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Andromeda

Australia

15 yr old girl from Sydney, bisexual, lover of writing, nature and mythology :)

"A story. This was the key to immortality. The things that made kings quiver and deities distrustful: nothing but a tale" - Crown of Wishes

Message from Writer

Obsessed with books and probably spends too much time in fictional worlds.
I love mythology, ancient history, the sky and tea. And of course writing, I hope everyone likes it :)
My inspiration mainly comes from nature and the people around me.

TO BE SOLD; 10 likely slave girls, fit for any duties

April 12, 2019

FREE WRITING

7
Voices dancing up and down in the cold air,
like sparrows flitting on the breeze that drifts in
from the slightly open window.
They sit on white chairs,
straight backs and chins held up to the sky.
No one would notice the rusted chains around their wrists,
tied behind their back,
metal biting into soft skin relentlessly,
tirelessly.
Underneath the rising notes caught in the wind is a
hidden flicker of grief
in each beautiful voice.
That choking black that swallows every noise,
every movement,
every thought.
They sing in the language
that their mothers would sing to them when they were
falling sleep,
on those hot summer nights so long ago.
The memory of their last night
still rings in each mind.
A child stolen from a mother,
chains replacing the dark, loving hands that they crave for.
And later, the pale hands of a man will replace those chains, they will tear the last of their freedom away,
like tearing the feathers off of wings,
exposing the naked bone beneath.
In that locked room, their song grows louder,
each voice waltzing to the other,
notes hung delicately in the air above them
like stars twinkling in the midday sun.
Waiting and
waiting
for another one of them to be taken.
As it is,
every day.
Their feet are bare and dangling slightly above the ground,
swinging in the frozen air.
Some of the girls are young enough
that they’ve had to jump out of the chair when summoned.
It always hurt the most, to see the young ones taken, their voices still high
with finite youth,
which only made the screams so much louder.
Sometimes, arms have to tear the girls out of their chairs.
The hands rough and warm,
with fat fingers that dig into frail arms
like the chains they are so used to now.
After another one had been taken, blotches of purple and blue would appear on the backs
of the girls who tried to save her.
The stains of berries (they like to think that’s what they are).
Never enough to scar of course,
only enough to hear the screams all throughout the golden hallways,
carried on the cold wind.
They’ve been draped in the palest lace, stark against the darkest of skins (like moonlight against an ebony sky)
Perhaps to drown out    
that blackness,
so that a man who buys one can imagine she has pale skin
when she’s underneath him.
In their eyes,
blood shot and impossibly dark
is the knowledge of their fate.
Each of them taken from the boat
for their pretty faces
and pretty bodies,
and even though they had all been touched
by the many, greedy hands on the boat
They had not yet been
“tarnished”.
Yet.
The bourgeoisie will always say proudly,
that they don’t sell used goods.
These men scream at the girls in a tongue
they cannot understand.
And the girls continue to sing at them
in a tongue
that they cannot understand.
Their home is carried on the words they sing,
lost tales of a place far from here,
the open plains painted gold by sunlight
and the warm nights sleeping under a canopy of stars.
The spices are still hot on their tongues
and the wind still laced with the smell
of the summer storms
that danced over the mountains.
The pale men would beat these words away,
hoping if they
shatter a bone,
it will shatter a
voice.
But even when that door finally opens
they will not stop their song,
not even when those calloused hands
would wring around their throats
and leather would bite into flesh, screams ripped from throats
sharp and high.
Maybe the men are scared
of what they do not understand,
or maybe, its simply a way to feel more
powerful
over the ones who can’t fight back.
If you were to look at these girls,
In their white lace,
in their white chairs,
what would you think?
Little birds that have had their wings
clipped,
tied behind their backs
torn and
bloody.
But even broken birds could still sing.
Would you demand that a sparrow stop calling?
An eagle to silence it’s cry?
No.
These girls will not either.

The notes will still

crawl

and fight

out of hoarse throats,
flying up into the air
before you could do anything to stop them.
Tears are streaming down their hollowed cheeks and falling salty
into open mouths when
suddenly,
the door slams open
and a man walks into the room.
They know this one by now, by his sour breath
and tendency to look too long in places they didn’t want him
to ever touch.
“ferme ta bouche de chienne”
He screams at them, as always.
And as always,
the notes do not falter,
not for one second.
Chins still held high and backs still straight, the girls brace themselves
for what comes next.

Later,
once another one of them had been taken away
and the rest kissed by leather,
they would all lie on a rough straw bed in the dirt (with a missing space now)
and hold each others hands,
careful not to touch the bleeding red around their wrists.
One of them,
perhaps the oldest,
would hum a note.
It hangs above them, wavering slightly in her effort to keep quiet.
It is a single sparrow hovering in the night air,
alone for a second before it is joined by another
and another
and another.
Tiny wings flap and notes rise
and they do not stop,
not even when the memory of the pain is still so fresh on their skin.
Each mind drifts back to another life,
life before this cage,
before the boat,
and to families now scattered across this cold, desolate
hell.
Lost from their home.
They remember a time
when they were still in their nests,
surrounded by brothers and sisters,
high in a marula tree.
They remember how the wind felt against their open wings
and for once the tears fall into
smiles.
They will sing their birdsong until only the last of them is left,
a single sparrow still rising high.
 

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