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Category: Writing and Poetry

my writing :0

ewwwww this is kinda shit whatever.. it's also Not Finished i thought i would just wham it down here anyway 



He feels his anger before he understands it. His fury that this — the creation — is a bloodbath. No serenity. No Eden. Only screams, as Adam watches the bone wrenched from his ribcage, snapped sharp from his skeleton like kindling from a burning tree. He is a forest fire: the flames lick up past his collarbones as ichor pours from the cavity which creation has left. They will not detail this horror when they write the story down. 


The bloodied flesh of Adam lies, unmoving, on the ground. The prophets will call this beautiful. He can still taste the blood between his teeth. 


Bone of my bones. Woman. The way her body arcs in the new sunlight is almost glorious enough for him to forget the fact of his missing rib — that she has been made from him. That all her daughters will carry the shame of being created from something halved. She is all softness, and flowing curves — and he resents her. Resents the hole in his side. Resents how lovely it is when she smiles, because she does not understand.


Except there is no room for hatred in the garden of Eden. No room for anything except two creatures, hand in hand, etched further deep into each other than either is capable of understanding. Weighed almost to a breaking point with the sheer force of this guilt, Adam buries it. Fashions it into this tiny seed, forces it deep into the coolness of the disturbed soil. And who is he to panic when a sapling starts to sprout there? Who is he to comment when the darkness emerges, gnarled and rotten, from the earth?




The voice in the air around them is quick to explain the sapling: tree of knowledge. Fruit. Forbidden. The words are as new to her as they are inviting, and she finds herself settling deep into the salaciousness of a word like forbidden before she even truly understands it. She steals away from Adam when the sun sinks from the sky that night, footsteps whispered against the new grass, and watches it. Watches the leaves as they curl up into the moonlight. Watches the roots as they writhe, serpentine, through the soil. 


The world is still new to her, and she presses her hands deep into the dirt as if discovering exactly what it is to be aware. It’s damp, washed cold by the nightfall, and she shivers at the feeling. Dew on the grass. Lights in the sky. So much to be seen, and felt, and talked about. Except she does not tell Adam — and she does not know why. 


He lies asleep throughout, unmoving, and when she steals back into their home at night she tries not to wonder whether he is still breathing. Whether she would stir if he wasn’t. The tree grows — keeps growing,keeps curling further up into the air with each passing day — and Eve is left to wonder, in these silent moments, whether being created for the role of second place was ever supposed to come without its consequences. A mere vessel. Something inferior. To be born woman is to be born enslaved.


On its first birthday, the tree bursts with the promise of ripe fruit. Some has fallen from that lustrous foliage already, and Eve watches from a distance as the ants begin to devour it from within: they flesh its syrup out, unthinking. Driven almost to madness by the saccharine sweetness which seeps into the open ground. 


This time, when the voice in the air warns her of this danger, its noise is quieter. Softer around the edges, slinking between each vowel like a serpent through damp reeds. She glances across the way at Adam, tilling soil, that scar across his ribs pulsing with each laboured breath. She thinks of the anger. His anger. Thinks of the way he scowls at her, with that calloused hand splayed wide across the chasm in his chest. Thinks: be strong. Do not back away from this. How could this have happened any other way?


This time, when the voice in the air murmurs that word — forbidden — Eve lets it devour her. Her aching fingers close firm around the soft skin of the fruit: here, for the first time in this garden, is something made for her. It comes away from the branch with a soft snap, a rustling of leaves, some distant murmuration as natural order resets itself. (The clouds in the sky look no different. The outlying hills are unchanged.) 

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