Inner monologue

[magnus knight]

I hear it all the time, day or night it?s a symphony of odd noises. Stretching and twisting sounds of the tiniest strings being pulled tight. Pressure mounting with each and every exhalation. The temperature in the room begins to rise, degree by degree the comfort level diminishes as the discourse of polite conversation seems to be drowned out by the attempts to muffle the moans of shock and awe. Is it too late for them? Is it too late for us?

Eyes dart about the room as the first signs begin to show, symptoms if you will of the approaching ruin. What once covered the tops of footwear does no longer. Creeping up I see what was not meant to be seen, bare, sock clad, nylon clad, glimpses of toned perfection pulsing.

The fashion below whether pump, sneaker, boot (heeled or not), is bulging and being deformed by the biting pressure inside. Straps and laces, buckles of gold all bend to the will of expansion. Canvas stretches, zips descend, leather goes from pointed tip to round. Five is the number of tiny indents on each one.

I hear the heavy breaths as chests heave outward, fabric or buttons, or both are straining to contain. Creaking. Creaking of clasps echoes as they dig in hard to contain the mounds of perfection that caress themselves in their satin prisons longing for a release. Buttons show gaps, two points poke harshly outward as if mocking me. Symbols and letters both front and back distort on the fabric, cotton not meant to hold such a burden.

Denim rises higher, hips hug tighter as the process continues. Flowing fabric that reaches the knees or lower climbs and tightens. Rounded firm seats plump up with tightness and shape that is so beautiful it cannot be described. Bellies tighten and zippers and buttons shake trembling at the power inside that shifts and slides teasing the ones for who no room will soon be able to contain.

Faces become flush, brows furrow as they moisten with human dew. Hair goes from its purposefully maintained shape to one of distress, strands seeking to embrace entropy itself. Eyes look not at but through the world and focus on the turmoil and chaos within; trying to comprehend that which has no reason.

Every cell, every fiber, all their being cries out just one thought. GROW.

I am alone, surrounded by emerging goddesses for which I know not what fate they will choose for me.


_M.

"Will you won't you, will you won't you, grow and join the dance?"


Not a story, and not complete. Just what you could say are my random thoughts as I begin to daydream what I will write next. Comments? Perchance you care to chat.