10-17-2020, 04:07 AM
[align=center][div style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11.5px; width: 310px; text-align: justify; line-height:120%"]Experience is the best teacher.
Truth behind simple construct, together strung words based upon the very principle it is built around. Had not there been may well have flesh been free of blemish, beneath clinging fabric hidden that which bled until fingers were drawn, along seams running as though he may pluck the dried blood without disrupting cover. Frayed some as attention turned, nails pulling at strands that fell away, exposed in part the cotton beneath. Better than nothing, rampant ran desire still, however, evidence in reddened skin, replacement hurriedly placed.
None may deem Butch a child bearing any level of book smarts, indeed it seemed he lacked a great deal of even common sense, the experience leaving hands a riddled mess of fresh cuts poor a teacher. Yet so too poor was the student unwilling in such lessons, discarded each in turn until begun anew with intent for bringing about a new conclusion.
Beneath pillow did he slide a band-aid lined hand, cool the hilt fingertips graced along, metal and wood untouched by the light streamed through open window. It was through it he slipped with practiced ease, hastily stowed the pilfered switchblade in backpocket, harsh a landing that saw him slam a knee against the sand. At the least hushed his exhale, a pained hum seeping between clenched teeth, beneath shallow waves swallowed. To feet once more did he scramble, from house running with clumsy steps, poor start as against thighs rubbed hands streaked in sand to remove some of the grit.
It still clung as Butch allowed his momentum to slow, still half a jog carrying him forth as furtive glance is cast back, calmed his hammering heart by a slight degree when it seemed no other had been drawn to his presence. Assured he had been capable in his flight — it was nothing of the sort for free was he in movement simply more pleasing such notion of escape to him — abandoned the beach in favour of the more tolerable shade of the jungle. Teeming it with life aplenty though the hold of autumn had tightened, alone the archipelago in supposed escape, the hints were there all the same, brewing winter on the shore if not yet announced its arrival in such typical fashion.
Along the trunks hands trailed, differing each and adorned in various fashion, about encircling vines and flowers, undergrowth rustling with his every step, a symphony of sound that drew silence from the inhabitants. On this island had he been born, drawn forth into the waiting arms of a pair not new in their love but in a status that pressed gold to their fingers, fathers made four times over. Yet never apart, separate in a manner he felt in his chest, this land rejecting the forgein aspect that stained its fertile surface.
Pleasant and familiar weight the blade in his palm, held lightly in fingers that worked along pressure point, observed selected canvas. Quiet the click that left blade to smoothly slide into place, clumsy and slow the action that twirled it about fingers, new the knick that welled with blood he looked upon with a crooked grin. So too would the tree bleed, free hand braced against the trunk as he scraped out each letter with the tip of the knife, poor the craftsmanship but such he would live with.
Truth behind simple construct, together strung words based upon the very principle it is built around. Had not there been may well have flesh been free of blemish, beneath clinging fabric hidden that which bled until fingers were drawn, along seams running as though he may pluck the dried blood without disrupting cover. Frayed some as attention turned, nails pulling at strands that fell away, exposed in part the cotton beneath. Better than nothing, rampant ran desire still, however, evidence in reddened skin, replacement hurriedly placed.
None may deem Butch a child bearing any level of book smarts, indeed it seemed he lacked a great deal of even common sense, the experience leaving hands a riddled mess of fresh cuts poor a teacher. Yet so too poor was the student unwilling in such lessons, discarded each in turn until begun anew with intent for bringing about a new conclusion.
Beneath pillow did he slide a band-aid lined hand, cool the hilt fingertips graced along, metal and wood untouched by the light streamed through open window. It was through it he slipped with practiced ease, hastily stowed the pilfered switchblade in backpocket, harsh a landing that saw him slam a knee against the sand. At the least hushed his exhale, a pained hum seeping between clenched teeth, beneath shallow waves swallowed. To feet once more did he scramble, from house running with clumsy steps, poor start as against thighs rubbed hands streaked in sand to remove some of the grit.
It still clung as Butch allowed his momentum to slow, still half a jog carrying him forth as furtive glance is cast back, calmed his hammering heart by a slight degree when it seemed no other had been drawn to his presence. Assured he had been capable in his flight — it was nothing of the sort for free was he in movement simply more pleasing such notion of escape to him — abandoned the beach in favour of the more tolerable shade of the jungle. Teeming it with life aplenty though the hold of autumn had tightened, alone the archipelago in supposed escape, the hints were there all the same, brewing winter on the shore if not yet announced its arrival in such typical fashion.
Along the trunks hands trailed, differing each and adorned in various fashion, about encircling vines and flowers, undergrowth rustling with his every step, a symphony of sound that drew silence from the inhabitants. On this island had he been born, drawn forth into the waiting arms of a pair not new in their love but in a status that pressed gold to their fingers, fathers made four times over. Yet never apart, separate in a manner he felt in his chest, this land rejecting the forgein aspect that stained its fertile surface.
Pleasant and familiar weight the blade in his palm, held lightly in fingers that worked along pressure point, observed selected canvas. Quiet the click that left blade to smoothly slide into place, clumsy and slow the action that twirled it about fingers, new the knick that welled with blood he looked upon with a crooked grin. So too would the tree bleed, free hand braced against the trunk as he scraped out each letter with the tip of the knife, poor the craftsmanship but such he would live with.
