most, even if they had been heard. They would have sounded like murmurs, clicks, and nonsense syllables. With the disgust of the unknowing, people regarded the children and called for change. Or if not disgust, it was simply the best intentions which led them to introduce a knew life, one where people are sovereign to their own bodies and live for themselves.
Once, they hadn't questioned that nature had only granted them one heart to share. That it hadn't granted them autonomy like everyone else. But the day came that the parents and the doctors had promised. They sterilized the knives. They brought the heart before them.
This heart was not of meat and cellulose. It was not pried from the ribcage of any human or animal. It was not something of modern technology. It wasn't created in a laboratory, grown from one cell in a gleaming beaker. But it was grown, somewhere in the dark underlayer of a distant forest, on a continent that most lovers only visit together in sleep.
Sticky with syrup and not blood, one of the children desired the strange organ just as other young people desire sweets. This was the rarest of all fruits, plucked still throbbing and swollen from a tree that it certainly would have outlived given the chance. How could one behold a thing so far removed from this world and not want to possess it for a moment, even knowing that a subtle squeeze would rupture its crimson membrane? Even understanding that with new possessions those of the past disappear forever. Either risk sharing a damaged heart, or take the chance of having a single false one fail.
History never recorded the decision. Somewhere, the twins might still be inseperable, having rejected the worlds recommendations, the personal lusts. They might even be hand in hand to this day, though seperate in actual flesh. But most likely, one heart grew weak and atrophied, while the other proved a poor substitute for human cells, pumping a sweet and addictive poisen to replace blood.
History has proved one thing though, in both the myths and true tales of this world. The trees of paradise are elusive, and the ovum that contain their seeds best fall to the ground, uneaten by bodies that can't possibly contain them.
This is the last thing written...
"The knife is above us and we can't move. Now I prefer ourselves. I prefer these things that are damaged but still beat within me and always have."