Under the Boardwalk
Nekez "Belahan" Ikeslea
Present with No GiftSuncrest. It’s more pink than yesterday’s. Vibrant and inviting for the crowds of families’ lingering hold of one last summer shriek of joy and seemingly endless smiles of tender souls, followed by the wasted bones and pockets of their procreators.
Quarter in – parchment out, “Your dreams are reachable if you believe enough.” Quarter in – parchment out, “Today is fortuitous in your chances of success.” Quarter in – parchment out, “If it seems fates are against you, they probably are.”
Observing these foolhardy fleshies has become more beguiling than I had primitively conceptualized. The piddling soft meats are strong-willed and dictatorial – though all verbose, taking after their weightier custodians and wet nurses.
Quarter in – parchment out, “Achieving greatness will come once you take a leaping chance.” Quarter in – parchment out, “Don’t walk. Skip!” Quarter in – parchment out, “Be wary of your surroundings and those falsely in your most inner circle.”
Simpletons at best, I am mesmerized by their cretinous choices of actions and reactions. Why here? For the same intestinal fortitude that blindly wrenched me moon after moon after senseless moon until I arrived on board here? No, they feel nothing. Their awareness is as limited as wet and flattened down feathers.
Dawning DarknessWhen sounds created by the unearthly ice of the voice spoke, “Nekez Ikaslea,” I knew the beckon was for me. Once, after Rituals, my mortality bruised, but epitome still relishing in sinful ecstasy, the voice spoke delicately, yet tactful, in a nature mismatched ever in the past or ever in the future. The vibrations of the whisper still chill through and around me, “Nire Arima Sakrifikatuko.”
Repetitious beats of strained concentration would leave me drained, unsure if forward movement was beneath me or right through me. Hours, sometimes days, of tempting his force to see light in me as well, to see the vessel already promised from birth. When satisfaction was not cultivated from my beseeching entreaty of dejected howls, he angered. It was at these times Rituals were longer, less mischievously gamesome. His focus was tightly wound and ensured I was could only clasp onto consciousness for moments at a time as he prepared his beloved vessel to receive the seeded toxicant that would soon devour me inside out, hours after I lay on the comfort of my stones in the appointed bastille. This time, for punishment.