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DBS ORIGINAL: shooting star
May. 13th, 2020 10:22 pmso I made a cool character on a picrew and then wrote a quick and messy piece about them cause language is cool (link goes to twitter post w/ the image)
346 words
cw body horror
--
They pull themselves, cracking, onto the lip of the crater and grin, sharp teeth in a smug smile. Jagged shards of yellow crystal protrude from their back, their head, push through the fractures in what passes for skin.
“How’s that for an entrance?” they say, and behind thick-framed glasses their eyes blink like the phases of the moon.
You take their hand. It is heavy, as though made of solid rock. You could stick your fingers in the cracks along the knuckles, though, you’re sure of it. Touch the inky blackness that fills them and threatens to spill out. You don’t. Those cracks could well have come from punching. Besides. That’s just rude.
A light flickers below their skin.
They are sharp and fragile fragments, but not brittle. Not that. There is nothing still about the way they grind themself into even more points. There is nothing evitable or enviable about those points eventually being ground smooth.
Once and again they smile, teeth glinting like their mouth is full of poprocks. “Sometimes,” they say, “you just have to fall.”
Behind and around them is a deep pit of impact, crushed ground, mounds of dust. You saw them arc down as a burning ball of light, a tiny sun, a lightbulb hurled like a bullet or a baseball. You think they’d flown that high themselves, wings of stone and jewel somehow keeping them aloft, beating on the air and darting forward stubbornly whenever they began to fall. Shedding dust and bits of self they hauled themself into the sky and then when they were high enough they tucked their wings and dove. Down and down until the air is only heat and pressure until their face is shredded by the speed until they are a meteor, a shooting star, a comet destined for a hot and icy end.
And now they’re here. And they’re as fine as they had been, if indeed they ever were. And now they hold a gibbous moon in their hands and extend it out to you and say “drink.”
And you do.
346 words
cw body horror
--
They pull themselves, cracking, onto the lip of the crater and grin, sharp teeth in a smug smile. Jagged shards of yellow crystal protrude from their back, their head, push through the fractures in what passes for skin.
“How’s that for an entrance?” they say, and behind thick-framed glasses their eyes blink like the phases of the moon.
You take their hand. It is heavy, as though made of solid rock. You could stick your fingers in the cracks along the knuckles, though, you’re sure of it. Touch the inky blackness that fills them and threatens to spill out. You don’t. Those cracks could well have come from punching. Besides. That’s just rude.
A light flickers below their skin.
They are sharp and fragile fragments, but not brittle. Not that. There is nothing still about the way they grind themself into even more points. There is nothing evitable or enviable about those points eventually being ground smooth.
Once and again they smile, teeth glinting like their mouth is full of poprocks. “Sometimes,” they say, “you just have to fall.”
Behind and around them is a deep pit of impact, crushed ground, mounds of dust. You saw them arc down as a burning ball of light, a tiny sun, a lightbulb hurled like a bullet or a baseball. You think they’d flown that high themselves, wings of stone and jewel somehow keeping them aloft, beating on the air and darting forward stubbornly whenever they began to fall. Shedding dust and bits of self they hauled themself into the sky and then when they were high enough they tucked their wings and dove. Down and down until the air is only heat and pressure until their face is shredded by the speed until they are a meteor, a shooting star, a comet destined for a hot and icy end.
And now they’re here. And they’re as fine as they had been, if indeed they ever were. And now they hold a gibbous moon in their hands and extend it out to you and say “drink.”
And you do.
