MABEL
He was very, very still – and she was reminded of things like ice, like fathoms of the unknown she could never quite reach, extinguished and collapsed before she had half a chance. If it his presence was a warning, she didn’t heed it. Instead, it gave her peace of mind, an anchor, a weight, and not a harpoon, not a wave, not a tremulous, uncertain circumstance taking her out into the void. Where everything slowly churned, tossed, and threw her about until even that precious, gifted form could take no more.
How had he been there, then? In the midst and mist? In the shackles and lines? In the sparks of electricity?
She must’ve seemed like a little eldritch thing in the midst of the gathered, and this amused her, sliding the same feral grin around her fangs, around the glimpses of other notions and semblances. Her sight snapped around, back and forth with darting lines and figments, picking apart pieces of the crowd, never finding the individual she was looking for. Thereafter, they were only distracted by him, the movement, the calm, as if buffeting back against her deranged, wicked nature – splintering, cracking, burrowing her way down into shambles, angles, and edges.
Then his hand reached, and she watched, waited, coiled and bunched her slender form into a rigid stance – as if one false movement would cause her to flee – and then the merry boughs giggled.
Her head tilted again, an arch to her brow, and she lurched forward, sprung into impulsivity, and when she wasn’t bitten by the boughs beneath his, she laughed. It didn’t match the chuckles from the sapling. It held no meaning other than some inanity, surprised over and over again, no matter the bizarre occasions. It hadn’t struck at her. Maybe she’d half-hoped it would’ve, and then she’d have a reason to tear it apart.
But she didn’t – eyes going back to his. “Were you the one who led us out?”
How had he been there, then? In the midst and mist? In the shackles and lines? In the sparks of electricity?
She must’ve seemed like a little eldritch thing in the midst of the gathered, and this amused her, sliding the same feral grin around her fangs, around the glimpses of other notions and semblances. Her sight snapped around, back and forth with darting lines and figments, picking apart pieces of the crowd, never finding the individual she was looking for. Thereafter, they were only distracted by him, the movement, the calm, as if buffeting back against her deranged, wicked nature – splintering, cracking, burrowing her way down into shambles, angles, and edges.
Then his hand reached, and she watched, waited, coiled and bunched her slender form into a rigid stance – as if one false movement would cause her to flee – and then the merry boughs giggled.
Her head tilted again, an arch to her brow, and she lurched forward, sprung into impulsivity, and when she wasn’t bitten by the boughs beneath his, she laughed. It didn’t match the chuckles from the sapling. It held no meaning other than some inanity, surprised over and over again, no matter the bizarre occasions. It hadn’t struck at her. Maybe she’d half-hoped it would’ve, and then she’d have a reason to tear it apart.
But she didn’t – eyes going back to his. “Were you the one who led us out?”
I bare my teeth
and stretch my claws out
and stretch my claws out
