06-04-2018, 04:45 PM
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Amatic+SC" rel="stylesheet"><div align="center"><div style="border-left:#9d918f 3px solid;border-right:#9d918f 3px solid;background:#dddbd9;padding:16px 16px 12px 16px;width:500px;"><img src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/6c/05/26/6c05260d90783b8104f98f4f96f9b0d5.jpg" style="max-width:100%;border:1px solid #000;"><div style="width:500px;line-height:24px;font-family:amatic sc;font-size:50px;margin-left:-4px;text-shadow:#000 2px 0px 2px;color:#9d918f;letter-spacing:5px;text-transform:lowercase;text-align:center;">haze like a fever</div><div style="width:450px;padding:12px 4px 12px 4px;font-family:arial;text-transform:uppercase;font-size:9px;line-height:8px;letter-spacing:1px;text-align:center;color:#858582;">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</div><div style="font-family:times;font-size:13px;line-height:100%;text-align:justify;color:#25292c;">It’s dark when she startles awake. Something has snapped her from the soft arms of slumber, jolting her body so suddenly her bones seem to crack and ache into place. The high, dark walls of a Nerinian cave still rise around her, but the pale sand is glowing with moonlight. Wishbone’s slender head tips up to spot the milky-white orb floating directly in the center of the skylight of the cavern. The force of the light darkens the depths of the sky surrounding the moon and the girl has a sudden, dripping realization that the skylight looks akin to an eye.
And then, it blinks.
The ocean laps only feet away from the entrance to the cave, but Wishbone quickly scrambles out into the fresh air. The waves are bitter with the night’s chill and they sting when they wash over her heels. <font color=#9d918f><b>“What the fuck is going on?”</font></b> There’s a sight before her eyes, so tangible yet ethereal that she wonders if this is a hyper-realistic dream. If it is, Wishbone isn’t sure if she wants to wake up from it.
The stars are dripping from the heavens. Constellations pull themselves from the darkness of the sky to float down to Nerine’s shoreline. They move as though they are feathers — tossed to and fro by the fingers of the wind-currents — but their routes are always directed toward the patch of sand before Wishbone’s slender body. When they land, their shapes call to mind her father’s voice and she quietly echos his words aloud. <font color=#9d918f><b>“Aries, Cephus, and Vela. Pisces, Draco, and Orion.”</font></b> There are plenty more, their hazy light illuminating the wonder on Wishbone’s face.
Before she has time to say anything more than name a handful of those gathered, the darkness of the empty sky seems to split open. A lavender glow comes from the crevice before a shape appears from the seams. Wishbone’s amber eyes squint upward at the figure, even while the constellations murmur in starry tones around her. The creature that flies down to her on a direct, noble path is one she has never seen before.
Long, tan legs extend from a torso clothed in pale ivory fabric. There’s a head of curled brown hair atop a circular head and Wishbone’s eyes find the dark green ones of the stranger. For some strange reason, a word she has never thought of before enters her mind: <i>human</i>. It is quickly shoved out by a more prominent thought, this one nearly doused in the color of defense: <i>no, god</i>.
<i>“Wishbone.”</i> The god’s voice is rugged and matches his handsome features well. Anticipation marries wonder among the tissue of Wishbone’s mind. <i>“My name is Hermes. You have been chosen.”</i> She nearly asks what she has been chosen for, but the god is speaking too quickly. <i>“Come with me, quickly.”</i> Before Wishbone has time to think, the constellations are shifting again in hazy, whimsical movements. They align to form a bridge high into the sky, aiming for the lavender glow among the darkness of the starless night.
<font color=#9d918f><b>“What is this?”</font></b> Wishbone’s mind is a whirlwind, confusion kissing thrill, but her feet are stepping onto the glow of the constellation-bridge. Hermes gives no answer, his bare feet touching down on the bridge before he runs ahead, calling her to follow him.
She follows him — running upon the shoulders and backs and lines of the constellations (the very ones her father would point out with his navy nose on Tephra’s ash shores), a slender figure pale by the glow of the stars, racing up into the black night toward an adventure that will lead her farther than she has ever gone before.
Hermes disappears into the lavender crevice before her, with a last <i>“Hurry up!”</i> over his shoulder. Wishbone doesn’t slow her pace, long legs stretching to eat up the final distance of the starry bridge. There’s a warm, tickling feeling across her whole body when she touches the glow and then it suddenly all disappears into nothingness. A heavy ache spreads into the marrow of her bones but she is fading, fading, fading.
When her eyes slide open, she feels different. There is a softness she has never felt before on all sides of her, as comforting as the depths of her mother’s womb. Soft yellow light shines out of intricately-designed lanterns, warming the room to a comfortable glow. Wishbone sits upward, surprised to find her body in the same configuration as Hermes. Human, but not a god. A mirror lies on the table beside her bed (the names for these objects flow from her mind as easily as if she has known them all her life and, decidedly, she doesn’t question it) and she picks it up with pale fingers.
Her face stares back, splattered with dainty freckles along her nose and under her eyes. There’s a thin, slender scar against her full lips and when she touches the blemish, she finds her mouth to be soft and supple. Her eyes are the same — wide with amber color and full of ambition and wilderness — while her hair falls in tangled, tender locks of the same mahogany that used to cover her body. When Wishbone sits forward, the blanket falls from her torso to reveal a thin ivory nightgown. The material is nearly transparent, yet it covers her more than nudity would, and thus she slides her long legs from beneath the blanket to stand upon the warm floor.
A gorgeous woman appears just as her feet touch the ground. <i>“My name is Hera, sweet Wishbone.”</i> Her cupid-lips have been painted a deep maroon, complimenting the pale rose gold of her dress. <i>“Please, follow me.”</i> Without asking questions (what sorts of questions would she even ask?) Wishbone follows the goddess. They pass a window in the hallway and, when her amber eyes peer outside, she finds more dazzling constellations twisting in intricate, delicious displays above a wide expanse of dark nothingness.
<i>“You have been chosen.”</i> Her words are a feminine echo of Hermes’ rugged ones. The floor is cool beneath her bare feet, but when Hera opens a large door, the warmth of the room before them drives away any thoughts of a chill. A tall, ebony stallion stands to the left, pale blue wisps winding along the slope of his body and the strength of his legs. To the right swims a great white shark, a creature Wishbone has only seen from a distance in Nerine. Although there is no water to be seen, he swims through the air as easily as though he were in an ocean. And directly center, a god crafted of dark gray thundercloud and white-hot electricity, the shaft of a lightning bolt held in one large hand.
<i>“Wishbone.”</i> They all speak at once, each with varying tones of masculinity (the horse, a raspy tenor that slips into her ears like poison’s voice; the shark, a smooth baritone that slides against her eardrum like the slip of rain on a window; the thundercloud, a deep bass that seems to vibrate within her very body like the laughter of a volcano). <i>“You have been chosen.”</i>
Exhilaration paints rose-pink upon her freckled cheeks.</div></div><font style="font-family:times;font-size:10px;color:#000;">credit to <i>eliza</i> of adoxography.</font></div></div>
word count: 1201.
And then, it blinks.
The ocean laps only feet away from the entrance to the cave, but Wishbone quickly scrambles out into the fresh air. The waves are bitter with the night’s chill and they sting when they wash over her heels. <font color=#9d918f><b>“What the fuck is going on?”</font></b> There’s a sight before her eyes, so tangible yet ethereal that she wonders if this is a hyper-realistic dream. If it is, Wishbone isn’t sure if she wants to wake up from it.
The stars are dripping from the heavens. Constellations pull themselves from the darkness of the sky to float down to Nerine’s shoreline. They move as though they are feathers — tossed to and fro by the fingers of the wind-currents — but their routes are always directed toward the patch of sand before Wishbone’s slender body. When they land, their shapes call to mind her father’s voice and she quietly echos his words aloud. <font color=#9d918f><b>“Aries, Cephus, and Vela. Pisces, Draco, and Orion.”</font></b> There are plenty more, their hazy light illuminating the wonder on Wishbone’s face.
Before she has time to say anything more than name a handful of those gathered, the darkness of the empty sky seems to split open. A lavender glow comes from the crevice before a shape appears from the seams. Wishbone’s amber eyes squint upward at the figure, even while the constellations murmur in starry tones around her. The creature that flies down to her on a direct, noble path is one she has never seen before.
Long, tan legs extend from a torso clothed in pale ivory fabric. There’s a head of curled brown hair atop a circular head and Wishbone’s eyes find the dark green ones of the stranger. For some strange reason, a word she has never thought of before enters her mind: <i>human</i>. It is quickly shoved out by a more prominent thought, this one nearly doused in the color of defense: <i>no, god</i>.
<i>“Wishbone.”</i> The god’s voice is rugged and matches his handsome features well. Anticipation marries wonder among the tissue of Wishbone’s mind. <i>“My name is Hermes. You have been chosen.”</i> She nearly asks what she has been chosen for, but the god is speaking too quickly. <i>“Come with me, quickly.”</i> Before Wishbone has time to think, the constellations are shifting again in hazy, whimsical movements. They align to form a bridge high into the sky, aiming for the lavender glow among the darkness of the starless night.
<font color=#9d918f><b>“What is this?”</font></b> Wishbone’s mind is a whirlwind, confusion kissing thrill, but her feet are stepping onto the glow of the constellation-bridge. Hermes gives no answer, his bare feet touching down on the bridge before he runs ahead, calling her to follow him.
She follows him — running upon the shoulders and backs and lines of the constellations (the very ones her father would point out with his navy nose on Tephra’s ash shores), a slender figure pale by the glow of the stars, racing up into the black night toward an adventure that will lead her farther than she has ever gone before.
Hermes disappears into the lavender crevice before her, with a last <i>“Hurry up!”</i> over his shoulder. Wishbone doesn’t slow her pace, long legs stretching to eat up the final distance of the starry bridge. There’s a warm, tickling feeling across her whole body when she touches the glow and then it suddenly all disappears into nothingness. A heavy ache spreads into the marrow of her bones but she is fading, fading, fading.
When her eyes slide open, she feels different. There is a softness she has never felt before on all sides of her, as comforting as the depths of her mother’s womb. Soft yellow light shines out of intricately-designed lanterns, warming the room to a comfortable glow. Wishbone sits upward, surprised to find her body in the same configuration as Hermes. Human, but not a god. A mirror lies on the table beside her bed (the names for these objects flow from her mind as easily as if she has known them all her life and, decidedly, she doesn’t question it) and she picks it up with pale fingers.
Her face stares back, splattered with dainty freckles along her nose and under her eyes. There’s a thin, slender scar against her full lips and when she touches the blemish, she finds her mouth to be soft and supple. Her eyes are the same — wide with amber color and full of ambition and wilderness — while her hair falls in tangled, tender locks of the same mahogany that used to cover her body. When Wishbone sits forward, the blanket falls from her torso to reveal a thin ivory nightgown. The material is nearly transparent, yet it covers her more than nudity would, and thus she slides her long legs from beneath the blanket to stand upon the warm floor.
A gorgeous woman appears just as her feet touch the ground. <i>“My name is Hera, sweet Wishbone.”</i> Her cupid-lips have been painted a deep maroon, complimenting the pale rose gold of her dress. <i>“Please, follow me.”</i> Without asking questions (what sorts of questions would she even ask?) Wishbone follows the goddess. They pass a window in the hallway and, when her amber eyes peer outside, she finds more dazzling constellations twisting in intricate, delicious displays above a wide expanse of dark nothingness.
<i>“You have been chosen.”</i> Her words are a feminine echo of Hermes’ rugged ones. The floor is cool beneath her bare feet, but when Hera opens a large door, the warmth of the room before them drives away any thoughts of a chill. A tall, ebony stallion stands to the left, pale blue wisps winding along the slope of his body and the strength of his legs. To the right swims a great white shark, a creature Wishbone has only seen from a distance in Nerine. Although there is no water to be seen, he swims through the air as easily as though he were in an ocean. And directly center, a god crafted of dark gray thundercloud and white-hot electricity, the shaft of a lightning bolt held in one large hand.
<i>“Wishbone.”</i> They all speak at once, each with varying tones of masculinity (the horse, a raspy tenor that slips into her ears like poison’s voice; the shark, a smooth baritone that slides against her eardrum like the slip of rain on a window; the thundercloud, a deep bass that seems to vibrate within her very body like the laughter of a volcano). <i>“You have been chosen.”</i>
Exhilaration paints rose-pink upon her freckled cheeks.</div></div><font style="font-family:times;font-size:10px;color:#000;">credit to <i>eliza</i> of adoxography.</font></div></div>
word count: 1201.