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mute_clayI can remember she sang to me.
She did sing sometimes, when I was older. But that was mostly hymns. It was only hymns. But I remember she sang to me once.
She might have done it several times. Or not at all. I might be making it up, In my mind. It is almost too clear, the memory.
The sun is setting, filtering through the windows, red and orange and gold. On top of me and the quilt is a scratchy, hand woven wool blanket. It must be winter or early spring. When the nights are still white and quiet and cold.
There is no other light in the room and I cannot see her clearly. My mother is an outline, a shadow, and her voice is soft in my ears as she sings to me, lulling me to sleep. She sings about angels around my bed. I used to think they’d look like birds. She said they had wings and were wise and that you couldn’t see them. Which pretty much sound like most songbirds to me.
Of course, most people will have it that birds are stupid. Birdbrains. But they’re not.
And if you listened to them, you’d know that.
Also, it’d be easier to fit in fourteen birds in my room than fourteen people. Even if they were special people. And people with wings wouldn’t do at all.
But there weren’t no angels in my room and no gold on the horizon. And my mother probably never sang at all.
My mother gave birth to me and raised me and put the fear of God in me.
And when she called the woman I love a witch I threw her out of our home, her home, and told her never to come back. She lived in the forest with Dog, wrapping dead birds with barbed wire. To teach him.
My mother believed in God and pain. And she might have sung to me when I was a child and she might not have. But it doesn’t matter cause she is dead and gone now and you shouldn’t speak evil about the dead.
Muse: Clay
Fandom: Passion of Darkly Noon (Misc. Movies)
Word count: 356
(ooc note - and I just noticed I've been removed from TM. I'm pretty sure I haven't been warned, but I am way behind on posts so it's a fair cop ;) - will see about re-apping over the weekend)
She did sing sometimes, when I was older. But that was mostly hymns. It was only hymns. But I remember she sang to me once.
She might have done it several times. Or not at all. I might be making it up, In my mind. It is almost too clear, the memory.
The sun is setting, filtering through the windows, red and orange and gold. On top of me and the quilt is a scratchy, hand woven wool blanket. It must be winter or early spring. When the nights are still white and quiet and cold.
There is no other light in the room and I cannot see her clearly. My mother is an outline, a shadow, and her voice is soft in my ears as she sings to me, lulling me to sleep. She sings about angels around my bed. I used to think they’d look like birds. She said they had wings and were wise and that you couldn’t see them. Which pretty much sound like most songbirds to me.
Of course, most people will have it that birds are stupid. Birdbrains. But they’re not.
And if you listened to them, you’d know that.
Also, it’d be easier to fit in fourteen birds in my room than fourteen people. Even if they were special people. And people with wings wouldn’t do at all.
But there weren’t no angels in my room and no gold on the horizon. And my mother probably never sang at all.
My mother gave birth to me and raised me and put the fear of God in me.
And when she called the woman I love a witch I threw her out of our home, her home, and told her never to come back. She lived in the forest with Dog, wrapping dead birds with barbed wire. To teach him.
My mother believed in God and pain. And she might have sung to me when I was a child and she might not have. But it doesn’t matter cause she is dead and gone now and you shouldn’t speak evil about the dead.
Muse: Clay
Fandom: Passion of Darkly Noon (Misc. Movies)
Word count: 356
(ooc note - and I just noticed I've been removed from TM. I'm pretty sure I haven't been warned, but I am way behind on posts so it's a fair cop ;) - will see about re-apping over the weekend)