A Sliver of a Silver Heart
By Kosative D.

Alas! The trenches reaped the glory! For deep in the cavern I loomed. Deep in the cavern I searched for what seemed so long, so distant. Where time itself had set up tea for a brunch off the cliffs of Glen Car—deep in the rocky highlands, where even the air comes to die, I dwelled.

Wandering in circles and circles—trifectas even formed, the dust would whisper secrets to the maddening obsession I searched for—yearned for! The ancient lamp of legends. Captive in its borders, The Genie: Rinksle.

- - -

An old tale from my father bore the cuff of a sinister aura. This meant the legend was dark and not to be investigated. He told me: let the wisp stay silent in its grave. He warned me of its malice—its rancor, mystically woven into its metallic frame; nothing more.

He taught me in my youth that I had a heart of silver, a rarity—bendable and shiny, courage enraged in its curiosity. Peculiarly malleable like clay, I could conjure great wisdom and power in my life, if only I were to follow the paths he’d laid for me.

I ignored his wishes of course; for when he died, a solace bore me ripe. I could barely trench through those sorrows, but yielded I would seek this legend for a wish.

And so, deep where the sands grew dimming and whipping, I searched and found that rested lamp. It had been buried in a corridor where gemstones twinkled to distract from the prize.

The gold, the gold—it’d make a youth boy old. But still I wandered and found that sacred spot, where the twisted dirt flowed deep and dusk into the earth.

The sand around it wisped as it was un-shoveled, yelling my name to the stale air.

It was black as coal with a large, deep-plum amethyst on its side. It sparkled at me, purposefully, just as a person would wink! I knew it called for me, it loved me, it needed me! It would grant my every wish!

With excitement barren, I stretched my long legs to escape the cave! The cave! The gemstone grave.

- - -

The lumens spliced the pupils—it had been but ages I’d crept the coves. Jittering, flittering, I’d aroused myself in a somewhat unhealthy manner.

I ran through the forest with haste, lamp embedded in my arm. Whistling through the trees I’d thought I’d heard a cry perhaps—the ethereal ambiance took hold as I rushed past the forest I’d been led to from my fathers journals.

The streets weren’t the same. I wasn’t the same. I hailed a taxi to my dungeon manor, where no one would toil with my spoils.

- - -

No one wandered my halls for what seemed millennia, for the shadows echoed with decay. Even the carpets began to fray; stagnant as a well. Chandeliers still in their frozen state—cobwebs trickling the corners.

I placed the lamp on a glass plate table—it absorbed the glasses frailty and broke it! I gasped for a moment, but quickly after, laughed a hideous roar. Its power was enticing—for its heave was not what broke the glass. It was the suction of energy itself.

There I sat, on a pristine couch. I could wish for the heavens and earths to be moved from my genie. My genie!


Laughter so deep, it’d gut a fish. I could sail the seas as king of the lands. Endless riches, gorged in power, lust of glory and pristine oasis etched in the palm of hands! Oh my imagination went wild in wonder as I stared the amethyst eye to its core, pulsating at me with stinted sore.

And so, I went and fetched a handkerchief from the boudoir in my room. It still lay in the broken shards, pulsating its shimmering madness.

I picked it up and rubbed the handkerchief ever so, on its gallant side.


A frequency pierced the air—crisp as ice, the sound erupted the senses. It made my brain transfuse—to lose its equilibrium. It detonated in waves...hypnotic slicing’s to pierce each lobe. It left me in a fog—shifting the colours I perceived in my eyesight.

The steam, the steam! Was this all a dream? For out from the spout of the lamp spewed clouds as thick as clay. Coasting the seams of the ethereal arena, the Genie jiggled loose from his canon.

The smog was black—as was the phantom form he took. Yellow eyes—those yellow eyes! Glorious tidings with icy ties. They blew through the rafters of the ceil—a light so strong it could peel the skin off an orange.

He swiveled himself around my torso, tightening me with his weightless grasp. Giggling a deep bellow—his laughter shook my chandelier crystals rampant.

I could feel the plasmatic emptiness—as a wave of dew evaporating in the dawning hour.

The winds of the angels flew through my home, shattering glasses, and vases to moan—shrouding the languid veneers! Cleansing the air with tears! Or perhaps it were the mistral whirl of a demon—no way to know for sure.

You releasssssed me. The great and powerful Rinksle.

He slithered from his Genie-cut tongue.

For too long had I been hiding in shade of sorrow and woe. Too long had my father’s shadow shown nothing but melancholia onto my soul—that hole, as deep as holes go.

Too long had the shadows cast their deadly poison onto my depressive psyche. How long it’d been since I touched my father’s palm; to hear his raspy vocals tell me tales of yonder ages, to see his swiveled beard and smell his musky scent.

The genies face wafted just below my earlobe. He was hanging upside down in the smoky mess. Grinning, he spoke:

You’re cranium smells of a different meat. A rare foul bird, you’d tassssssste. Heeeheehee!

At that he swiveled up and blasted a bomb of smoke that encased the entire room. I was a bit frightened but knew I owned him.

“Set forth Genie. Enough giggly games, I want my wish” I said.

Oooooh, so bold. Well then...

His yellow eyes glowed brighter then before. They shattered the mist in amongst the floor, just as well as his humongous neon-white grin did.

What be your wish?

“Bring back my father from the grave.”

The floors quaked as his laughter grew. It grew and it grew till it burst the mirrors and glasses in earshot. It rumbled the twilight deep to its core! A mess the night in contrast wore.

A glowing green circle appeared before me. In amongst the laughter rose a corpse. My father! It was he!

- - -

The twinkle of his eyes gave shimmer—they were silver; quite a different shade than previously worn.

He glared at me in a moan, eyes tormenting me from within as the genie-cackle roared. The smoke flooded deep—to the gut, to the soul. My father formulated from the ashes, formulating in sunken misfortune.

The genie disappeared slowly as my father just dripped in silence; silver eyes drooling whispers from his sockets, screams among the flames.

- - -

Then, something happened I did not expect.

I reached forth to hold his hand—the skin felt tripe as leather. Necromance ashing from his epidermal dress, the digits began to crumble from the mere touch my fingers gave shocking—mocking my every command.

His mouth widened large as his silver eyes began to shine more harshly; flashlights to the still smoky Eden.

The beams, the beams! Kismet stitched seams. Waking lucid, tight beneath the cold harsh dreams.

The sight, the sight! My father drained bright. Whistling silver passing’s to the world held tight.

I wept you see, to see my father cracking, beginning to fall as dust to the floor.

He grinned wide as his skin ripped with glee. Straight from his forehead down the middle of his torso—the fleshy fabric releasing its secrets to the flame!

Out from the sheath came a harpy! Its large breasts wiggled in the wind; silver eyes piercing each veil that laid.

The feathers wept, drenched in a blackened glaze. She screeched—the harpy birthed from my fathers figure, long gone to the blaze. A piece of cloth struck to the wind—a cloak of fleshy lies.

She stood to grace the trenches, the genie now back, huddling the ceil just watching, looming, laughing, taunting.

I just stared at all that was left of my glorious wish. She screeched, causing my eardrums to burst—a pain far harsher then I’ve ever felt before; yet seemed simply drowned out from my sorrows.

She pounced! Landing precisely on top of me, wings flapping creating a whirlwind to my aching soul.

Her claws dug deep to pierce my chest bone—and pierced it did. For I faded from this world, sound and glory pierced to echo the halls of eternity forever.

Yet with her claws she dug up the prize! My silver heart, throbbing with lies. It dripped and dripped of metallic fluids—silvery paint to wipe clean the slate of all sins and sorrows alike.

My mouth had a smile etched on its motionless palate.

For the harpy took one slice and gulped it with glee—screeching her philosophies to the wind with enough silver to last millennia—wordless emptiness dripping from her tongue, truth softly engulfing her soul.                   

- - -
I write under the pseudonym Kosative D. Noetic power struck me at a young age, and since then, ink has replaced my blood. I love creating stories of madness and troubles and I try to be as poetic as possible in the midst—horrific strife in beautiful waves of elegance.
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