.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
05-03-2017, 08:05 PM
Follow…one of the few words known by heart. Faintly, the source of said utterance stirs bittersweet memories to the surface of my mind. A stern, dappled face beckons my attention from beneath the figurative surface...but when I look up...that internal conflict shrinks beneath the compassion of the eagle. Merciful distractions plunge those unaddressed issues back into the depths. Even still... those unsealed wounds twinge with sourness and neglect. Mini me groans irritably and whispers under her breath, ‘he isn’t the potion master who owned us.’ Of course not…
My desire to heed is dimmed by internal, questioning salt -- guilt and curiosity are what bend my will to his desire. In an effort to mimic his eagerness, I take that first step, “follow,” my slender, malnourished head dips agreeably. Thin toes fall into the indention's his feathered, giant feet leave behind. I sink in myself, thankful that his instruction and the brief relay of a new term is paired with unbothered silence which suits my lack of social grace. But it wasn’t long before the forest offers diversion from my hangry stomach and those internal frays of guilt and déjà vu.
A chitchatting, barking grey squirrel yips aggressively at us from the safety of an evergreen canopy. When my irises venture off to the right of said path they find a female hind merging from the shadows into the dusted sunlight. Her mouse colored ears swivel like dials; continuously watching our every move. Though to me…her caution feels slight, as if she were unafraid. I glance rearmost, watching her cross the path as soon as we pass. In some ways, these lands could replicate the one I'd fled from. The cold, terrain, local flora – all of it fits into the framework of my captivity. The only difference…there weren’t fangs on the branch of every other tree, nor prey milling around like scorned whelps.
Gems cycle upward, centering upon shifting, rippling tawny hindquarters and the tidy, silken locks that ran abundantly from the top of his dock. Male vocals throw a pebble against my bubble, surprising me. These ears dart rearward – uncertainty already filtering over my expression...then...he dips to the ground and lips at the turf beneath. My subconscious puzzles out a variety of solutions immediately, “food,” I murmur in his tongue, testing the word. Limbs pause, giving me time to dip and snap meekly at the brisk stalks. "Herbe?" The act of tying a word would take more than one instance; and until we developed an understanding of each other...I could only test the water and anticipate his intentions.
My desire to heed is dimmed by internal, questioning salt -- guilt and curiosity are what bend my will to his desire. In an effort to mimic his eagerness, I take that first step, “follow,” my slender, malnourished head dips agreeably. Thin toes fall into the indention's his feathered, giant feet leave behind. I sink in myself, thankful that his instruction and the brief relay of a new term is paired with unbothered silence which suits my lack of social grace. But it wasn’t long before the forest offers diversion from my hangry stomach and those internal frays of guilt and déjà vu.
A chitchatting, barking grey squirrel yips aggressively at us from the safety of an evergreen canopy. When my irises venture off to the right of said path they find a female hind merging from the shadows into the dusted sunlight. Her mouse colored ears swivel like dials; continuously watching our every move. Though to me…her caution feels slight, as if she were unafraid. I glance rearmost, watching her cross the path as soon as we pass. In some ways, these lands could replicate the one I'd fled from. The cold, terrain, local flora – all of it fits into the framework of my captivity. The only difference…there weren’t fangs on the branch of every other tree, nor prey milling around like scorned whelps.
Gems cycle upward, centering upon shifting, rippling tawny hindquarters and the tidy, silken locks that ran abundantly from the top of his dock. Male vocals throw a pebble against my bubble, surprising me. These ears dart rearward – uncertainty already filtering over my expression...then...he dips to the ground and lips at the turf beneath. My subconscious puzzles out a variety of solutions immediately, “food,” I murmur in his tongue, testing the word. Limbs pause, giving me time to dip and snap meekly at the brisk stalks. "Herbe?" The act of tying a word would take more than one instance; and until we developed an understanding of each other...I could only test the water and anticipate his intentions.
