momebie

Original Fiction.
290 words.

It's always the love that does Them
in. How unlike humans They are,
is what They tell Themselves in Their day
to day business. And They're right. They are
as unlike humans as a thing can get.

Humans are made out of clay. Out of necessity
their minds and bodies are malleable.
They need things. Greed. Fear. Lust
for a more permanent state of being. Time pushes
them along, pulls the strings in a way that God does not
care to do. His wisdom is in distraction.

They are made of fire. They burn
and hurtle through empty space, even as They are
standing still. They do not make Themselves known
to the humans because the humans already know too much.
The humans know of the Morning Star who forsake them.

Burning. Bringing light, They climb in His estimation.
They claw against each Other, dodging the human
emotions that are strewn about the cutting room floor.
They rise, until all that's left to reach for is love.
The one thing to which They are not immune.

He made it in Their image and, not knowing what to do
with it They let it weigh them down. They come crashing
back again, feathers singed with tar. They feel it this time.
They crawl. They carve out a place for themselves in the world.
In having a place they suddenly have bodies. Suddenly Are.

Being is too much. They reach up again, jump, scramble
for purpose. When They look at the stars They look on
them with the love that They can't clean off. It sticks
to everything and reminds Them that They have bodies.
The stars don't. The stars merely burn. But They—

are through with burning.

Ugh. I am so fucking nervous about this. You never learn unless you try though, right? I'm blaming it partially on

pocky_slash, who threw out the writing chat prompt that generated the ficlet that turned into this. This entry was written for Topic 10: Icarus at