WEERDING FILK
BY F.R.R. MALLORY
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Demon stream venturies howled a nightmare song of lust and longing down the narrow, crooked way between the towering lichen-covered rotting walls. I drew the collar of my long jacket closer against the cold chill of my exposed cheeks wishing I could as easily drive away the unease that never left me when I had needs to creep into my tiny warren of a home through the dangling metal monstrosity that served as the buildings exterior entry. Fog was settling down through the cracks, leaving a moistened trail among the sharp, peeling, paint chips on the staircase handrail. I cursed, heard the wind pause as if listening to me before the wail began again: mocking laughter. My back shuddered, feet hastening up the last few treads, stiff fingers twisting at the key in the lock, desperate to escape the sudden sense of presence just behind me. So close. I slammed the door, fighting this time to drive the handful of rickety locks home into their well worn housings. Why did I tolerate this wretched place? The question curled in my mind, tasting of the familiar trail of answers that I kept on the ready. I knew, oh well did I know that in the eyes of others, this private retreat described some valued treasure. My back shuddered again. Through the door I could hear her whisper, air finding passage through tiny cracks and crevices, luring, enticing. Sweet siren's song. "You aren't real." I spoke aloud, hearing the tinny ring of my own voice among the tight clutter. Almost, I could hear her laughter. Almost, I could rage against my need to see. "I won't." My voice fell, already succumbing to this weakness within me. The sense of presence faded, wail quieting. I tried to shake myself free, knowing that this, too, was merely a ruse to draw me toward the small, misshapen window high above the headboard of my bed. "I won't," I declared louder, knowing that she already knew that I would, that I must, that such resistance as held within my soul had long ago been bartered upon just the glimpse, the fleeting shift of movement and shadow that was she. My coat fell discarded, somewhere in the pile of clothing littering the top of my bed. It was forgotten before it hit the surface. My fingers already pulling me up onto tiptoe so that my eyes could see out the window. For a moment there was nothing, just the mist drifting and collecting in puddles among the chimney's, pipes and angular shapes scattered across the once over buildings rooftop. Knots wrapped across my chest, stealing my breath. Denial. She was finally gone. Horror and ecstasy battled inside of me. Then my mouth opened to spill forth its own desperate wail of need. The shadows parted, drifts of flowing gray fog her nightly cloak. Her head lifted, face august and quiet, eyes too far for me to glimpse their depths. Just lines and angles, sketches of sensual madness in my mind. I knew she knew I waited here, unable to escape. There is no way to describe how she moves in the feeble glow of choked moonlight, the casual, obscene grace that defies mortality. I find my face pressed to the glass, the nipples under my T-shirt hardened and aroused as each moment extends this monstrous, unearthly peep show. Her cloak's masquerade slips aside, retreating into that which is only mist once more, revealing the etheric translucent form which has become my unwitting obsession. Naked is a word for human beings. This, this ban sidh, reclines immortally unclothed. Breasts, small glistening points, long, smooth, marbled masterpiece of stomach inviting the damnation of my lust to the perfectly sculpted mound between her partially opened legs. I want to scream, to deny her utter mastery of me but can only gulp drunkenly at the air. My hand finds its way down inside my thighs, fingernails driving hardened points into the velvet cream of my hunger. Lust adds new tones to my voice, no longer civilized and sane, but returned down that ancient highway into rutting beast and cheap tavern whore. She turns her head, line of face changing with the molten fluid of uncertainty. So exquisite, so horrific. I cannot hold my eyes upon her face, knowing, and having always known, that this is one of those forbidden things, direct view, an overt invasion of her privacy. The knowledge mocks me, for I am nothing. The long red gold locks of her hair find their way free from whatever it is she uses to clasp them. Moving outward from her head, writhing golden snakes caressing and teasing at her body. My moans echo the rhythmic pulses of their movements, my body thrusting against the uneven plaster hardness of the wall. She lifts a hand, it grasps a fresh bone comb. My eyes are captivated in horror, watching droplets of blood splatter downward to stain her breasts, her stomach, the arch of her neck, the Venus nectar of her changeling female form. The comb rises and falls, sweeping through the golden perfection of her hair. Her head tilts, mouth opening. "No!" I scream. My hand plunges faster and faster into the puddling cavern of my exposure. The comb conducting this macabre dance, sweeping the tempo upward, driving, demanding more . . . more. In my bones the sound begins, my whole body one nightmare tuning fork for her wretched pleasure. It oozes up through muscle, tissue and blood until I can taste this music of death in every pore of my being. I am caught, another hair in her comb. Death running over and through me again and again, raping and stealing my humanity, my sanity. I gasp for air, feeling her within me, stretching and growing, stealing the air from my lungs before I can breathe it, laughing and writhing inside of me, dancing upon what is left of my soul. I scream again, but hear only the wail of her voice in my throat now mine, now hers, now mine. Her hands finding their way into my skin, my arm lifting to drag death’s comb through my hair, my fingers slicing and cutting at the delicacy of my vulva, summoning bloody trails of mucus down my thighs into my pant legs. The rhythm of my body forces tattoo drumsticks, thudding and slamming into the wall with bruising intensity. Raucous warning, shrill scream echo deaths forewarning as my body convulses and orgasms. My mind rips and tears at itself whispering as much to her as to me a litany of damnation upon my ancient Irish forebears trailing back through time to bind me hand and foot forever: Maiden to this mistress of the dark, fallen goddess, banshee. [Forever after at http://eyeshot.net/filk.html] |
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