melita
“Doubt it!” Melita hollered back, already beginning to scorch her way out of the vicinity and onto the next. The amplitude of the challenge spurred her onward, covetous, mercurial, greedy, like a demon just released from its time below. She flew through the undergrowth, striving to keep her pace even, then far more, than his. Easy to incense in all qualities of emotions, maybe later she’d be able to reflect upon the moments strewn within: the collective footfalls of foolishness, the unvarnished way they could always interact, the pulse and pervading overtures of days long, long before, blended and made hallowed rather than hollowed. Nothing carved out or seared – amusing, handiwork of streamlined childhoods, folded right back in as if they’d never left or sculpted their way out of hardships.
She could feel the weight of the rock in her pocket as she moved, sundress already covered in dirt along the hem. Hunting, stalking, churning; her limbs flew across the ground and bound through the brush. “Aha!” she yelled and screeched with all her glory as she spotted another open sanction, launching into the aperture as if her life depended on it. She could nearly hear Sila rolling her dragon eyes, but she scarcely cared, fingers grasping hold of whatever.
Which happened to be bones. Small ones – likely from a hen once loosened and hunted, but nonetheless, into the dress’s compartments it went. “I’m so going to beat you!” came upon a sing-song taunt, cupping her hands around her mouth, then holding a wishbone up as if it was a trophy.
salvation doesn't look like light
