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06-07-2013, 07:38 PM
swallow-boned, gaunt – this is what hunger looks like.
this was pain incarnate.
she was alone. always alone, her stride quiet and doe-like as she approached through the woodlands. mother – her thoughts found their way to a being she had never known, who she would never know. gaunt – she made a striking portrait, the girl. she was lissome – the very definition of it. her sides, too much like a sight-hound. the gentle ridges of her ribs protruded beneath the thin valor of her carmine dress. like an unbroken crest of a wave, every shift of the sinew a turn of the tide. if one could describe this stride in a word, it would be a whisper.
a whisper of movement: my, how appropriate.
the girl was small. she was delicate – a bloom, a flower, and petals. she seemed to glow, like a candle was held beneath the thin meshing of her flesh. i suppose you could have called her pretty. such a facetious word: pretty. it implied sweetness; it implied a gentleness that the hardened verdigris eyes lacked. they lacked sweetness. instead, they were hard. they were fierce. her eyes were comparable to an eagle’s, differing in shade and color alone. they were hungry, her eyes. they thirsted, and hawked at every snap of a twig, and gentle lark’s tune. doe-like, and cautioned. it was the only way to describe the manner in which she traveled. the girl, this athenais, she knew of the world’s horrors, of the injustices and maladies of living. she knew them well, like old and once dear friends. but, old dear friends one only wishes to avoid now. she had matured, after all. she had learned better, and knew enough to seek out different lifestyles, and different truths.
she had enough of well-told lies, and misplaced honesty. she had enough of pain, of melodrama. this was thirst. this was what hunger looked like.
athenais was insatiable, and all that would placate the girl was a good life.
she was hungry for a better way of living.
she paused, a stone's throw from the world. she'd pause, and perhaps wait. this was something she had grown accustomed to.
this was pain incarnate.
she was alone. always alone, her stride quiet and doe-like as she approached through the woodlands. mother – her thoughts found their way to a being she had never known, who she would never know. gaunt – she made a striking portrait, the girl. she was lissome – the very definition of it. her sides, too much like a sight-hound. the gentle ridges of her ribs protruded beneath the thin valor of her carmine dress. like an unbroken crest of a wave, every shift of the sinew a turn of the tide. if one could describe this stride in a word, it would be a whisper.
a whisper of movement: my, how appropriate.
the girl was small. she was delicate – a bloom, a flower, and petals. she seemed to glow, like a candle was held beneath the thin meshing of her flesh. i suppose you could have called her pretty. such a facetious word: pretty. it implied sweetness; it implied a gentleness that the hardened verdigris eyes lacked. they lacked sweetness. instead, they were hard. they were fierce. her eyes were comparable to an eagle’s, differing in shade and color alone. they were hungry, her eyes. they thirsted, and hawked at every snap of a twig, and gentle lark’s tune. doe-like, and cautioned. it was the only way to describe the manner in which she traveled. the girl, this athenais, she knew of the world’s horrors, of the injustices and maladies of living. she knew them well, like old and once dear friends. but, old dear friends one only wishes to avoid now. she had matured, after all. she had learned better, and knew enough to seek out different lifestyles, and different truths.
she had enough of well-told lies, and misplaced honesty. she had enough of pain, of melodrama. this was thirst. this was what hunger looked like.
athenais was insatiable, and all that would placate the girl was a good life.
she was hungry for a better way of living.
she paused, a stone's throw from the world. she'd pause, and perhaps wait. this was something she had grown accustomed to.
