These are some random little vignettes that I did, personifying bits of nature. These took my purpley prose and pushed it to the limit.
Earth
The earth cried for her sons and daughters. Their bodies returned to her, one by one, as the young and old fell equally to death’s grasp. Verdant fields cried out against the watercolor paintings of blood upon the sharpened blades of knives as well as grass. The world was wide and wounded and each crashing of the waves brought forth a fresh and almost sacred slash of pain. Her heartbeat, rugged and stony at her core, began to shake the ground. She must stop the rampant murder of her offspring, the useless bodies lying meaningless against her skin as they had at birth. She must end them all and staunch the bleeding evil that poured from the souls of her lost children. Alone she cried, and alone she knew what she must do.
The clouds broke. It would end.
Ocean
Twilit and aching, the ocean held her breath and sank within herself. The waves ceased to leap at their land-bound lovers and whispered amongst themselves, the gossip weaving itself around the many contours of their one body. Slowly, naturally, their chatter calmed and the glass-smooth surface of their peace slept quietly, shining as a ribbon of silk beneath the moon.
O! Luna! the depths begged towards the sky, even as she retreated into herself. The glittering orb only smiled down, as if deaf to the lovesick cries of the waters. Empty even in her role as home, as mother to the multitudes, she rebukes herself for her silly shows of love. She has no hearts; at her core is only the glinting residue of her dead children and the ancient canvas which she was built upon. She is a dead thing, moving only with the call of her beloved.
She rests now, when she may, her paramour turned away in ignorance of her anguish. She sleeps, depressed, alone. Her lover would never turn eyes upon her again.
But oh! That dreaded, beautiful face returnes, grimacing down with a siren’s call. And against her boundaries she crashes, suicidal. She breaks over and again, screaming her displeasure and disappointment. Her tears are thrown skyward, ancient mists of death and melancholy. In her rage, her children at their lovers, rough and tumble rows.
Yet each time, she gives in. Each time she is secretly ecstatic at the return of her idol’s attentions. She will eternally worship the silver in the sky, that ethereal pull. She is bound.
