After the War

The noise from the common room below drifted faintly through the open crack of the window, the thuds of tankards coming together with the sounds of dance and raucous laughter as the night deepened into drink. He slowly poured himself a glass of ale from the pitcher on the table, threw back his head, and drank it quickly. With a sigh he lowered the cup back onto the tray, next to the pitcher and the half-eaten loaf of bread. The road had been long, and he had traveled it far enough to lose what remained of his appetite since the Nemarrda had retreated back into the shadows of the Vanya Rassa, to hide and rebuild among the shadows of the trees, or so the bards sang. They’d left the cities ransacked, the blood of old battles drying along the outer walls of the city as the thieves picked their way clean through the dead’s possessions.

He was tired. Absentmindedly he ran his fingers over the handle of the dagger attached to his belt. He drew the blade from its sheath and held it before him in the dim light, his fingers tracing the damaged insignia upon the pommel.

From outside, the shouts announcing the changing of the guards upon the city’s outer wall reached him. He slid the dagger back in its sheathe and ran his fingers through his hair one more time to shake free the last dust of the road. They would be looking for her within the next hour once she failed to show up for her shift. He walked towards the window and shut it quietly, the sounds of the city outside and the bar below fading, before he turned to face the woman sprawled out across the bed. With the pitcher in hand he started forward towards her.



The ale was lukewarm but stung as it hit her face. Gasping, she let her training take over as she rolled to the left. She got halfway off the bed before the chain that was tethered around her right wrist stopped her. Her eyes flew open as she strained against the weight of the bed, the chain growing taunt with each struggle. She reached with her left hand for the dagger at her belt, debating on whether it would be easiest to kill her captor or to break the shackle around her wrist.

“How was your sleep, Duckling?”

She paused, her fingers hovering over the spot where her dagger normally rested only to find it missing. Her head pounded and seconds passed before her breathing to slowed back to normal. She turned slowly to face him, the chain clinking as she repositioned herself into a crouch on the bed.

The lantern on the far wall above the table flickered dimly and the torch light from the streets spilled across the room, placing shadows across the angles of his face. He wore his travels well despite the unkempt growth on his jaw and the coolness of his eyes as he watched her. His hair hung lank against his cheeks in need of a wash and he had not bothered to brush the dust from the road out of his clothes. The lining of his cloak resting over the chair next to him had been recently repaired, the leather of his boots was scratched but not as damaged as the pair he’d been wearing when she’d last seen him. She eyed her dagger resting on his hip. Her cloak was folded on the table beside him, and the rest of her weapons, as well as her insignia of the guard that sat on top of it.

Neither of them spoke.

He reached for the loaf of bread on the table, never taking his eyes off her. He bit into it slowly. “Would you like some?” he asked. She stared at him in disbelief. He raised a brow when she didn’t respond, and shrugged. He finished what remained of the loaf, and dusted the crumbs off his hands and onto his trousers.

She turned towards her bonds to examine them. The insignia of the Nemarrda curved along the shackle on her wrist, ending just before the chain that was bolted to it. The other end of the chain was looped around and underneath the heavy frame of the bed. It would be impossible to free the chain from either her wrist or the bed.

“You won’t get those off,” he said as he watched her, “Not without the key. Not even the King’s High Priest could find a way to remove those through either brute force or magic.”

“Where did you get these?” she asked, lifting the shackles for a closer inspection. She sighed when he did not respond.

“I’m not here for games, Amarin,” she said. “Let me go.” She tugged the chain once more for emphasis. He made no move towards her. Instead he crossed his legs and leaned back upon the table, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his trousers.

“Why here?”

“Amarin…”

“Why here? Why a desolate border town on the edge of the Vanya Rassa with barely enough soldiers from the capital to support the guard?” He spat the name of the forest with distaste. “There are farmers and merchants upon the wall with swords they cannot use looking for demons in the night.” He nodded his head towards the window, out into the shadows of the city. From the window they could see the eastern guard tower and the soldiers that stood at attention against the dark of the forest. “The war is over now. There is nothing left but the nightmares that roam between the trees of the Vayna Rassa.” he whispered.

“It’s not over though, Amarin.”she whispered “Not yet.”. She turned her face away. He sighed, raised a hand and rubbed it to his temple. He uncrossed his legs and walked towards the bed. The sounds of his boots on the floor grew louder and the bed beside her shifted beneath his weight as he sat down.

“Einya, look at me,” he whispered. “It’s over. They won’t be back.”

“We can’t know that,” she said. He reached forward and gently tucked the strands of her hair covering her face behind her ear.

“I need to know. Why here?” His voice wavered slightly as the words caught in his throat.

“Why not?” she replied. “Does there have to be a reason?”

“Yes,” he whispered, “I need a reason.”

“What good would it do if I told you?” she sighed as she ran her fingers through her hair, yanking the strands free. “Please let me go. Unless you want the watch to be knocking on the door.”

“Is that a threat?” he teased. He reached for her left hand and when she didn’t resist he slowly threaded his fingers through hers. He leaned forward until their foreheads gently rested upon each other. She could feel his breath on her cheek, smell the ale he’d been drinking and the dust and blood that clung to him from outside.

“Einya,” he whispered, “Please tell me.” His lips moved softly against her cheek as he spoke and his hair fell forward against her face. She shuddered. He raised his head and they stared at each other. Slowly he moved and pressed his lips gently to hers. She tightened her grip on his hand and leaned forward into him. And when the moment was over, they sat there, eyes closed. The sound of their breath quietly filled the room.

She swallowed.

“I came here to pay my dues.” He opened his eyes. Her face was resigned and her eyes showed no fight left. At the hollow of her neck was the mark of the border guard, inked overtop of his name, as a reminder that she now no longer owed allegiance to him.

“It wasn’t your fault. It’s over now.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she replied.

“Einya…”

“I came here to pay what I owe.” she said, “And I will walk the wall until I have.” She removed her hand from his and met his eyes. He looked away.

“What would you have me do?” he whispered.

“I would have you release me, let me go and never come looking for me again.”

“Einya…”

“Please Amarin.” she whispered, “Let me go.” He closed his eyes. Then opened them. He rose stiffly and looked at her once more. The bridge of her nose had scarred after being broken recently, and her hair was darker than he remembered. She stared back at him with tears starting to form in the corners of her eyes.

He removed a key from his shift pocket and placed it on the bed in front of her. He made no move to touch her as she inserted it into the shackle lock. White light glowed faintly as the spell on them was released and the shackle dropped free of her. She winced softly and rubbed her fingers along the welts on her wrist.

Slowly she stood and walked towards the table. She reattached her sword to her belt, strapped the throwing knives onto her boots and fastened her cloak securely around her neck with her insignia. She took a leather tie from her pocket and tied her hair back at the nape of her neck. Once she was done she turned to face him.

“My dagger,” Her voice wavered as she held out her hand to him. He detached the sheath from his belt and handed it to her. Her fingers closed around it and brushed against his before she withdrew. She did not attach it to her belt but slipped it into a cloak pocket.

She did not say goodbye as she stepped past him, opened the door, and walked out of the room into the corridor. The door behind her remained open, the sounds of the common room quieter now as people wandered back to their beds. He heard the innkeeper yell out her name but could not make out her response over the shout of the changing of the guard as the torches on the wall flickered faintly against the dark.

the politics of desire : i

fall, 2010

the air is always electric after end of the show, the cold air of late november slowly settling on my skin as i rock back on the stone table while waiting for my ride home. this feeling is new, an ache along the length of my spine, as if it would be possible to have my body pried open gently on my way to orgasm. i roll my shoulders forward in an attempt to reach satisfaction, elbows resting on my knees, hair barely past my ears falling into my eyes as i unconsciously slowly grind back and forth. i am still unaware of the implications of my body, the relation of myself i carry in opposition of my desire for men, the promise of being fucked slowly growing along the length of my bones from the chill of the night descending.

but there will be nothing more tonight. only this rote attempt to reach satisfaction and end this sensation crawling along the inside of my bones. yet i know, even as my ride pulls up, that it will be a long time coming before i accomplish this.

only girl in the world

there are the times when i am left with the memory of my feelings for you. the pale yellow sheen of the lights in the night, the red of passing vehicles on the way home in the dark, the faint echo of rihanna from the basement stereo as i dance, lay myself back along the guest bed in the middle of the rec room, feel the slide of my jeans against my hips, the press of my breasts against my bra as my stomach collapses in with each breath and the imagined sensation that you are with me.
i can hear the creak of the bed as you approach me, the rustle as i open my legs and the press of your weight as you pin me down, my legs around your hips, my arms wrapped around your back, my teeth in your neck as you begin to overpower everything i have in me.

take me for a ride. bite me, kiss me gently, slide your hands under my shirt, pin my wrists to either side of my head, force your crotch against mine without removing my jeans so i whimper when i feel your erection against my body and can do nothing about it.
i want you to fuck me, i want you to kiss me, i want you to smile, laugh, hold my hand in the daytime, hold my body in the night. i want you to want me and am willing to make compromises i had never considered before. i'll do anything to be your girl, your lover, your fuck buddy, your sweetheart. i'll give you a terrifying control over the whole situation.
and i had never considered that it would come to this. the silence wrapped around my heart as i smile when you talk, breathing shallow as i try to build my momentum for a move. any move at this point. i tell myself that you know, that this will work, should work, i want to make it work, for the first time ever i am not afraid of myself. i can make it work.
i want to be the only girl in the world. i want you to make me feel, bite my heart softly, gently pry my ribs open with a crack, kiss me slowly between smiles as you give me my false impression of your love.
for unfortunately, you never wanted me the way i wanted you, the way i thought you did before it was all over.

Nothing as Stupid as a Love Poem

09/15/12
-for my version of the scientist

This is a fantasy.

Kiss me, teeth scraping
along the curve of my lips,
blood beating deep
within my ears, flush
staining out across my cheeks
as I fist my fingers through
your hair
and pull you to me.
Grind me, hips locked together,
limbs sprawled out across the bed,
breath heaving as I claw my body open
in an attempt to reach you.
Taste me, tongue kissed behind my ear,
the sweat of your skin imprinted
along the fabric on my shirt,
chest heaving,
heart strangled as I slowly allow
you to start stripping me bare.

I need you to fill me, break
me down, bones locked to
the mattress,
heart slowing from your weight
stretched along me.

This is a fantasy.
Because when I wake,
you're no where closer to being
in my arms.

Begging You

09/20/12

I am begging you
to kiss me. I can imagine
the trace of your fingers down
the side of my jaw, gently hooking
under my chin and the soft tug
as you tilt my head upwards
to meet your eyes.

I will take you in, the embellishments
of my memories of you, the curve
of your smile, the short length
of your hair as I raise
my hands to thread my fingers
through it and pull
you down towards me.

I am still fantasizing
as I raise my legs to lock
them around your hips, trace my fingers
up the length of your spine,
your body heavy, stretched
along the length of my centre,
the beat of your heart aching
through your skin onto mine.

I am willing you to break
me, strip my body open
piece by piece, clothes discarded
on the floor, the heat
of your breath in my ear,
the bite of your teeth on my neck
as I am falling,
falling headfirst into confusion
with you.

More of a Poet

I think I’m more greedy

than you can imagine,

spread out and dyed,

smothered in the freshly baked pages

of imagery gone wild,

swinging out across the sand.

I want to swallow and taste

the bitter hue

of words gone sour

in the library of our thoughts composed,

boiled, shredded and baked

in the oven of our small apartment.

I’ve got the sensation

of all your angles and panes

stamped across my tongue

despite my actions of trying to

scrape myself clean of you

with a bloody knife.

I’ve got you printed deep within

the pages and painted

across my skin,

despite my horror.

I’ll never see your grimace,

your smile, your laugh

carved and curled around the words.

I’m expecting myself to write fantasy

in which you don’t exist,

the wall are white

and the sheets are clean.

You’re more of a poet than

I am though,

for I can still feel your presence

moving inside me.