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ash-castle: ‘The old gods are dead’ they
Apr. 11th, 2017 04:22 amvia http://ift.tt/2oSXYH1:
ash-castle:
‘The old gods are dead’ they tell you.
You smile and nod and wipe out another glass. Your eyes dart to the old man in the corner booth. You never see him come, but you always see him leave. Each night a new young lover on his arm.
You pretend not to see his wife watching with jealousy blazing in her eyes and peacock feathers printed on her dress. Her sharpened nails tap, tap, tapping a beat you can hear over the din.
‘If they were still around, where are they?’ They continue with a wild wave of their arm. The man next to them looks up and grins and raises his glass at you in a toast and buys them another round. It’s only after he’s turned away you realize his teeth were too sharp and that the glint in his eye was something more than delight.
On the stage a young man sings. He’s there every night with his golden guitar and his golden skin and his golden hair. He sings of love and loss and boys who fly too high, only to fall. You know the song, he plays it almost every night.
His sister stands in the corner, watching, on edge. You keep half an eye on her. She seems constantly in motion yet when you focus, she is still. Last week she broke a man’s arm. You never saw her move.
‘The old gods are dead.’ They say with finality.
You look around the room and meet old and tired eyes in hungry faces.
'Maybe,’ you begin and pause as the room seems to go quiet, holding its breath. 'Maybe you aren’t looking hard enough.’-gods never die
ash-castle:
‘The old gods are dead’ they tell you.
You smile and nod and wipe out another glass. Your eyes dart to the old man in the corner booth. You never see him come, but you always see him leave. Each night a new young lover on his arm.
You pretend not to see his wife watching with jealousy blazing in her eyes and peacock feathers printed on her dress. Her sharpened nails tap, tap, tapping a beat you can hear over the din.
‘If they were still around, where are they?’ They continue with a wild wave of their arm. The man next to them looks up and grins and raises his glass at you in a toast and buys them another round. It’s only after he’s turned away you realize his teeth were too sharp and that the glint in his eye was something more than delight.
On the stage a young man sings. He’s there every night with his golden guitar and his golden skin and his golden hair. He sings of love and loss and boys who fly too high, only to fall. You know the song, he plays it almost every night.
His sister stands in the corner, watching, on edge. You keep half an eye on her. She seems constantly in motion yet when you focus, she is still. Last week she broke a man’s arm. You never saw her move.
‘The old gods are dead.’ They say with finality.
You look around the room and meet old and tired eyes in hungry faces.
'Maybe,’ you begin and pause as the room seems to go quiet, holding its breath. 'Maybe you aren’t looking hard enough.’-gods never die
