Melita
I never had a chance to be soft
I was always bloody knuckles
I was always bloody knuckles
The waves lulled behind her in a frenzy, and it was calming, peaceful, serene, while they tended to sticks, twigs, and driftwood. But only when her name seemed to call out over the wind did she raise her head from her task, turning, shifting, eyes narrowing as if to spy something, someone, tricking her into misdirection or inattention. Her gaze shifted into widening features, surprised, as brows raised towards her fiery hairline. “Phoebe?” A question too – though the more she stared at the familiar figure, the more she could parse through the truth in her own mind – older and wiser perhaps – but recognizing Pim ensured she’d been accurate.
So a swift smile bloomed as the breeze rolled along the coast, and Fangorn offered some form of grumbled greeting from his stance beside her ankles, the pieces of wood in his vines twisting and turning with the rest of them. Only question after question seemed to spring from the honeybee’s mind, circling and cycling back through the age-old volleys of how many years had been spread between the two of them. “How are you? What brings you back to Torchline?”
So a swift smile bloomed as the breeze rolled along the coast, and Fangorn offered some form of grumbled greeting from his stance beside her ankles, the pieces of wood in his vines twisting and turning with the rest of them. Only question after question seemed to spring from the honeybee’s mind, circling and cycling back through the age-old volleys of how many years had been spread between the two of them. “How are you? What brings you back to Torchline?”
and shards of glass
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
