04-29-2015, 10:55 AM
the game is not played alone.
life has a hopeful undertone.
She is a timid doe trained into the pack of hungry wolves. She has to put on the mask of the wolf in order to stay alive, rubbing herself against them so they don’t turn against her. She has grown up in their roughness (a smooth panel of glass among the harshness of concrete walls) and she is used to the feeling of darkness and evil and chaos.
The meadow offers something of a break from the pretending and masquerading and acting. Here (once she is past the borders of the Valley, once she is away from their snapping jaws, once she dances onto the trail and hears the murmur of voices in the distance) she can finally be herself. Her steps are light and graceful and flowing, poison ivy tendrils tangled against the knots in her mane. They move gently, brushing against her neck and coddling the slenderness of her cheek.
She is the daughter of the spring goddess. She is the daughter of the Valley’s magical king. She is a pretender. She is a doe. She is a badger. She is a plant.
She is many things and yet she feels like nothing.
She’s lost in her thoughts when she runs into him. A solid form, a deep chest, a manly smell – all of it colliding against her slender form, gentle chest, feminine and ivy smell. Her thoughts clash until she’s standing stock still, bright green eyes wide against her white bark blaze and bay face. She can’t think of anything to say for a moment (or anything to do, for that matter) and so she stands completely still, every muscle seizing up until she is frozen.
The cooing of an ivy branch against her jaw snaps her out of the petrified state and she sucks in a deep sigh. “I’m sorry!”
The meadow offers something of a break from the pretending and masquerading and acting. Here (once she is past the borders of the Valley, once she is away from their snapping jaws, once she dances onto the trail and hears the murmur of voices in the distance) she can finally be herself. Her steps are light and graceful and flowing, poison ivy tendrils tangled against the knots in her mane. They move gently, brushing against her neck and coddling the slenderness of her cheek.
She is the daughter of the spring goddess. She is the daughter of the Valley’s magical king. She is a pretender. She is a doe. She is a badger. She is a plant.
She is many things and yet she feels like nothing.
She’s lost in her thoughts when she runs into him. A solid form, a deep chest, a manly smell – all of it colliding against her slender form, gentle chest, feminine and ivy smell. Her thoughts clash until she’s standing stock still, bright green eyes wide against her white bark blaze and bay face. She can’t think of anything to say for a moment (or anything to do, for that matter) and so she stands completely still, every muscle seizing up until she is frozen.
The cooing of an ivy branch against her jaw snaps her out of the petrified state and she sucks in a deep sigh. “I’m sorry!”
cerva
eight & noori