Feeling Blythe (No photoshop or AI)
Persephone
Therese sits alone. The Mediterranean winds snake around her. Strands of her hair are lifted upon their fingers and gently tousled,warm and soft, like the breath of a lover dancing over her bared shoulders. Sun kissed. She sinks into her chair, slips off her shoes and closes her eyes, the azure Agean sea replaced with the sunrise glow of her closed lids.
The waiter's voice rouses her from this private quietude, presenting her with a herbaceous glass of lavender and bay, rich and ripe. She sips her ambrosia awaiting her meal. In such a place as this, time slips away like pearls on a rosary. Minutes elongate into millennia. Empires could rise and fall in the blink of an eye.
At last, a plate is delivered. She smiles. Beads of jewelled garnets sprinkled in a malachite salad, glistening in their leafy bed as they titillate upon soft pillowy pearls of feta. And yet these gleaming, sweet stabs of pleasure denoted a betrayal. A binding. The seed of Hades – a gift to Persephone. A curse. Her curse. Whispers of the dark things, hiding in the depths of the underworld. Drops of blood, that cleave her to the night, to the winter, to the depths. A woman's lot. Like Eve or Lilith. Red for the feminine innocence deflowered. For wickedness. Temptation. And yet these seeds, a trick. Such miniscule bursts of innocent pleasure, which adorn her plate. Almost too beautiful to consumed. Like femininity, itself. Like girlhood. Like womanhood. And yet.... and yet it is to be consumed. That is the point. She will admire them for a moment and then, like Persephone, she will scoop them up; a flash of silver, the bursting of ruby upon her tongue – yes, She will consume them without another thought. She will hand her money over, and consume. This is, after all, what we all do, isn't it? We gorge ourselves on a system that binds. That binds us all. And we yet still we, consume. And consume and consume.
Therese finishes her meal and leans back in her seat, wine-full and food-engorged, her gaze sliding back to the mesmerising Agean sea. Watching as it dips and swells, stirring a froth of mounting white-stallions upon its surface. She feels the fingers of the warm winds caressing her hair, and the glow of her skin as the sun leaves its rosy stain upon her. Ancient elements that have witnessed the rise and fall of empires in no more than a blink of an eye. She feels the call of the stoney earth beneath her soles and she feels … sated. Satisfied. At one with it all that has gone before and all that is yet to come. In awe of the cycles and the seasons and the existential undulations of humanity. She inhales deeply and is present. Just being.
Story: VLS
Persephone
Therese sits alone. The Mediterranean winds snake around her. Strands of her hair are lifted upon their fingers and gently tousled,warm and soft, like the breath of a lover dancing over her bared shoulders. Sun kissed. She sinks into her chair, slips off her shoes and closes her eyes, the azure Agean sea replaced with the sunrise glow of her closed lids.
The waiter's voice rouses her from this private quietude, presenting her with a herbaceous glass of lavender and bay, rich and ripe. She sips her ambrosia awaiting her meal. In such a place as this, time slips away like pearls on a rosary. Minutes elongate into millennia. Empires could rise and fall in the blink of an eye.
At last, a plate is delivered. She smiles. Beads of jewelled garnets sprinkled in a malachite salad, glistening in their leafy bed as they titillate upon soft pillowy pearls of feta. And yet these gleaming, sweet stabs of pleasure denoted a betrayal. A binding. The seed of Hades – a gift to Persephone. A curse. Her curse. Whispers of the dark things, hiding in the depths of the underworld. Drops of blood, that cleave her to the night, to the winter, to the depths. A woman's lot. Like Eve or Lilith. Red for the feminine innocence deflowered. For wickedness. Temptation. And yet these seeds, a trick. Such miniscule bursts of innocent pleasure, which adorn her plate. Almost too beautiful to consumed. Like femininity, itself. Like girlhood. Like womanhood. And yet.... and yet it is to be consumed. That is the point. She will admire them for a moment and then, like Persephone, she will scoop them up; a flash of silver, the bursting of ruby upon her tongue – yes, She will consume them without another thought. She will hand her money over, and consume. This is, after all, what we all do, isn't it? We gorge ourselves on a system that binds. That binds us all. And we yet still we, consume. And consume and consume.
Therese finishes her meal and leans back in her seat, wine-full and food-engorged, her gaze sliding back to the mesmerising Agean sea. Watching as it dips and swells, stirring a froth of mounting white-stallions upon its surface. She feels the fingers of the warm winds caressing her hair, and the glow of her skin as the sun leaves its rosy stain upon her. Ancient elements that have witnessed the rise and fall of empires in no more than a blink of an eye. She feels the call of the stoney earth beneath her soles and she feels … sated. Satisfied. At one with it all that has gone before and all that is yet to come. In awe of the cycles and the seasons and the existential undulations of humanity. She inhales deeply and is present. Just being.
Story: VLS