Passive Aggressive

Original prompt here:

Bitchery:

The inciting incident doesn’t matter. It never
has. It never will. What that matters are
the words forming behind glazed eyes,
twin marbles dipped in two colours of vinyl
matt paint. The lips are important also.
Spittle-flecked, pulled tight over crooked
yellow teeth. Meat-slab tongue darts back
and forth across them, lubricating the path
of another vicious verbal assault.
The breathing is worth noting. Calm and
rhythmic breaths flow in through distended
nostrils, inhaling clean air and goodness.
The exhale is loud, although the venom-
heavy miasma is not the rasp of struggling
lungs but the staccato assault of
machine gun fire. In with the good. Out
with poison vomit.

The posture, shoulders hunched and spine
curled slightly as if that of the inferior,
tells a story almost as sadistic and red as
the words.
Oh, those words…

Cold and clinical. Logical reason
verbalised into scalpel blades. Each
syllable an incision. Each vowel and
consonant a gutting slash or impaling
stab. A surgeon’s cool warmed impossibly
hot. Ice melting under its own destructive
heat. The words come. The words burn. A
leviathan of jagged hate upon a lava sea.

Murder in prose. Savage, dragon-breath
beauty. Air vibrates and shivers under
pulmonic force. Tendons strain. Orchestral
violence reaching a crescendo. Twitching
hands chop at nothing, a loathsome
conductor directing vocal murder. A
psychopath painting with a victim’s
entrails.

Words do their worst. The subject
shrivels. Tears and snot. Head in hands. A
sleek, perfected yacht smashed upon
jagged reefs. It rocks beneath the verbal
waves, sobs as the flow weakens and rage
dissipates.  The words finally, thankfully,
stop.

A god of foul torture surveys his kingdom.
Blackened, burnt, ruined. Nothing of
beauty remains. Love, passion, trust. They
smoke oily tendrils upon the altar of
suppression. They are gone forever. Lost.
Burned-heart-stench, bitter, black,
scorches his throat. His prize, his treasure,
lays tarnished and broken at his feet.

In sudden darkness, unbearable cold, he
sifts through his authentic, deliberate
attacks. Guts sour, he hugs his shoulders.
He wonders why the words cannot come
when he needs them, why they this stick
in his throat until his world burns. Why he
cannot speak gently and be a man.

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Colours, textures, tastes

Instigating prompt here:

Han Solo.

It’s being Han Solo in Cloud City. Betrayed by his friends. Hunted by his enemies. An experiment of the Dragon lurking in shadows. One minute, it’s rage and aggression, a balled fist and a curled lips. He’s there, he’s there, he’s fighting then…

There’s a stumble, a hiss and it all goes black. Sensation leaches from the body with the weeping, unnoticed insistence of a slow puncture. Motivation. Motion. They’re sucked into oblivion through a gaping chest wound. Thick black nothing fills the resulting cavity. Black is thematic, but it’s not the world. Existence isn’t that interesting. It’s a cold, muted grey.

It’s not always carbonite. It’s often a cloak. Soft to the touch. Warming. It slides across the shoulders, brings comfort to a tired mind, tired body. The embrace soothes exhaustion, tugs away strands of panic, stress, pain and regret. Threads unravel, tapestries of personality vanish leaving the familiar, muted grey.

An admiral soars in deepest winter. Red wings flash in contrast against a dull, sleeping world. A heart flutters in time to beating wings. Beauty, agility and the unusual capture the imagination, the soul. Insectile grace steals the attention, paints the heart with a warm glow. Gaia’s soft hum pulls the dancing butterfly into the distance. Filaments of emotion, of clarity and of self become tangled in six tiny legs. Pulled away, they leave nothing but charcoal bleakness.

Han’s present at the finishing line. Crawling from carbonite, numb bones aching, eyes blinded by renewed sensitivity to light. He again hear his friends, feel the nearness of those he loves. It’s not over; soul-death ice still contaminates his body. Numb confusion gnaws at his brain. It’s a struggle to move, a struggle to breathe, but the symptoms dissipate into memories before phantasmal smoke. It aches, but it’s an improvement.

For all his suffering, Solo’s the lucky one. Solo got frozen in carbonite only the once.