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sour_idealistThe whole "like thunder after muggy heat" idea came to me during a literal much-needed thunderstorm and demanded to be written, so I produced this to go along with it. What was intended to be a stream-of-consciousness very short story became this odd hybrid of poem and story and vignette, and the stream-of-consciousness angle evolved (or devolved) into more and more strange metaphors and odd language games, and I don't really know how to define it. So I'm posting it online so I don't have to.
he crashed into her life like thunder after muggy heat, and he took her heart by storm (but not her soul - she only gives that up in trade) (and not her mind - that will remain hers)
and he is everything about poor weather, he is an extended metaphor breathing in her lips
he is frightening when you are young, a reason to cower under the bed, and exhilarating as you grow older, as you gain respect for power (and madness)
he fathers crashing doors and soaking cheeks and petals flung from flowers
and he makes rooms feel cozy and safe and isolated from the outside world, turns bedrooms into shelters
(although unlike a storm, it isn't his wind but his opponents that shatter the world outside)
(his opponents, not his opposites; the windows could be mirrors)
(on second thought, maybe he's still exactly like a storm)
she has all the other faults and all the other flaws, all the other madnesses and symptoms and possibilities to be collateral damage (or to create it) but she has no illusions. She knows he is her temporary madness, her metaphor for dancing barefoot in the first cold thunderstorm of summer, and she knows that every time his cold rings press against her fingers she inches another millimeter away from her fireplace and warm blankets and her mother's remonstrating laughter (and, since she's gotten older, her mother's tales of dancing with the lightning too, years ago when she was young)
she knows that he will never bring her roses, and if he does then in moments their petals will spray across the room like a hackneyed euphemism
she knows that he will never hit her, but she also recognizes that she is one letter in the phrase "exception that proves the rule" and that danger is no child's bauble no matter how much children like her (and like him) play with it
and that there's a difference between standing on the edge of a cliff and throwing all the house's windows open the moment the clouds gather
she knows that there is such a thing as a very poor reason to love someone, and that reasons like those include
- that he is the best thief she's ever known (metaphysical and real)
- that he is insubstantial enough to seem precious
- that he has a mind like the shards of a blown-out window
- that when he finds her standing in the rain, he drapes his coat across her shoulders and doesn't ask
and she knows that there are only two ways she will ever get a ring from him: she can create them with her hands or she can hold his hand as he runs rings around Them
and she knows from their playful races that he can outsprint her any day, but she's a better distance runner
(and it occurs to her that there's a third way to catch a ring: she can wring the water out of the blankets)
she knows that life would be easier if she'd loved a doomed hero or a soldier, or even a wandering mercenary
or anyone but this glowing antihero (or maybe that isn't right - maybe he isn't any kind of hero
actually, he definitely isn't any kind of hero)
but we can't choose the story we're born into, or whether we are born into any kind of story
and she knows that she is no glimmering heroine, no Snow White or Cinderella or even his Ophelia
(she's definitely no Ophelia that she's ever seen)
nor is she some modern princess like Cimorene or Leia, more like a face in the backstory
she knows she isn't the girl of his dreams (except maybe a pipe dream or two) but she has never believed in Prince Charming or his court, so she can live with that
And she knows her mind has been keeping a secret from the rest of he (that he can never break her heart, because all she ever gave to him was a little piece snapped off) (like a bit of bark peeled off a tree)
And she thinks, as her skin sticks to her twin-bed sheets one August night, that although she will never be the princess on the shore, and she will be no Alanna or Keladry either, she might one day share something with the Weatherwax women
and she thinks that she will never be the girl of his dreams but she might be the girl of her own
that nothing is going to change today, but after the rain settles and the dust springs up
she might dabble in alchemy or wires and create a little lightning for herself.
he crashed into her life like thunder after muggy heat, and he took her heart by storm (but not her soul - she only gives that up in trade) (and not her mind - that will remain hers)
and he is everything about poor weather, he is an extended metaphor breathing in her lips
he is frightening when you are young, a reason to cower under the bed, and exhilarating as you grow older, as you gain respect for power (and madness)
he fathers crashing doors and soaking cheeks and petals flung from flowers
and he makes rooms feel cozy and safe and isolated from the outside world, turns bedrooms into shelters
(although unlike a storm, it isn't his wind but his opponents that shatter the world outside)
(his opponents, not his opposites; the windows could be mirrors)
(on second thought, maybe he's still exactly like a storm)
she has all the other faults and all the other flaws, all the other madnesses and symptoms and possibilities to be collateral damage (or to create it) but she has no illusions. She knows he is her temporary madness, her metaphor for dancing barefoot in the first cold thunderstorm of summer, and she knows that every time his cold rings press against her fingers she inches another millimeter away from her fireplace and warm blankets and her mother's remonstrating laughter (and, since she's gotten older, her mother's tales of dancing with the lightning too, years ago when she was young)
she knows that he will never bring her roses, and if he does then in moments their petals will spray across the room like a hackneyed euphemism
she knows that he will never hit her, but she also recognizes that she is one letter in the phrase "exception that proves the rule" and that danger is no child's bauble no matter how much children like her (and like him) play with it
and that there's a difference between standing on the edge of a cliff and throwing all the house's windows open the moment the clouds gather
she knows that there is such a thing as a very poor reason to love someone, and that reasons like those include
- that he is the best thief she's ever known (metaphysical and real)
- that he is insubstantial enough to seem precious
- that he has a mind like the shards of a blown-out window
- that when he finds her standing in the rain, he drapes his coat across her shoulders and doesn't ask
and she knows that there are only two ways she will ever get a ring from him: she can create them with her hands or she can hold his hand as he runs rings around Them
and she knows from their playful races that he can outsprint her any day, but she's a better distance runner
(and it occurs to her that there's a third way to catch a ring: she can wring the water out of the blankets)
she knows that life would be easier if she'd loved a doomed hero or a soldier, or even a wandering mercenary
or anyone but this glowing antihero (or maybe that isn't right - maybe he isn't any kind of hero
actually, he definitely isn't any kind of hero)
but we can't choose the story we're born into, or whether we are born into any kind of story
and she knows that she is no glimmering heroine, no Snow White or Cinderella or even his Ophelia
(she's definitely no Ophelia that she's ever seen)
nor is she some modern princess like Cimorene or Leia, more like a face in the backstory
she knows she isn't the girl of his dreams (except maybe a pipe dream or two) but she has never believed in Prince Charming or his court, so she can live with that
And she knows her mind has been keeping a secret from the rest of he (that he can never break her heart, because all she ever gave to him was a little piece snapped off) (like a bit of bark peeled off a tree)
And she thinks, as her skin sticks to her twin-bed sheets one August night, that although she will never be the princess on the shore, and she will be no Alanna or Keladry either, she might one day share something with the Weatherwax women
and she thinks that she will never be the girl of his dreams but she might be the girl of her own
that nothing is going to change today, but after the rain settles and the dust springs up
she might dabble in alchemy or wires and create a little lightning for herself.
