MELITA
She hunted in the middle of night, presiding like a mistress of the evening, covered and cloaked in twilight embers, the flame of her arrows the only light, the only assurance of her existence beyond eldritch whims. The youth was alive in the spring’s distinction, rather than winter’s unholy ventures, breathing and existing, emboldened by the notion of something more, more, more just over the horizon, and not inert, not withering, not decaying again. Never again. The bow of her string was taut, the tip of her arrows were ready, and there was a fervent, ethereal slide to her gait; a stride perfected from the intricate dance of survival, fortitude, and endurance, lending, blending, into the designation, haunting, masquerading – Then there was a grumbling, growling, scrabbling along the dirt, the thawing turf, and she ceased, desisted the midnight anomalies immediately; a sharp inhalation to her throat, surprised, taken aback, and irritated with herself for it. Fangorn, who’d remained silent in their stalking ventures, bounded and leapt forward, following the noises and nuances; together, they maneuvered along newly sprouted grass, until they came upon a man, crouching in the dirt. “Hello?” She called, curiosity beckoning, clawing, twisting its way through her; the form unfamiliar, wondering if she was sliding into ominous regions or nothing at all. “What are you doing?”
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
