alistairmather

Apples

The apple was red.
The red of swollen lips after a stolen kiss. The red of flushed skin after a passionate embrace. The red of blood as it wells fresh from a cut.
The apple was that red.
Her skin was white.
The white of new snow on a crisp winter morn. The white of a dress on a blessed day of union. The white of a corpse laid out for all to see.
Her skin was that white.
Her hair was black.
The black of coal, dark and glossy. The black of night when the moon is new and the stars hide. The black of the shadows that cling to the inside of tombs.
Her hair was that black.
Her lips were red.
The red of a ruby flashing in noon light. The red of a flame dancing over heated coals. The red of blood as it wells fresh from a cut.
Her lips were that red.
The red of an apple.
The apple rested gently, oh so gently, in her soft white hands, The apple was the apotheosis of all apples. The kind of apple that makes one think of golden autumn harvests and cool autumn nights. The kind of apple that a man would sell paradise for.
She raises the apple to her lips, lips whose color is nearly indistinguishable from the color of an apple. Flesh brushes flesh in a caress more gentle then a lovers touch. The smallest of bites, the barest press of teeth, and then she consummates the act with a flex of muscles.
It is done, just like that.
The apples sweet juice, laced with venom and bile, runs slowly, stickily down an alabaster chin. She lies in a pool of her midnight hair. Rests calmly in the cool embrace of eternal slumber. Her lips, lips the red of blood, lips the red of an apple, seem darker against skin that has grown even more pale.
Her companions, her worshippers, find her thus.
Small creatures, bent and misshapen, seeming ever more ugly in the presence of one whose beauty death has only enhanced, shy from her cold touch. They construct a shrine, an altar, about her reposing form. A shrine of crystal and glass. A shrine to allow the light to touch and dance over her icy form. Light to play across the colors of eternal beauty. The colors of death.
White.
Black.
Red.
And so she rests.
Till one day a stranger comes. A stranger who has journeyed far seeking beauty. A beauty that eludes him. A beauty he finally finds trapped beneath glass.
His warm breath fogs the crystal shrine, marring its perfection. He stares rapt at the beauty he has sought so long. Beauty whose colors are white and black and red.
He shatters the shrine, glass and crystal prisming the air about them as they scatter and fall. He approaches deaths maiden with a conquerers stride. He lays claim to the beauty he has so long sought.
His warm seed splashes on marble flesh, marring its perfection. He lies panting next to his stolen bride. A bride whos breath quickens even with his. A bride whose beauty is no longer the white and black and red.
And he takes her away.

The apple was red.
The red of swollen lips after a stolen kiss. The red of flushed skin after a passionate embrace. The red of blood as it wells fresh from a cut.
The apple was that red.
Her skin was pink.
The pink of an iris petal beaded with dew. The pink of child, fresh scrubbed and bubbling with life. The pink of a serpents tongue flickering between dripping fangs.
Her skin was that pink.
Her hair was silver.
The silver of water beneath a swollen moon. The silver of clouds after a cool summer rain. The silver of a blade flashing on the battle field.
Her hair was that silver.
Her lips were red.
The red of a ruby flashing in noon light. The red of a flame dancing over heated coals. The red of blood as it wells fresh from a cut.
Her lips were that red.
The red of an apple.
The apple sits alone on a sill of hard stone. It watches with her over the silent fields of the dead. Watches the corpse lights flicker and dance among the granite plinths. Watches as her handsome traveler prowls restlessly through mausoleums and crypts, forever murmuring to himself.
Too warm. Shes too warm now.
She raises the apple in callused pink hands. Her hardened flesh bruises its soft skin. She riases it to lips that are still red, though now surrounded by fine lines, and brushes it with the most gentle of caresses. The type of caress she no longer recieves. She places it on a lone white dish laid out upon a cloth of black.
White.
Black.
Red.
The colors of beauty.
The colors of death.