Anha

Australia

dreaming of goddesses, sunflowers and italian sunshine.
yet, every heaven has a hell under its surface.

write free, SomeFormOfWriting
miss you, LackingASocialLife
go be great, paperbird

Message to Readers

tried to write an epilogue of sorts for the witches piece, but it turned into something completely new. tell me what you think, and whether you'd like to see more piece like this.

πτήση

July 23, 2019

FREE WRITING

7
the bright-eyed goddess keeps her eyes upon Moon, preparing her misty chariot to traverse our millenium sky. the coven wishes her well on her journey, and she blesses each who bid her farewell, a brush of stardust on their foreheads from her kiss. her silver-skinned arm keeps safe its ward, a babe swaddled in circumstance and divinity. when he blooms, the coven will have withered. they will not live to see him die. but he will bless their daughters and granddaughters as his προστάτης has done.

    the bright-eyed goddess kisses his forehead too, and presses a rune with her gentle fingers onto the dreaming babe's skin. πτήση. he will never see it, for no surface will reflect his brilliance in a way he can truly see. those who try will blind themselves with their futility. but beings like herself were not born with vanity wrapped like a summer's breeze behind their eyes. pride, yes, is a common fallacy among her brothers, but it is never their beauty that they choose to croon about. she sighs, and the ocean sighs with her.


    this child is not her blood. but she sends a whisper through his mind and tell him she is σςπίτι.

    she leaves him lying in his nebulae creche, his nursery, until he shines. a galactic orphan, how unfortunate. he wakes, and names himself. altair. the goddess has not left his mind, though he remembers her not. he stands, and a cloak of night adorns him. he is already fully grown, for they do not age as we do. he commandeers a stellar ship, mast carved from solar flares, whispers into its sails, με υπακούει, σου δίνω σκοπό, and skims across the milky waves away from his infancy.

    the bright-eyed goddess returns to find his nebulae creche abandoned and dim. she worries not, children are meant to explore. once he tastes freedom, he will grow into himself. ολό. she worries not.

    a god of flashing eyes and burning purpose cross the sky in his chariot, ablaze. he waits for no one, and a skinny little thing clings to the sides of his robes. "πατέρα," she says, voice shrill as a harpy, "είμαστε αρκετά αργά για να σκοτώσουμε τους αστρονόμους;" 'father' smiles only for himself. "
είμαστε." the sun is never late, the kings say from their thrones. the astronomers return to the dust from whence they came.

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4 Comments
  • rainandsonder

    hey, just wanted to let you know that i just submitted my review for this, so you should be getting it soon! sorry it took so long.


    3 months ago
  • ajamwal ꒰•̹͡ິु•ິू꒱

    Beautifully written.


    4 months ago
  • Oscar_Locke

    This is amazing. I love you've woven culture and mythology into your piece -- your talent is stellar.


    4 months ago
  • Anha

    translations i forgot to add, and lacking greek, because comments don't allow foreign languages:
    prostátis - protector
    ptísi - soar
    spíti - home (made a spelling error here with the greek in the piece, please don't mind it)
    me ypakoúei, sou díno skopó)- obey me, i give you purpose
    oló - whole
    patéra - father
    eímaste arketá argá gia na skotósoume tous astronómous? - are we late enough to kill the astronomers?
    eímaste - we are


    4 months ago