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Run it up the flagpole and see.
3/1/11 03:03 pmThe girl ran faster, her hair whipping back behind her--a tattered flag dyed red and gold over a rather muddy brown. Her arms shuttered back and forth, thin and wild, fists clenched so hard that the knuckles turned white. Face set in a grimace of furor, or concern, or fear, some fierce emotion that the boy behind her could not answer.
--
She sat at the window, sewing a skirt. Her form a model of homeliness, curled in a soft chiaroscuro, sun and shadow lacing her skin the pattern of the curtain. Her hair shone in the dusty light, one long lock falling over her shoulder with the golden grace of a lily. A sound behind her, a footstep in the hallway, shuffling of shoes being removed; she rose, setting aside her work to see.
--
Just such a man, she thought, with eyes like mathematic equations and no art in his soul! Her shoes clattered lightly over the parquet, skirts swishing with a purpose, head held high. Her hair was bound up tight, a librarian's knot low at the back of her head that strained the rubber band as though it wanted to pop free and run rampant over her shoulders. There was poetry in her mouth, however, and in the books held loosely in her hands.
--
Yes, folks, I'm just playing with words today. Investigating the sounds and sensations and feelings of them in my mouth. I might find something else to post later, but right now I'm being entranced by an origami documentary. It's -amazing-.
--
She sat at the window, sewing a skirt. Her form a model of homeliness, curled in a soft chiaroscuro, sun and shadow lacing her skin the pattern of the curtain. Her hair shone in the dusty light, one long lock falling over her shoulder with the golden grace of a lily. A sound behind her, a footstep in the hallway, shuffling of shoes being removed; she rose, setting aside her work to see.
--
Just such a man, she thought, with eyes like mathematic equations and no art in his soul! Her shoes clattered lightly over the parquet, skirts swishing with a purpose, head held high. Her hair was bound up tight, a librarian's knot low at the back of her head that strained the rubber band as though it wanted to pop free and run rampant over her shoulders. There was poetry in her mouth, however, and in the books held loosely in her hands.
--
Yes, folks, I'm just playing with words today. Investigating the sounds and sensations and feelings of them in my mouth. I might find something else to post later, but right now I'm being entranced by an origami documentary. It's -amazing-.
