I did too while I was working on it!
no wonder, it's such a masterpiece.
I did too while I was working on it!
yes, grovelling apologies to Anima Sinistra, illumination from Luna convinces me that it is 1st conjugation,
and should be vulnerant. Which all goes to show that my reliability is not at all reliable.
It will be in the Archive as a pdf you can download very soon -I think I have a lot to read here.
That's what you get for dropping from the forums for a few years...
among them a young reporter collecting information for the chronicle she’s writing.
Amica 102
Afterwards
Deep, dark eyes that glow in the shadows, the perfect oval of the face is framed by jet-black hair that moves like dark sea-waves, black as night, lapping and crashing on the whiteness of the face. She listens with watchful eyes to the man who is speaking, he is charming, tanned, with broad shoulders and greying hair.
They are not alone at this feast, there are many other guests, among them a young reporter collecting information for the chronicle she’s writing. The banqueting hall opens onto a large garden surrounded by a colonnade with ornamental scented plants. Peacocks stroll among the plants, there are fountains, statues of gilded bronze that cast gushing water into small pools of marble. A poet, accompanied by the music of harps and flutes, reads his verses that nobody’s listening to.
But this music enters the head of the woman, carrying a subtle poison - that music ... it isn’t new... An ancient memory resurfaces, it has no clear boundaries, anxiety begins to arise. But where? ... It was another feast ... Yes, now she recalls...
And look! One after another, those faces... why am I here? Why they are here? She lowers her gaze, but her eyes cannot get away from what she seeing, a skeleton with empty sockets, ribs like a cage from which the life has flown, and an old one with hollow cheeks and wide open mouth as if he is trying to shout something, but the cry remains strangled in his throat.
Déjà vu. Full of the unspeakable pain and despair of someone who’s seen death, for a long time she’s tried not to remember, to leave everything behind, not to untangle it... She’s never told anyone, never told of the tragedy that she went through, never spoken of the nightmares that tore her sleep, of the ghosts who came to visit her at night to beg her to tell their stories, their lives, their deaths. The horror of seeing with her own eyes the last moments of their broken lives, broken dreams.
She never wanted to speak of what she saw and experienced in the terrible hours of the eruption, she always kept it closed away in silence, the pain was too much, the tragedy to terrible. But you can’t wipe away and leave behind the trauma, you always have to bring it to the surface, release the pressure, name the pain - better do it now, otherwise it eats your mind from within like a parasite.
And so the memories she has buried emerge from a remote corner of the shadows and caves of her memory, like a shark emerging from the deep.
Her dark eyes dilate, the expression so full of confidence and sensuality vanishes, she looks up with the eyes of one drowning , trying to grab at a rope ... Hands outstretched, eyes glancing around for a face, a look , a word, anything to cling to, but they find nothing. She’s feeling faint, cold sweat oozes out on her temples, she’s a feeling of nausea, no longer able to move her legs, her arms and hands feel heavy, and then comes that feeling as if her heart and the head are about to explode, that something threatening and terrible is about to overwhelm her.
Many of the guests have noticed that something’s happening, alerted by the clink of the silver cup she’s dropped onto the floor. Her eyes are dimmed with fear and look distant, she’s already back in those hours, it is her destiny that sooner or later she must return to that hell and relive it, before she can leave it forever in the past.
'Rectina says, it’s time now...'
All the guests fall silent, they’ve drawn close to listen. Those words echoed in the room as the key to a door that’s stayed closed for too long, the door now opens...
‘Yes, I remember...’
Silence.
'Her name ...'
hesitation,
'my ... name ... was ... Amica ...'
Stunning as usual! It's been such an honor to be a part of such an amazing work!!Amica 102
Afterwards
Deep, dark eyes that glow in the shadows, the perfect oval of the face is framed by jet-black hair that moves like dark sea-waves, black as night, lapping and crashing on the whiteness of the face. She listens with watchful eyes to the man who is speaking, he is charming, tanned, with broad shoulders and greying hair.
They are not alone at this feast, there are many other guests, among them a young reporter collecting information for the chronicle she’s writing. The banqueting hall opens onto a large garden surrounded by a colonnade with ornamental scented plants. Peacocks stroll among the plants, there are fountains, statues of gilded bronze that cast gushing water into small pools of marble. A poet, accompanied by the music of harps and flutes, reads his verses that nobody’s listening to.
But this music enters the head of the woman, carrying a subtle poison - that music ... it isn’t new... An ancient memory resurfaces, it has no clear boundaries, anxiety begins to arise. But where? ... It was another feast ... Yes, now she recalls...
And look! One after another, those faces... why am I here? Why they are here? She lowers her gaze, but her eyes cannot get away from what she seeing, a skeleton with empty sockets, ribs like a cage from which the life has flown, and an old one with hollow cheeks and wide open mouth as if he is trying to shout something, but the cry remains strangled in his throat.
Déjà vu. Full of the unspeakable pain and despair of someone who’s seen death, for a long time she’s tried not to remember, to leave everything behind, not to untangle it... She’s never told anyone, never told of the tragedy that she went through, never spoken of the nightmares that tore her sleep, of the ghosts who came to visit her at night to beg her to tell their stories, their lives, their deaths. The horror of seeing with her own eyes the last moments of their broken lives, broken dreams.
She never wanted to speak of what she saw and experienced in the terrible hours of the eruption, she always kept it closed away in silence, the pain was too much, the tragedy to terrible. But you can’t wipe away and leave behind the trauma, you always have to bring it to the surface, release the pressure, name the pain - better do it now, otherwise it eats your mind from within like a parasite.
And so the memories she has buried emerge from a remote corner of the shadows and caves of her memory, like a shark emerging from the deep.
Her dark eyes dilate, the expression so full of confidence and sensuality vanishes, she looks up with the eyes of one drowning , trying to grab at a rope ... Hands outstretched, eyes glancing around for a face, a look , a word, anything to cling to, but they find nothing. She’s feeling faint, cold sweat oozes out on her temples, she’s a feeling of nausea, no longer able to move her legs, her arms and hands feel heavy, and then comes that feeling as if her heart and the head are about to explode, that something threatening and terrible is about to overwhelm her.
Many of the guests have noticed that something’s happening, alerted by the clink of the silver cup she’s dropped onto the floor. Her eyes are dimmed with fear and look distant, she’s already back in those hours, it is her destiny that sooner or later she must return to that hell and relive it, before she can leave it forever in the past.
'Rectina says, it’s time now...'
All the guests fall silent, they’ve drawn close to listen. Those words echoed in the room as the key to a door that’s stayed closed for too long, the door now opens...
‘Yes, I remember...’
Silence.
'Her name ...'
hesitation,
'my ... name ... was ... Amica ...'