10-16-2018, 09:58 PM
[align=center][div style="width:450px; font-size:8.6pt;line-height:1.2; color:#000;font-family:calibri;margin-top:3px;margin-bottom:3px;margin-left:0px;text-align:justify;"]Delicate threads woven together, scenes played across a mind that has grown dull to each, colours worn and spaces hastily filled. The want was there to keep each moment intact, experiences holding some sentimental value or otherwise a pain, rooted within the centre marring the last traces of those lost. It seemed not to matter how tightly one held to each, fragments of a life given a pedestal in hopes they may go undisturbed, yet each drawing only takes more.
Toned in cinnamon, slight thing though the body proves wide, slowly gathering fat beneath gentle care, child free from such things. Small, broken snatches, moment of pain encasing the fast beat of heart and the sting of tears, the acidic smell caught upon them, iron and gunpowder drawn together beneath the tang of salt. All that was left, faint moments their mind pushed aside for it was best to forget it, allow those days to pass without trace marring the surface of young mind. Yet it was still there, the want for comfort and love, the people so they so desired to see.
Such drove them to wander, bright blue of those eyes wide and questioning though lips moved and formed only babbling sound, the minimal state of their vocabulary not extending to the question CCLIV seeks to ask. And so they push on, feeling the sand caught between their toes and the burn of muscle as they continue well past their minimal reserves capability, lagging some now, injured back leg dragging for they have not the strength to lift it from the ground. Huffed breath laced with gentle sound, bordering upon a whimper though they bite if back, if barely, ears flattening against their skull. By some stroke of luck they lifted their gaze, looking about the expanse of beach before they thought to look elsewhere, finding the golden sheen of fur, a bright spot against the pale tone of the sand.
“Ma,” voice raises, ringing with an exhausted joy, and once more the cub is moving, By the Dealer's side they finally fall, sprawling upon their belly with head tilted back so they might see the painting. Curve of a smile and soft squeaks, paws patting the sand for they have not the words to express their feelings and so do so instead by action, finding the painting rather pretty for all the flaws Goldie might see within it.
Toned in cinnamon, slight thing though the body proves wide, slowly gathering fat beneath gentle care, child free from such things. Small, broken snatches, moment of pain encasing the fast beat of heart and the sting of tears, the acidic smell caught upon them, iron and gunpowder drawn together beneath the tang of salt. All that was left, faint moments their mind pushed aside for it was best to forget it, allow those days to pass without trace marring the surface of young mind. Yet it was still there, the want for comfort and love, the people so they so desired to see.
Such drove them to wander, bright blue of those eyes wide and questioning though lips moved and formed only babbling sound, the minimal state of their vocabulary not extending to the question CCLIV seeks to ask. And so they push on, feeling the sand caught between their toes and the burn of muscle as they continue well past their minimal reserves capability, lagging some now, injured back leg dragging for they have not the strength to lift it from the ground. Huffed breath laced with gentle sound, bordering upon a whimper though they bite if back, if barely, ears flattening against their skull. By some stroke of luck they lifted their gaze, looking about the expanse of beach before they thought to look elsewhere, finding the golden sheen of fur, a bright spot against the pale tone of the sand.
“Ma,” voice raises, ringing with an exhausted joy, and once more the cub is moving, By the Dealer's side they finally fall, sprawling upon their belly with head tilted back so they might see the painting. Curve of a smile and soft squeaks, paws patting the sand for they have not the words to express their feelings and so do so instead by action, finding the painting rather pretty for all the flaws Goldie might see within it.