So this isn't the most clearly-written storyline ever. If you know my writing, it shouldn’t seem too weird — if you don’t, well, um. XD; I don’t know. But if you read between the weird lines, you’ll find a lot of environmentalist themes and such! 8D;

And this is HEAVILY Francesca Lia Block inspired. Not the story, just the style and the way she brings across her imagery. In Witch Baby, mostly.

One of the quotes is from said story. “What time are we upon, and where do I belong?”

Also... it’s for one of many livejournal challenges, which I always forget to mention in these notes! The theme is ‘elements’ and my claim is for this one is a group claim of the kids on the Destiny Islands. Which means I’ll have to write some SelphieTidusWakkaness soon. XD;

Anyway, anyway — enjoy.

—

the tension and the spark.

—

1. — no clockwork, just wings.

They are young and impressionable and bold. They are fearless like they’ll never be again. They lie with toes touching water and hands just barely meeting, side by side. Three, four, five, how do you count your age? By clocks, strokes, steps?

He says to him to her, what are we?

Today they are ageless. Today they are fearless. Today they are: air and earth and water hand in hand and nothing will stop them, the tide, tornados, tremors. That’s what they are. This is the time they’re upon and where they belong.

Ageless, fearless, love.

—

2. — sky-cast eyes

He’s eight years old and he’s still all sky but he’s learning to swim through the oceans, to run on the beach. It’s magic, you know, how your feet never sink in. Magic, magic, magic.

He says to her to him, he asks, what are we?

They’re not so ageless, but they are almost infinite.

And they’re flying kites that fight against the sky; they’re sucking down melted, coloured ice and spooning in the cream. Their cavern halls are full now, full on the surface, so they fill it with more. Fill it with their songs their stories their spoken words. It’s more than drawings, you know; it’s all art. That’s why they still call it a secret. They’re the only ones who’ll ever hear the echoes. Sing, scream, scribble.

He asks, what time is it?

It’s time to play.

It’s always time to play. It’s always playtime, in their land of sunsets, footsteps, coconuts, seagulls, sea salt, waterfalls, star fruits, shorelines, treehouses, bridges, swords, islands, leaves, fruits, nuts, mushrooms, berries, sweet rice, crushed ice, shoes to run in, rainbow-painted seashore houses to dream in and empty tree-circles on empty play islands, to scream in. It’s always daytime and always playtime and always, there will always be a sunset.

And there is no time to ask the right questions.

What will we be when night finally falls?

What time will it be when the sun sets its last?

—

3. — seabreeze swell.

She’s thirteen and it feels so good to be alive — feels like love and sand grains against the pounding drum ocean that is her heart. She’d like to pound the feeling against the old bones of percussion, strum the songbird notions by a tape recorder microphone. But brave girls don’t whisper their secrets into pages and wait for the wind to carry the future on over. Brave girls don’t let it out the other way, say it so clearly in pictures but fumble for words. Brave girls use the word love with a straight face.

So maybe she’s not so brave a girl.

So maybe there are better things than bravery. Low tides and laughing and the sunlight in his eyes.

But there’s no dancing, not anymore. No giddy shrieks to break the forest’s peace. No new secrets to echo, and the old ones are dying.

They are three and they think it’s all they need.

They think, everyone grows up. This is no more heaven than your backyard. This is our backyard. Everything gets fenced in someday.

They think, how can an island, soil and seas and streams on wind; how can an island have feelings?

So when he says it to him to her and mostly himself, he barely remembers why he says it. He says it like its his job and maybe it’s raining but he doesn’t see that part of it. We only paint the pictures we think we’d like to see. He screams over wind and rain and oceans wild and far off rumbles from the far off fading island’s edge, he screams it over the torrents because it’s so tight in his memory he thinks it might break if he doesn’t, WHAT ARE WE? WHAT TIME ARE WE UPON? AND WHERE DO WE BELONG?

He has answers in the thrashing world around him and the chaotic scream of we don’t know, we don’t know. And the words are always louder. And all around him, the storm swells. And all around him, all around, the grains of sand are pounding heartbeats that almost want to stop but don’t, but it’s all because they know. They know how well the sea and the breeze go together, when the wind blows tides back and the soil is left so damp.

—

4. — subterranean.

The world is so beautiful under the sun.

He thinks, boy in the sand, maybe we should live underground.

Their shelter from the storm is the big island, the island that might as well be its own country, so why is it part of the cluster? Who knows. The play island with its swaying leaves and star fruit scenes knows that the biggest island is the biggest fake and they should leave it behind. Like how once upon a time, they’d fall asleep on the beach and it would be alright, because nothing by the shore in the air underground would ever hurt its children’s hearts.

But they are not children anymore.

The next daylight plummets. They’re in the shack now because the sky is too bright and the air shines like death, smells like blood, and ever notice how you’re never so sensitive to the good things? It’s always tragedy in the air. Once upon a time they were the island’s triad soul, only now they’ve forgotten the island and in turn forgotten themselves. And maybe the island forgot them too, but most likely they’re being ignored for what they are. Islands are so old, they’ve forgotten how to forget.

And children so young grow so fast. One minute they leave nothing but footprints on the beach, piles of sand palace fancies. You blink, and there they are, baggage, baggage, baggage, who needs to pick up the debris.

But you can’t ever grow too, too far from who you always were. They want to fly so far up, feel the skyline in their guts. He’d like to scrape the center of the earth, but nowadays, it’s all underground cities. It doesn’t rain, you know, underground. And she, she’d like to swim to the bottom of the sea.

And once upon a time it was so real.

And once upon a time you could see the outlines of wings, sharp edges, aglow in their eyes.

He says it like a played out song in the sky, what are we?

“We’re only human.”

He whispers it like ghosts through the stone, what time are we upon?

“We only have this moment.”

She asks it like all the poisoned reefs and oil spills in your veins, where do we belong?

“Wherever we set our feet.”

Like failing a test.

—

5. — abracadabracadaver.

This is the thing about children: you never want to hurt them.

see them there in the deadwood carving? surrounded by bark reapers, don’t they know? do they think it’s safer? sand underfoot, still, sky and wind through the cracks. they are my soul and my blood and my eyes, not just children. they’re mine to take. they’re mine to take back.

Only human?

he let out the hurricane.

Wherever?

she let the tides go wild.

WE ONLY HAVE THIS MOMENT?

the ground is always moving with you, but yours were the worst of words, did you know?

you let in the fire.

—

death? death is screams. death is songs with no chorus and eyes with no soul and it's not like you can fall asleep from it, no. death is over over over again again again and it pulls at your sea legs, sky eyes, stone heart with the hands you've given it. and some children, the bright tunnel sings them to sleep. and some children, they come back with blank eyes. and some children keep lying. they keep denying the rocks, trees, clouds, voices, whispers, wings. any real child would tell you the truth. and that is why the smoke came roaring. and that is why the sky went black.

—

0 — life as you’d know it.

They are young and impressionable and bold.

They are fearless like they’ll never be again.

They lie with toes touching water and hands just barely meeting, side by side.

Three, four, five, and perfect.

Three, four, five, smile and hold that.

Hold still.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

Perfect.

The lights flashing violence.

The eyes flashing back.

And you’ve gone up in flames, you know, gone up in flames. And we watched all the while, eyes open wide.