Myth

Would it be possible,I wonder, to re-work the Narcissus myth to include both Ameinias (who ran himself through with a sword) and Echo? 

Nemesis took Ameinias' revenge, (he wished for Narcissus to feel the pain of unrequited love... ) made Narcissus fall in love with his reflection and Narcissus drowned.

Echo got in trouble for talking to much, so she was cursed with only being able to repeat what others said. She fell in love with Narcissus, but he had eyes only for himself. He died, and she wasted away, until only her voice remained. (Or alternately, she wastes away first, and then one of the gods gets mad at Narcissus, and makes him fall in love with himself. He wastes away and dies.)

Either way, I'm fairly certain at the end of the myth, the gods feel kinda bad for Narcissus, and they turn him into a flower. 

A flower of the genus Narcissus, is actually a daffodil. Resilient, they bloom in the early spring, and they're bulbs, so they bloom year after year. (Extra bonus points, into making that into character traits!)

I wonder... 

the truth

in the end it becomes all about not hearing

not listening

not acknowledging 

the little voice

repeating

liar liar liar

Home

And they're swimming in hurt

in the tears

their own tears, backed up

over the days, weeks, 3 months.

they can look at each other

but sometimes

they just

they can't 

they forget to touch

and the whole house shakes with voices.

they stand far apart from each other

sitting right next to one another

the screen, the idiot box

the T V.

sitting in silence, laughing here

or arguing there

its almost like conversation.

so the hurt sits

fetid between them

explosive between them

miles and fathoms between them

and they keep themselves afloat with tears.

They leave the Captain to his own devices, little contraptions that whirl and twirl and print out list of numbers and strange symbols. He flits about the room, eyes big and black behind multiple lenses. He pulls the papers and reads them, up and down and sometimes sideways humming to himself at the insights they afford him. His calculations and, indeed, his variables, are unknown.

One day a particularly stocky instrument made its way over to the Captain, trailing a long list of results, like intestines.

As he ran his eyes over the long thin strip of paper, his wrinkled face smoothed in shock. His black eyes looked over-large, magnified. He scrambled towards the nearest device, which flailed slightly as he grabbed it. Frantically, he looked over its train of numbers, his eyes sliding back and forth as he added and subtracted. Checking the equations in his head, his face folded again, like a paper crumpled in frustration.

Days later, when the chaos died down, someone noticed the lack of smoke exiting the Captain's chimney. When they tentatively entered, they found him on his back, limbs curled like a spider, and the solitary, still intact device shuddering in the corner, the symbols contorted and twitching across the paper it continued to spit.

uhm. something new? maybe for the lit. mag. but i dunno if its good enough.

the killing feilds

calluses

aren't enough to

save

us. smiling

send us to our

deaths.

torturing confessions

or their confessors

doesn't take away

the truth

in them. if they are

written down.