02-09-2018, 06:41 PM
haze like a fever
i fell like a dreamer for sweet tea and lemonade; it clings to my t-shirt it’s loud and it lingers, designed to suffocate. i light up to find what i’ve known all this time, there’s some beauty here yet
She is saturated in sea-water, growing mane plastering itself to her arching little neck. Although the heat of the sun might’ve evaporated the liquid enough that she isn’t dripping, her mahogany body is still slick. The backs of her legs are splattered with moist dirt and behind her heels is a churned-up path where her quick feet had ran.
Wishbone can still hear the sound of waves rushing against the beachfront, but she is no longer standing on the shore. She’d gone for a quick swim to wash the sweat off her body before resuming her previous task — one which might haunt her for the rest of her life. The slope of the volcano rises in front of her, rocky and seemingly impossible to climb. If she pulls her neck back far enough, Wishbone can see the top of the volcano outlined against the clear blue of the sky.
Her determination is pliable, seen with the bruises and scrapes on her knees, the tendrils of auburn-highlighted hair sticking to her cheeks, and the dainty puffs of her exhausted breaths. Wishbone is still a tiny thing, especially in comparison to the stern face of the volcano, but it doesn’t seem to stop her. She manages to climb atop of a flat boulder, mere inches closer to her goal of summiting the beast, and a caw of pride escapes her mouth.
Wishbone laughs — moist with ocean water, cloaked with sweat, caked with dirt, the shins of her front legs bleeding slightly, auburn eyes wild with the passion of her determination.
Wishbone can still hear the sound of waves rushing against the beachfront, but she is no longer standing on the shore. She’d gone for a quick swim to wash the sweat off her body before resuming her previous task — one which might haunt her for the rest of her life. The slope of the volcano rises in front of her, rocky and seemingly impossible to climb. If she pulls her neck back far enough, Wishbone can see the top of the volcano outlined against the clear blue of the sky.
Her determination is pliable, seen with the bruises and scrapes on her knees, the tendrils of auburn-highlighted hair sticking to her cheeks, and the dainty puffs of her exhausted breaths. Wishbone is still a tiny thing, especially in comparison to the stern face of the volcano, but it doesn’t seem to stop her. She manages to climb atop of a flat boulder, mere inches closer to her goal of summiting the beast, and a caw of pride escapes her mouth.
Wishbone laughs — moist with ocean water, cloaked with sweat, caked with dirt, the shins of her front legs bleeding slightly, auburn eyes wild with the passion of her determination.
@[Warrick]