creative writing · Fiction · Modernism · Poetry · Short Story · Stream of Consciousness · Writing


“Before I was a woman I was a tree, with branches that reached into eternities of endless trials and riches beyond mortal conception…”

Immortality is not a constant thrill, as many would have you believe. It is only constant in its stagnation, no manner of human trifles could ever make it less so. The goddess is content, however, with a relic stolen from her not-father’s kingdom; an equally endless creature that will remain as inconsistent as the beings her own kingdom bids entry. A nightmare of her own desires to bleed away the ever-flowing stream of the damned; as each one finds rest she will find release sweet as the fruit that brought her to being.

“And what of before, dear Melinoe? Did you exist at all?”

The meadow she keeps does not grow cold or wet around them, though their skin glistens with perspiration as legs intertwine and pale flesh becomes bright with warmth. A breath escapes parted lips and flutters cool against her lover’s bare skin, the procession of death forgotten for the brush of calloused fingers through sleek hair or whispered words of covetous delineation. The goddess enjoys most times of quiet perspicacity. To be lost in the understanding unique to chaotic inspiration.

“Why, I was a dying star in a reality to be filled with life and light after my own extinction. A single speck of cosmic grace unyielding and yet unsalvageable.”

These nights where two merged to become the total sum of connected expressions of interest, wicked and reckless and yet without replication, became more than brief appearances of shared desire. Sentiment seemed to tighten in each woman’s breast, a feeling so painfully warm as to sting when it sings to its partner for strength. A song of longing as bright as the eyes that search for recognition where none can be found.

“And what of me, lover?”

As they lay together in the meadow of Asphodel, the world weary at rest and the lilies of its name standing gracefully beside them, the goddess and her lover enjoy the quiet thrum of passion as it courses through their immortal hearts. A soft touch of care-worn hands against smooth skin as it prickles with gooseflesh, a tickle of hair as the tresses fall while lips part and press and prove unconditional adoration.

“You, love, have existed beside me through each passing.”

The stars are bright in the underworld, as they shine down on the dead and their deities. The grass of the meadow is soft under distracted ministrations, caresses from hand to hip to thigh and back again soothingly. A melody of mourning for those who enter her kingdom shifts eagerly into one of peace, the rhythmic hum distracting not a soul but the one that must know the song is for her.

“Will we love again?”

A warmth that clouds the mind does not afflict a goddess often, a feeling coveted by mortals and yet squandered time and again as they flash by the eyes of the gods. The goddess understands its importance, its implications, that the mad creature she loves is so much more. A complication, she had thought at first, but nothing they could not get past. She was so wrong, and she had never been so thankful for it.

“My dear Makaria, our love remains as eternal as all existence. Our meeting spans across millennia, across the very distance of time and space. We meet, and we love, and we return to do so again.”

There are words between the goddess and her nightmare shared confidently, their true meaning carefully carved into the space they come to occupy. The dead do not sleep, as the living do, and their keepers do not find rest often, but when the lover visits the goddess is convinced to dream of what may be next. Her lover knows dreams so intricately, knows her so intimately, that her chaos brings no madness to her goddess’ unconsciousness.

Do you promise, Melinoe?”

She knows she will forget her love. It is what the fates intended when they created such painful pleasures. She mourns already the love she will lose, for she will not know to mourn it at all if she cannot remember it has been lost to her. The lover laughs in the face of such fears, a brand of knowing that the goddess cannot fathom and yet believes whole-heartedly for if she does not, she fears it will not be true.

“Always, for you.”



Author’s Note: This is a work of prose poetry, and was actually published in the Deakin University Magazine Wordly‘s sub-edition ‘Haunted’. As you might assume, I’m quite proud, despite my own issues with this piece.

On another note, Happy birthday to my beautiful best friend Rae, who is turning 21 today!! Thank you for always supporting me and my writing. I love you, have an amazing day!!

One thought on “Asphodel

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