Archive for August, 2011

Knowing the Shadow

Posted: August 20, 2011 by zacharyandgillian in August

The shadow has stern lips.

A kiss from those lips is both treasure and travesty.  For in the sweet seduction of an evening serenade there is a sadistic self-exclusion.  And she is exceedingly efficient in those ministrations.  Her lips extract her pleasures meticulously.

At first, it seems as though she promises nothing and implies everything.  A passer-by is wooed into becoming a lover by the exceptional cool amongst her poise.  She does not dance.  Nor sing.  Nor laugh.  Nor embrace.  She merely is, and she bears a chill that is neither comfortable nor cold.  But she feels reminiscent of something that one might have wrapped themselves in, once upon a time.

She has no soul.  She presents no eyes to gaze into; a journey to discover her character is an endless and fruitless thing.  Unlike the Abyss, she does not proffer an endless evaporation of her lover’s efforts, and reciprocates no twisting of the seduced.  She is merely a candle flame in the wind: out.  Through such a condition she consumes offerings of spirit meaninglessly.  Almost as an inconvenience to her existence.

Her nose rejects the claims of mortal men.  They have no dominion over her.  It is only here that she can be said to have any viewable personality.  It is in her sense of scent that she provides haughty certainty:  That she is all at once desirable and unavailable.  To grasp at her is to attempt to redeem claims never made.  One cannot own the air she exists in, as surely as she herself cannot be owned.  But both smell sweet with promise.

Her skin is a dream’s love.  Untouchable, it is the pale of non-existence itself.  It conjures an image in ever mind that will never know it.  It is singlehandedly the most hypocritical of the shadow’s features.  For nothing has more presence within a lover’s mind than the tender skin it wishes to caress.  And yet, nothing is less tangible than the form of the dark beloved.  Here, yearning is born and borne.

But, though the lover carries yearning and desire into unrequited madness, the shadow remains unmoved.  ‘Till she herself is consumed into midnight’s bosom, she offers nothing but stern lips and silence.


“Carry on, Flower, Carry on.”

Posted: August 4, 2011 by zacharyandgillian in August

Somehow, the flower reminded her of the passions she had left behind.

That’s what made her stop, but it wasn’t quite right, and so her thoughts made her stay and examine the sight with more intensity.

The flower stood tall, the strong stem shooting straight up from the under-brush.  This was a being that was well beyond the roughage below, and it knew it.  The stalk that supported it was firm and thick.  Prepared to carry its burden with the decorum it deserved, it held against the sun and sky.  The wind itself would offer no threat.  It preserved poise.

The petals, if you could call them petals, were razor-blades of colour.  They echoed in the memory as sharp, intense blooms of a dedicated process.  They stretched out towards the world, save the precious gathering in the middle, which protected the initial bud with both duty and beautiful dignity.  They would not allow the precious center to be revealed a moment too soon.  And so, slowly, literally one by one, they peeled back.  Maybe only one or two would let go today.  Certainly only one let go very tentatively yesterday.  The world, they demanded as they clutched, would have to be patient.

What was inside must be very important to them; those strong little petals.

She looked closer.  The petals looked strong, but their texture was the very memory of sensitivity.  Uncurled and against the world, they were fragile.  Almost uncertain, and certainly brave.  The world was a place full of potential danger, and while their colours boasted brightly, there was an inner weakness to them, that made them soft.  She imagined that, in a different time and place, on a different flower, these petals would long to be brushed against the nose of a little giggling girl.

Very carefully, she let the very tips of them kiss her cheek.  They were princesses all.

As she felt it against her skin, she realized that this flower did not remind her of the passions she’d left behind.  It reminded her instead of a private part of her.  The part of her that had never forgotten those very important passions.  In her day to day activities, inevitably there was a hope here and a dream there that was not realized.  That had to be put aside in favor of responsibility and obligations.  But those things were never forgotten.  When the rest of the world demanded something of her that she could not refuse, she merely put her passions away.  Away in hopes of shining another day, when the time was right.

This flower was a hidden little reflection of herself.  Holding on.  Slowly, carefully, bravely, blooming.

That was why it was perfect.

Photography by:  Gillian Berger
Writing by:  Zachary Webster