Honorary: The King of Pitched Voids and Uncertainty

The world blessed his eyelids so that he can see the vastness of eternity, but never the minute breaths of those so delicately before him.

Past countless worlds he would walk, steps slow and trudging, as the fabrication of time upon his shoulders would drape past his ankles and cascade down into decades and seconds alike.

So lonely was this weightless Atlas, so countless the blinks of smaller life he glimpsed at for a time unknown.

And so the satellites dusted his domain to prick his feet while he stepped, and so those very same ones shall become nothing more than dust themselves.

Those smaller than him wondered what thoughts he possessed beneath that stoic facade of all knowing and power, only to find themselves still wondering at the gasp of their last breath.

So valiant this King of Pitched Voids and Uncertainty, so valiant a journey you live for, if you can even call it as such. To live without taking a breath, to see without your own eyes, to be without truly being.

And thus he envelops himself quietly in stillness, keeping himself warm with odd memories that even he barely remembers.

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A Bedtime Story from Cap

How about a bedtime story? A change of tone, my heathens. I hope you don’t mind that it isn’t Sunday.

Today, I speak with you all personally about a dream I once had when I was a very small child. The thing about being a child is that there is so much that appears to be beautiful in our eyes. From the way water trickles down the driveway after the car is washed to the way the lavender-colored trees sway to and fro on a very windy day because they are just so enormously tall. A sparkle and twinkle in your eye, a grin spread so wide that it may just be good for something later on. Ah, and your hands were so small, just like all the clothes you used to wear.

Or perhaps you used to live near the sea? Where breezes were mingled with salt and water and the skies had a constant grey overcast, it can’t always be sunny after all. But there were still days where the sand would become littered in shovels and pails and little moulds of turtles and seahorses. Lighthouses that never really worked the way you thought they would. Wooden fences wearing down because the sea kept trying to face plant into it. How the world seemed so divided once your feet moved from sand to black asphalt, so different.

Maybe you lived somewhere stranger, like near a bog or marsh? I’ve never been to a place, but I know a dear friend who has. They live there in peace and fill my nights with love stories between cloud gods and thunder strikes, hot weather and rainy weather, the cool darkness of their room compared to the warm embrace of a million bedsheets.

Strange and crazy things happening right under your nose that they couldn’t possibly tell me for…reasons, I suppose.

It is such a pretty world we live in that sometimes I forget the monsters that plague us everyday. I forget the cruel truth of friendships and love, how the two seem so unbreakable yet, are truly very fragile.

I feel like we are stepping on a glass marble that will shatter under our heels at any given moment. So strange, yet so familiar.

I am happy we can be content in knowing that our existences are fragile. I am so happy.

Goodnight, my heathens. May your slumbers be ever peaceful.

-Cap

Child of Sweeping Fire and Summer Echoes

She was fierce as feral flames, fangs without the jaw, a burning star, a speeding car, sounds of fire crackles and familiar music. Each strand of hair upon her head held a story doused in color, her eyes hypnotic and starving for every experience this world can offer her.

Each turn of the Sun was a metamorphosis and every peek of the Moon a chance to howl and scream into the night, a grin spread wide.

Summer and sand favored her heels, leaving dusty hot imprints on the balls of her feet. Across the heat, as fast as air can bring her, she rushes towards unfamiliar depths, nearly fearless of the blue, nearly fearless to die.

Scars on her elbows and knees and palms would sink in salted water and leave peeled off bandages as a path to follow later on.

The child of Sweeping fire and Summer Echoes, may your days in the sun be ever hot and bright. And as you walk past the shimmering shores and muggy mid-day fog, may the fish guide you from the sea as well as up above.

Prince of Ink Stains and Soft Wind

He is of fair face, fair as willow maiden hair and a voice once kin to the wind, but captured and enveloped within the most delicate of wind pipes.

They say he moves like windchimes, pleasantly swaying to where ever he sees fit, only to return in one piece when the orchestra of adventurous air ceases to play.

Skin like oil paint, smooth and perfectly toned to capture every length of celestial light, no matter where he turns.

And tangling between his fingers and spilling from his lips, light blotches of softened petals bloom on the branches of saliva from his mouth.

They cascade down his figure from an inky fountain within his mind, endless and ever-growing, a deep, dense coal-toned abyss that brings life to every feature of his always changing body.

He is a prince; a prince of ink stains and soft wind, Of delicate lifeforms with black-bolded bones,

Of intertwined words that slip the mind, only for him to draw them back deep inside.

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