Water cascades from the convergence point of the two lids, at the cusp, where the milky white of the sclera turns red and fleshy. The bottom lid puckers slightly, so to allow the liquid to flow in quicker succession. Where the cheekbone protrudes, the drops fall from the face and carelessly into the bowl below, each trickle making a dot in the cream and exposing the corpulent red of the strawberries beneath. The body’s water fuses with the cream, and dilutes it until the consistency wanes. But it does not matter, for her appetite is gone, and her menial portion teases voluptuousness. The stream ebbs now, blotted by a damp and crumpled tissue, which is subsequently tossed aside, to a pile of similar endeavors.
The man stares upward to the ceiling of his room, his fulfilled desire had transpired to sickness; a momentary slip through the fabric of sanity, his senses, for a minute, a separate entity. But they had came together again now, and the realisation tormented him, for he had forced the soul of another unto his, and had stained the inner walls of its cavity. He got up and opened a whiskey bottle, and drank until it dribbled from his mouth. The alcohol deluged him, and cleansed his defiled innards. He continued to drink until the bottle was finished, and not long after did it fall, from the released tension of his fingers.
by Marcus Bechelli
What were your prompts?: Waterfall, Strawberry