02-15-2018, 10:00 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
Wishbone has never felt the pressing force of silence and loneliness on her shoulders. Even when there are no other horses around, she is not alone. There is the presence of the volcano, the endless song of the island birds, the background rush of the waves on the shore, the tropical wildlife skittering underfoot, and the loud presence of her own, unhindered thoughts.
She enjoys being in the presence of those she can have a conversation with, but she is not unhinged by the wilderness of her own privacy.
He is quiet in comparison to her. He is the stony face of the volcano (silent, serene, protective) while she is the lava that burrows underneath (ready to force itself up and out and into the sky, fierce and untamed). She finds his presence oddly soothing and yet entirely irritating. He introduces himself as Trekori but doesn’t answer any of her other questions.
For a moment, Wishbone is upset enough that she contemplates turning around and leaving him there. But he says Tephra is ashen and that she looks good alongside the island’s nature. So she doesn’t leave, but instead looks him over again with a bit more contemplation. Her mother’s taught her manners, unfortunately, so her first response is a “Thank you.”
Then, she’s twisting and turning toward the scents of wind and salt, looking over her skinny shoulder with a grin that’s both unnerving and encouraging, both wild and tame, both selfish and selfless — a grin that’s rare on any other face but entirely too common on her own. “C’mon, Trekori. I want to show you something I found yesterday.”
Without waiting to see if he follows, she’s racing through the forest on light feet. Her legs know the trails as easily as she knows the sound of her mother’s voice, allowing her to wind between undergrowth and across warm, misty streams efficiently. Finally, Wishbone bursts out into the sunlight and along the shoreline where a humid breeze pulls at the delicately-tangled knots in her growing mane.
Along the beachfront at this point there is a small cove where large rocks push past into the deeper parts of the shallows, forming a section of the beach where the waves do not break so heavily. Nestled among the deeper waters, furry arms linked to keep one another close, are several families of sea otters. They are sleeping for now, the glow of the moon catching on the tips of their fur.
It’s peaceful here and for a brief, daring moment Wishbone’s body stills long enough for her to stare at the sleeping otters. She waits for Trekori to comment aloud first, auburn eyes latched onto the mammals with all the rapture and peace of a lost child returning home.
She enjoys being in the presence of those she can have a conversation with, but she is not unhinged by the wilderness of her own privacy.
He is quiet in comparison to her. He is the stony face of the volcano (silent, serene, protective) while she is the lava that burrows underneath (ready to force itself up and out and into the sky, fierce and untamed). She finds his presence oddly soothing and yet entirely irritating. He introduces himself as Trekori but doesn’t answer any of her other questions.
For a moment, Wishbone is upset enough that she contemplates turning around and leaving him there. But he says Tephra is ashen and that she looks good alongside the island’s nature. So she doesn’t leave, but instead looks him over again with a bit more contemplation. Her mother’s taught her manners, unfortunately, so her first response is a “Thank you.”
Then, she’s twisting and turning toward the scents of wind and salt, looking over her skinny shoulder with a grin that’s both unnerving and encouraging, both wild and tame, both selfish and selfless — a grin that’s rare on any other face but entirely too common on her own. “C’mon, Trekori. I want to show you something I found yesterday.”
Without waiting to see if he follows, she’s racing through the forest on light feet. Her legs know the trails as easily as she knows the sound of her mother’s voice, allowing her to wind between undergrowth and across warm, misty streams efficiently. Finally, Wishbone bursts out into the sunlight and along the shoreline where a humid breeze pulls at the delicately-tangled knots in her growing mane.
Along the beachfront at this point there is a small cove where large rocks push past into the deeper parts of the shallows, forming a section of the beach where the waves do not break so heavily. Nestled among the deeper waters, furry arms linked to keep one another close, are several families of sea otters. They are sleeping for now, the glow of the moon catching on the tips of their fur.
It’s peaceful here and for a brief, daring moment Wishbone’s body stills long enough for her to stare at the sleeping otters. She waits for Trekori to comment aloud first, auburn eyes latched onto the mammals with all the rapture and peace of a lost child returning home.