M E L I T A
The morning light striking the oasis should’ve brought wondrous thoughts of repose, tranquility, and serenity.
Except for Melita was exactly none of those things at any moment in time.
Instead, she was cacophony and discord, racing across marshy inlets in bare feet and hollering like a banshee. The long stick she’d managed to acquire from somewhere inland had become a formidable weapon, and she held it aloft, overhead, like it was a potent, powerful battle ax. “I’ll get you!” She laughed, she howled, she chased down gourd after gourd as their creepy, eerie stares had quickly turned tail at the sight of the harpy racing towards them. Her dress had been tied in a knot at the end, and it bounded against her legs on her left side, hair just as wild, just as savage, as her makeshift staff rained a blow upon one more unfortunate pumpkin. “Another enemy vanquished,” she sing-songed, before clasping it with her free hand and tossing it towards a dry embankment. She was determined to make something of them, besides a diversion and swift, ridiculous amusement, but for the moment, she was caught in the snares of turbulence (and it was so familiar, so wondrous, so breathtaking).
More seemed to build upon the death of their friend, coming at her from all sides while she giggled, swinging the stick in a wide arc around her; lacking any and all precision, chaotic and boisterous, hoping to make a connection with each target before they decided develop a keener tactic.
