M E L I T A
The honeybee child had always appreciated stories of triumph, methods of fortitude, and measures of the tenacious finding their way home; her attention was riveted, stare held as she envisioned pathways of before and after. She crouched down, outer folds of her dress slipping down to the street floor, already tattered, already stained, already touched and maimed by the power of the elements. The girl didn’t bother to care, as wild as the rest of the fiendish world, and continued smiling, listening to the ways the man had encompassed and embodied music into his being. It was intriguing – for she had always been the earnest type, exuberant, bold, capable of striving towards any endeavor, adventure, or crusade the kingdoms, both lost and brutal, had thrust upon her. She’d growled and howled, but also laughed, loved, cherished without any hesitation or apprehension. Strangers steadily became allies, allies became friends, and friends became irreplaceable, beatific beacons. Perhaps this was why she’d never truly become adept to any one thing – too embroiled in a thousand other venues and ventures, everything was roughly-hewn and patched together by determination; she could probably be fully capable at a great many talents, had she any patience left in those impulsive, fey whims. “And look at you now!” She proclaimed, wide smile continuing to captivate her features, tilting her head ever so slightly to stare more at the guitar, at the strings, furrowing her brow only slightly in musing, bewitching nuances, thoughts, and scales. “Music is a wonderful thing to express. My mother and sister could both sing.”
The melodies had always been rich and gentle, serene and tranquil, a lullaby on the wind, or a legend coated in awe and enigmas. Her mother’s had been especially beautiful, rhapsody on the skyline, in the depths of dragon calls, in the swirl of myths, in the siren squalls, in the illustrious thunder against mottled tombs. Clementine’s had been joy in the fields, enchanting butterflies and the morning dew, radiating sunshine and lace, petals and honeysuckle, the warm breeze, and the pitter-patter of a spring shower. Melita’s had been a bark of laughter, a roar, a howl, a seething lament tearing through ash, soot, and ruin. She could never quite compare.
“I’m Melita. Pleased to meet you and your talents,
