The next update of LoSSS involves many layers of reality – Alvar in yet another room of Dr. Löndpeck’s house (
now that Apollo Jim is in the physician’s hands), scenes of WWI and of classical Greece –, that’s why it’s taking so long to shoot it, and then edit, and write it, and edit the writing…Thanks for your patience, and support.
AZ
before any asks come, let me say these beautiful clothes are HERE and HERE
by the wonderful @venusprincess-simblr
Gratitude!
“Spearmer?” Tobio couldn’t bring himself to calling Alvar by his first name, fearing it would offend the aristocrat boy – though he didn’t really know whether using his family name sounded appropriate either.
The communication between them forever forbidden.
Or secret, since Alvar had once received a brief ciphered missive sent from Sri Lanka, with which to fuel his undefeated love for his cousin.
Freddie.
His beloved, solar cousin Frederic, who at that moment he imagined on board of a frigate, or maybe already conqueror on the shores of Asia, or perhaps as a legionnaire in North Africa roaming the desert, or anywhere else on the curve of the planet that beckoned him with the promise of adventure and profit.
Tobio noticed Alvar’s eyes clouded… with affection? Wishing
himself to feel some affection, or any at all, Tobio felt the sudden impulse to caress Alvar, to stroke his face.
This time, Tobio’s hesitant hand was not chased away like an impertinent fly.
But Tobio couldn’t be sure, either, of Alvar being actually aware of his fingers softly caressing his cheeks.
Alvar had evaded, again daydreaming.
But except for their own panting, the hall remained
silent.And Tobio decided, at last, at least once, to take the risk, no matter
how immense, to achieve his own satisfactory consummation, no matter how
fleeting.
Torn between unsatisfactory possibilities of escape – diving into the dam, jumping back into the desert, or running along the wall’s edge – that only immobilize him, he always misses the moment of insight that makes him realize to be one
of them, winged creatures of the boundless waters.Except that he does not know how to use his wings.
Unlike them, he does not know how to fly. Will they teach him?
The moment he becomes aware, too, of no longer bearing the black rags he regularly wore in the desert, but instead being naked like the warrior angels, Tobio panics, and starts praying. In silence, his most heartfelt prayer.
Dear Lord, protect me from what I desire.
As if he has screamed at them instead, the band of angels takes sudden but brief flight, lingering in his proximity, more cautious than scared, like vultures leaving a corpse they still intend to return to.
Without
being noticed by them, who are absent-mindedly engaged in chasing games among themselves, and bomb diving into the placid waters of the dam, Tobio observes the bold band in awe. Their striking beauty, though, somehow poses a threat – or perhaps it is the freedom of their gracefully dwelling in the open skies that instills fear in him, once he realizes his will is to stay rooted, glued to the top of the wall. Despite his newly grown wings. They are too big, too vast, too mighty, making him too visible, too distinguishable – or recognizable.Is it possible that the dam frightens him more than the desert ever has? Or is it because he now knows the familiar desert to be no more than a small pool of sand, and the dam to be the unknown immeasurable? Or is it the wings that frighten him the most, and the new ability they should entitle him to?
As the warrior angels finally see him, like metal particles being irreversibly drawn to a magnet, with that speed of immediacy particular to dreams that is an abolisher of distances, all at once
a rampaging squadron is closing with low-passes on Tobio. Not with their giant hands or strong arms, the angels try to embrace him with their wings. If mighty in size but still soft in appearance, while flapping they emit raucous, metallic sounds that really disorientate Tobio. Their caresses bring back to him the sensorial, nearly nostalgic memory of the heat of the desert – located somewhere down below, or behind, but very far away now – as if the feathers are actually tongues of fire licking his skin – a feeling he cannot quite distinguish between excruciating or pleasurable, and whether he abhors or loves it.
Water
with no end. Above it hovers restlessly the quaintest legion of angels.Male angels. Undressed like Spartan warriors, ready for battle. Their faces painted white, to resemble skulls. Angels of Death? Taut bodies with tight muscles is their only visible armour. Angels of Desire, of deadly desire.
Greco Roman Sims 3 Poetry 