(So like I cannot write anything worth shit right now, and I feel like whenever I’ve been trying to roleplay my characters have been feeling pretty bland and half assed, so I’m taking a mini hiatus from roleplaying currently. Apologies to all my roleplaying buddies, I promise I’ll respond eventually, I haven’t forgotten any of you! Life has just been busy and you all don’t deserve crappy responses.)
(I made this little bit of writing when I was thinking about my future house plans, and then it kinda turned into something more and something completely different, so I figured I might give this a shot and just role with it, at least until I can get back into a roleplaying mood. So yeah. Just kinda ignore me, I’ll be in the corner over here trying to write, I just figured I might share it here. Might turn into a short story type thing, I might delete this by tomorrow, who knows lmao)
There’s a house on a lake, hidden away in the oldest of hemlock and pine, with a yard made of a fairy’s carpet. The air is filled with fog and dreams that fill the lungs with hope and moisture. With walls built of wood and stone, a rustic yet almost medieval aura pulses from the home of Her.
She is a queen, a maid. A temptress, a child. A witch, a healer. A siren, a mermaid. A recluse, an entertainer. A visionary, an executioner.
She has hands made of gold and muscles forged from the earth’s foundation. Thighs of soft velvet and hair more sought than an animal’s hide. She can dance like the rivers flow and sing like the birds fly. Her eyes are like the oak trees that sway in the breeze, entangling with nature’s bounty. Her stomach is soft and round like the rolling hills where the sun resides at day’s end. She is whole, she is beautiful, she is me.
She is only missing one thing. A heart. A heart of gold, silver, bronze, what have you, she only wants one. It does not matter to her if the heart is rotting with age or covered in black sickly web, or if it is born out of misery and despair. Any heart will do.
She sighs softly as she walks through the grass. The blades tickle her feet, coaxing a small smile to her sun burnt face. A light melody floats off her lips as her eyes flutter about, landing on a patch of dandelions that quickly captivates her attention. Callused feet carry her to where she deigns to rest, her dress ballooning down as she takes her place among the ants and worms. She delicately picks one of the bright yellow flowers, then another, and another, and once she cradles each and every bloom she needs between her gentle hands, she begins to weave.
In and out, around each bend, she folds and twists the stems together. The blooms become sisters and brothers as they join together, all the while she hums her little tune with nature. Time has no power over her as she weaves, nor does the sun’s growing heat ward her off. She is persistent and she continues to twist the pitiful dandelions into something new, not a weed but a crown. A flower crown, which she promptly places upon her head when finished with the yellow blooms.
She rises from her place of rest and looks up to the sky. Noon has arrived, an uninvited guest, but a ball must be thrown nonetheless. She turns and leaves the grassy hills to go back to the woods and lake, where her home is anchored and true.
Each step she takes is like a dance. Her hips sway as her arms move, sweeping this way and that. One, two, three, four, four, three, two, one, her feet swirl and dance as she banishes the dust from her kitchen floor. Her only help is the empty hands hanging off her cabinets and drawers. Metal, forged fingers and cold skin, as a supplement. A ‘unique‘ and ‘fashionable’ style choice. A supplement she does not notice nor acknowledge as she wipes down the counters.
Her hands are like an angel’s as fingers of velvet sort the week’s necessities. Two pills as red as her lips for each day. One blue pill like the eyeshadow that she doesn’t use for every other day. Swan feathers and white capsules for once a month to take away the empathetic pain. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and then rest twice before her head goes back under the water again. She keeps swimming, especially as she dances away on cat’s claws, to clean the dishes next.
Too many plates for one person, she remarks softly to herself as her hands glide over with soap and suds. She still smiles softly as she moves about to take care of the home that had taken her in. A house meant for many, a house home to one. One heartless woman. One gorgeous woman that longs for company.
