LURE OF THE DRAGON LADY (c) Carrie Devorah :

7 Feb

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LURE OF THE DRAGON LADY (c) Carrie Devorah :

Anagrams happen.

So do myths. So do….. dragons. So do dragons leathered in blacks of heart.

So do illusions. As it turned out, it was nothing more than that. Bitch. An elegant one. Or so it seemed until the Dragon Lady sat before the Tribunal of her peers. Her leather? Gone. Her hair askew as if to suggest the night prior was filled with debauchery and lawlessness. The perfection of her cream white skin was replaced with puffery. The red of her dress could not cover the black of her heart.

Beauty they say beauty is skin deep. It is. Evil eats away at perfection from the inside out.

The Dragon Lady’s victim watched as illusion was chipped away one lie at a time. Tribunals answer to their Lord, Greed, Master over his own fiefdom with disdain for the very people the Dragon Lady plucks life from.

She is one of theirs.

Even before the Dragon Lady entered the Tribunal’s court, she was victor. She knew that. They knew that. The flaunting of her sagged aging breasts was, well, unnecessary other than for to tease the Tribunal, aged men fearing death. Angered at life they cannot control, the Tribunal take wrath out on victims unsuspecting of the Dragon Lady’s stealth. She leaned in, knowing what she chose to believe were supple breasts of her youth long gone, were still a tease to the Tribunals. Sly, she watched as the Chairman looked then away looked then away looked then cleared his throat. The Dragon Lady knew, as middle aged as her teats were, the Tribunal coveted them. Tragic when old whores play tart.

It was a display of sloth.

The Dragon Lady’s victim sat. In the first instant, she knew all was lost. The next four days were to be nothing more than charade, a performance of protocol.

Another day. Another victim deceit lured to the lair of the Dragon Lady.

It was night.

It was dawn.

It was mourning.

She stood at the edge. Blackness swirled below. It was in the hands of the Gods. Eyes closed her face turned upwards. Thoughts gone. There were no goodbyes. There was no one. The warriors she had turned to in the past themselves turned out to be false gods. She knew they knew she was a force. Once they tasted of her honey, they were gone on to lower vibrations that made them feel to be the men they knew inside they weren’t. Her potency scared them. It did not scare her. She did not see it until now that is. Looking in to the mirror the girl inside did not recognize the elder woman looking back, sad eyes not quite soulless. There had been nothing more to lose. She knew that in sending out winged messages of hope disguised as cries for help, without tears, without pain, without words. Boxed.

She was worn.

Embracing the spirit of warriors before, the women, she cloaked her innocence. And stood. Her insides calling up the Great Ones for guidance, there, on the edge. The warriors before her were faceless, nameless, breathless. Long gone. But their history wrote the path that pulled her to the edge. She had no lasting memories of how she arrived here. None.

Sweet peace, she stepped off. Free falling, all was gone.

Silence. The pure coolness of wind against her face was delicious. In this moment. In others, it stung as whipping as the wind in a tempest. Eyes tight. Chin tilted up. The flame of her hair whipped and tossed. Letting go, letting God, she felt the distance between her and the sworling darkness magnify. Off the edge, granted her greatness she never knew her of before.

The lure of the Dragon Lady was the mother’s milk of evil- desperation in a time of need. She was not in the Dragon Lady’s lair by accident. It was be design. She learned this after, much much after. Once upon a time their world was a world of blessing where things were what they appeared to be. That was gone. Each day was a battle unseen until it was too late. Others had come to the edge, plummeting in to the darkness below. How it was that she soared, she had no answer. That said, she never had answers just inimitable survival engrained. In her heart rung hollow words she lifted others with telling them ‘let the decision make itself. Decisions that make themselves, from your inside of heart, not from the head, are the decisions that make the moving forward, afterward, easier…’ These words worked for her in moving forward after the murder of her brother.

That is why she soared. She was in peace. The others hearts were heavy with regret even hate. They plummeted. The Angels would come. She knew. She looked left. She looked right. She was not alone. She was carried. Blue Angels lifted her higher. A smile began to cross her face. The grip tightening her eyes loosened as the sky she transversed lightened. From darkness to light. The Gods beckoned.

She did not recognize the sound she was hearing. It was coming from insider of her. It was laughter. The absence of joy had been that long. Like crystal bells being rung.

8 weeks she was told to embrace with patience had begun. 8 weeks. She soared. The beginning of the end was begun.

She had drifted with difficulty away from temptations. Joba was a deacon of the Tribunal. She had shaken her sensibilities seeing the image of his spawn standing, father’s message in hand. The child was thin. Tall. Sullen. She could only guess it was Joba’s journeys that left a child without a childhood. She understood why Joba saw no culpability in her journey to the edge. She was not his child. She was grown and she could not comprehend. How could a child understand there are those who live off pieces of hate and pieces of love but never the whole pie in one place.

As she rose buoyed by the winds, the tethers that tied her felt unleashed. She knew her journey. She knew her path. She knew for the first time that being led throughout her life had been into a maze beset with challenges, though she survived, barely. Her devotion to her man cubs was cut. For the first time, she was she. She knew her journey. From inside.

She felt the quiet. She knew there was motion. It, everything, was a leap of faith the steps taken set a ball in motion that would reach the Dragon Lady. In time. There is something to be said for silence, for moving beneath the height of the grass in the meadows below. Stealth. It trumps avarice. It trumps fraud.

It made no sense
It made no sense how the forces pulled her to doors in to portals
where she had not known before but that said as she entered things
happened. Others called it magic. Some said it was her way, a child
chosen. For what escaped her, her days were always dark w adventure she did not want. It found her.

It came to her. She was the star child the last of a miracle and her challenger was Pythia self professed priestess, she declared, who held court with the Oracles at Temple of Apollo at Delphi. Pythia took the name comes from Python, the dragon was slain by Apollo.

Pythia declared self to be the channel for Apollo’s will to those on earth, taking the question and sacrifice believers would make to the male priest then taken by Pythia, astride her bronze triped in the inner chamber of Apollo’s Temple. Pythia’s word that in the adytum, she was overcome in to her trance, imbued with the spirit of Apollo, was believed by those needing prophecy to inspire. Some Pythia’s trance was from chewing laurel leaves or from vapors rising from below Apollo’s Temple. Or not real at all but intended to decieve believers in to parting with their treasure. Pythia craved treasure. Others. Believers were unsuspecting of the male priest. After all, how could a priest appointed by the Gods be anything less than a priest appointed by the Gods. If only they knew. False gods. False gods come wrapped in the skin of snakes as was the tripod Pythia sat upon, herself like a snake, charming, cold with ice waters running through her veins, unlike her challenger, true of heart, warm blood coursing throughout.

This battle was chosen. She, the young one, had not volunteered. Life, destiny, had conscripted her. Again, as before, her journey had been written in her future, before she was born. The writing had been stopped from her but what it said was real.Icon 8. In a world of water. Gold.

Reset. She was chosen. If you are one of us, she was told, there is not worry if you might fail. She could never fail. She kept tokens. Along the way, she captured parts of her enemies that were indefensable to deny. She did worry, if the question was who to believe, her or them, men whose promises seduced her to succumb into being their guilty pleasure, except for them, she learned they had no guilt. They did have their pleasure. Her. So she kept tokens- their voice, their scribd, bits of pieces that would rally to the world, these men were not Oracles as they alleged. They were men, weak to the flesh, liquid to hers. She knew. She was smart enough to know where sense ruled, it was the common part of it that pushed her forward. There was no going back to friends. They never were friends to begin with. They just…, well, were.

She was alone. She could admit it now. Words captured in the Cloud were her challenge. She did not falter. She knew she did not conform. She knew she was different. She knew how to pass, as a simple one, passing through town and village, seen but not noticed. She wasnt brave. She had never been. She gave everyone her fear. Her exact words were…. release. Breathe. One minute became 60 seconds. Six seconds, actually, if one paused then counted aloud.

There was no going back to friends that never were to begin with. Arms raised she culled in to death pulling her to soar, so high, so far.

It wasnt time. It was a holding. A treading. A place to sort. When they were ready, she would know. She would be pushed, pulled, resisting the dangers. It was a lifetime of lessons. She knew that without being told. It always had been a curve she learned on.

He appeared. A hologram from her past. He was dead until she woke their past together. It was never consumated. Something in her soul told her he was a weak one. Money did not make power. A man’s ability to stand alone as a woman is want to do makes power. Few men can and do, weak, they travel female to female, even believing the stories they conjure to lure a woman’s leggings to the floor are stories a woman has never heard before. What fed their hunger was greed, sometimes called, mistakenly-desire. If one survived the mistaken seduction of the Oracles, then as she had been allowed, they make it to the Orientation of the Onsets

She was marked. Since she was a child she knew she was different. She had no fear once the threshold would be crossed. She would become fearless. In doing so, she would be feared. In being feared, intention was to isolate then destroy her. She knew that was their secret, too.

It wasnt as if following orders was something she resisted. It wasnt something she understood, being silent. Humans were terrible. Too often they lacked defiance, leaving their name on a place and words like “she died otya.Letters

Everyday as a target, she stood on the edge of the cliff. Eyes closed, sweetly, peace filled in trust as the earth came up to greet her.

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