I need an idea for the ending for Vanescere’s pet description. + opinions? Should I just leave it as is?
Nine days before the beginning of the end, there had been a girl, sallow and dirty and feral. Her wings were gone, torn asunder with only the claret and tattered feathers staining her shoulders to show that they had ever existed at all. Long strands of tangled corbeau framed a paled face, where neutrality was placed upon her lips beneath the photo-negatives of her eyes. Each pupil was a reflective spot of white against the consuming atrous iris lost in a sea of the same. And then the rictus was gaping, mouth wide in its signature grin, and she fled the scene with a back bent low to the ground and not a trace of human skin left on her.
The sixth, seventh, and eighth days before the beginning of the end were spent in quiet contemplation, with nothing but the occasional beat of large avian wings to break the uneasy silence.
It was five days before the beginning of the end when the body washed up, weighted down by the water and carried with it all the same against the gentle flows downstream of the frothing river, delivered in a disorganized heap straight into the somber clutches of the police. Words were exchanged between the officers on the scene, words of idle apathy and morbid curiosity. This was not a story of horror and gore, not a story of mystery or concern. It was just another urchin, living off the streets and thieving like the ragamuffins they were—better off dead than alive. The sky was painted rainbow through the smog as the sun set on the city, and the body of a street-girl, paler in death and more beautiful than life, with ragged stubs hiding from the sky, left rainbow trails in the moistened dirt.
The fourth day before the beginning of the end went unnoticed. There was nothing amiss in the carcass of a beloved pet gone feral from mistreatment. No one bothered to notice the stiffened, darkened flesh cast no shadow for the blurred sun to see.
Three days before the beginning of the end saw another glimpse of blackened sclera, velate iris. But there was a difference, as the land lay unexplored beyond the lakes of ink was shrouded in graying seafoam, no longer the wan expanses of a street wraith. The ruffling of feathers had always been expected in the city, the slight scraping of claws against brick and metal almost normal.
And it was two days before the purported beginning of the end that the end began, premature, a devil child eager and screaming to get out of its fleshy imprisonment. It came in torrents, rending muscle from bone and fat from skin and tissue from bloody tissue, the concrete jungle heaved from its very foundation as the steel skeletons were left to bleach in the sunlight after. “A calamity,” the extras said. “A catastrophe,” the newsies cried. The urban poor were rotting in the river, the once-cobbled streets, picking up the remains of their saddened lives. The unaffected looked on with grim faces, straightening their papers and mourning the loss of labor, of profits. One pale girl stood holding shadows amidst the gnarled fingers of broken steel, stood with her writhing shadow amidst her nest of opportunity.
One day before the beginning of the end revealed the disaster as a masquerade. The beast had wakened, but had not yet charged. It was the preparation, the lowering of a ram’s head in anticipation for collision. It was the final transformation from girl to bird.
And then it began.
Also opinions on Enkindle’s.
I am the light.
It was a game of lyricism and lies, spirit smoke and rattling bones. None dared to breathe. The staff, carved ramrod-straight and bound to bleached bone and chipped flint, struck iron in fiery paths leaving sparks in its wake. Skulls of birds, poor victims, adorned her neck. The glory of a stag became her pale crown, the fingers of innocents shaped her breasts. Her cloth swirled red on red on red, flowing freely as blood. The golden thread sewn carefully into the fabric shimmered in the ornate pattern of fire—entrancing, ensnaring, enrapturing every eye that dared to gaze directly at the heart of the sun, the savior of the darkness. She was the witch, the priestess, the medicine woman. She was the light.
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
You know you are spreading false truths but you keep going because everyone believes in you, lays their lives down for you, looks up at you with awestruck eyes filled with fear and wonder. You perpetuate their ignorance, and some days you can almost believe the lies yourself. Naturally, faith requires faith, but yours was diluted with near-perfect acting and the realisation of an unfortunate truth.
Sheep for the slaughter.
Sacrificial lambs, all lined up ready to die. Count one, two—twenty, sixty, infinite. Their hearts are cut out, fresh and beating, dripping life and deliciously chewy. Their open chests are laid bare to the world, to the filth, the grime, the flies that would be born and die in the cadaver carefully placed belly-up against the trees.
And your hands always stay clean.
But sometimes, it gets to be just a little bit too much. And you stare at your scrubbed off-white bones, bowed down to the world that you so constantly deceive.