Madison Rye Progress

Her smile hid around every corner. It was kept in dusty boxes. It showed up in shadow and reflection in equal measure.

Her smile was there on May Then My Name's face, there during that monologue. That wild laughter. That glint in her eye that spoke to something either mischievous or as though it were covering some hidden ache, and she could never tell which. Her smile and her proud defiance in the heat of the lamps, as though daring the world to take her as anything other than her true self.

Her smile was there on her little Dot's face, when the light hit just right or the skunklet had just gotten the perfect idea for a painting. Her smile and that look of concentration, the way her brow furrowed when hunting down just the right sound or just the right brush.

And her smile was there on her own face, whenever she presented as a skunk. That sad smile that spoke of weariness and devotion both as Motes once more begged to sleep in bed with her. Her smile and that look of utter wounding, utter despair that had shown itself so rarely, and yet which had still shown itself. She knew it had graced her own face when first she realized that Beholden simply was not there. Not anymore.

Her smile hid around every corner, flying in her face like so much spider-silk in autumn, leaving its presence known in the faint tingle of afterimages.

Her smile was tucked away into dusty boxes, exocortices devoted to their years together, their centuries, mere afterimages to be brought up and held like wrinkled photos, remembered with new context.

Her smile was in her reflection in the mirror when she wakes up and it was there on the face of so many of her cocladists, an afterimage as they stood in the dark backstage, waiting for their cue.

Afterimages were all she had left, and so it was her job, her duty to Motes — who had not been the same since — and to the troupe — still reeling — to be their custodian. It was her role to cherish every one of these afterimages of a smile, to remember her for them.

A dream within a dream within a dream
and fell visions sidling up too close
both woo me. Sweet caramel and soft cream
sit cloying on their tongues, and I, Atropos
to such dreams as these, find shears on golden thread.

I would not cut, nor even could, had I but wished
to sever this golden thread — and every thread
is golden — and end a friend and send to mist
and sorrow ones so dear. Dead! Dead! She is dead
and gone, for her own shears were sharper still.

And so she cut, and so they watched, and so I watched
such love as this cease. I yearn to say that she returned
to me, became a part of me, but a tally notched
among the lost was all that stayed when life was spurned
by the call of death — supposedly ended.

So, she is gone and our lives are darker for it,
and now this world is where the shadows lie,
and all the light that still remains is forfeit,
and so much green still stabs towards the sky,
and the yellowed teeth of lions still snap at the air.

The kickstarter for the next Post-Self book, Idumea Is now live! Come help bring the project to life:

Over 200% funded! I am really excited to see this coming to fruition. I am quite proud of what I managed with this, even if editing is going to be a bear for parts.

Art by @voksa

(CW: Talk of death and grief, including that of a beloved pet, below the cut. Short version: Potential new image to be included in the book)

“…There is performed grief and performative grief — performative in the philosophical sense. We of the tenth stanza were quite sad when Lagrange came back with us intact but not with Should We Forget. We received condolences from many, some flowers and many kind words. Ever Dream came over and spoke with me about grief as we sat out on the field, where she said, “It is quite sad, is it not? To lose someone you have known for so long is quite sad.” I agreed, and then drew a line around the topic.” She performed such a motion now, describing an arc before her with one of her well kept claws, before dismissing it with a wave. “This was grief performed.”

I nodded, and in my heart, I think I knew what was coming next, for I found my muscles bunching up as in in preparation for something — flight, perhaps? I do not know, my friends.

“And Warmth In Fire came over, too, so that it could sit at our table and weep rather than eat. Ey wept, and then asked to retreat, and we guided her up to Should We Forget’s room so that they could lay in her bed for a while in silence. When it came back downstairs, ey thanked us kindly and left, and when we went back upstairs to look, there was a flower wrought out of some subtly glowing metal left on Should We Forget’s pillow. It lays there still.”

“I remember that day,” I said. “I will admit that I only met Should We Forget a handful of times, and always mediated through Warmth, so I do not have the context for that grief, other than the fact that ey was left in pain for some time after the restoration.”

“That was performative grief,” The Woman said. “That was grief that, through its expression, was made real. Warmth In Fire’s grieving allowed us to grieve as well. Ever Dream and all of those who sent us flowers performed a grief that was only intellectual. I appreciate them for that, but I love Warmth In Fire for what ey gave us.”

I was a bit torn on which to talk about, but decided to give the spotlight to the Idumea Kickstarter for the first few days of the month. It is exciting!

However, what is also exciting is that Motes Played is now out! This means you can now snag the paperback and ebook, as well as read for free in the browser.