Narnia Ficlet: a chorus of girl-hands
a chorus of girl-hands
susan. susan/peter. upon return. warnings: incestuous themes. 249 words. pg.
A queen should always have her name higher, she spits in school.
-
you are everything i cannot see
as the ocean crawls onto the shoreline
so you lap at the edges of me
(charlotte gainsbourg) everything i cannot see
Lovely, just lovely, the crisp turn of lips to press against her mirror:
Oh, roll your skirt down.
- Lucy sighs always with the disappointment and edge of a saint.
There is Susan. Yes, Susan.
A queen should always have her name higher she spits in school, red cracks for nails and curls just like the other girls.
You’re fading, one brother tells her without names.
She’s losing them quickly, losing them hard; it’s the mechanics of reality. Cruel? Possibly- it’s what remains to spread over the gray buildings and the tuffs of sky that shield the sun for spinning down. But Susan isn’t without that corner of humanity, the drop and candy-colored fags. Girls and boys, the narrowness of her world is aching to become suffocating and right over her hips.
But still, it’s becoming clear that her grace is twisting into something. There are standards for control and the unfamiliarity is pausing Susan, pausing her into a phrase, a few words: just a girl.
And that’s how Peter kings his loss of her, against her throat and side-by-side at night; his fingers trap through strands of her hair, over her the curve of her throat, and lingering at the cross between her breasts.
His mouth: we miss you.
- never I, just we, and perhaps, she’s been expecting this for sometime. She is in the world to let go and this is the world that sings only for children.
Susan leaves frowning for the morning.
susan. susan/peter. upon return. warnings: incestuous themes. 249 words. pg.
A queen should always have her name higher, she spits in school.
-
you are everything i cannot see
as the ocean crawls onto the shoreline
so you lap at the edges of me
(charlotte gainsbourg) everything i cannot see
Lovely, just lovely, the crisp turn of lips to press against her mirror:
Oh, roll your skirt down.
- Lucy sighs always with the disappointment and edge of a saint.
There is Susan. Yes, Susan.
A queen should always have her name higher she spits in school, red cracks for nails and curls just like the other girls.
You’re fading, one brother tells her without names.
She’s losing them quickly, losing them hard; it’s the mechanics of reality. Cruel? Possibly- it’s what remains to spread over the gray buildings and the tuffs of sky that shield the sun for spinning down. But Susan isn’t without that corner of humanity, the drop and candy-colored fags. Girls and boys, the narrowness of her world is aching to become suffocating and right over her hips.
But still, it’s becoming clear that her grace is twisting into something. There are standards for control and the unfamiliarity is pausing Susan, pausing her into a phrase, a few words: just a girl.
And that’s how Peter kings his loss of her, against her throat and side-by-side at night; his fingers trap through strands of her hair, over her the curve of her throat, and lingering at the cross between her breasts.
His mouth: we miss you.
- never I, just we, and perhaps, she’s been expecting this for sometime. She is in the world to let go and this is the world that sings only for children.
Susan leaves frowning for the morning.