twenty-four hours from tulsa // return

[georgie]

“[color=white]Only, one day away from your AAARMS,” And why [i]shouldn’t she sing at the top of her lungs? Was she not, after all, a perfect being? In another life, anyway, but who kept score when it came to the particulars? Some things have bushels of lifespans under their belt and they spend each one more hideous than the last. And that was just tragic.

So, so, so tragic. “[color=white]I SAW a welco-MING light!” To set the record straight, Georgie wasn’t a good singer. To set it [i]precise, the animal she was inhabiting wasn’t known for sporting a good set of pipes by anybody, and the noises she made now were near torturous. Her enthusiasm was abundant, but it didn’t change nor did it make up for the fact that one could almost assume the dead birds scattered around her had died from the shock of her noisy squalling, if they weren’t so obviously mutilated in a way that suggested something a tad more brutal.

Georgie batted a de-winged corpse away from herself in a move that was remarkably kittenish for the sturdy leopard body she inhabited. Something about birds never failed to push some kind of button for the beast. Some kind of messy, wing-snapping, meat-tearing button. It was wasteful, really.

“[color=white]Hello, hello, my friends! It’s Georgie Porgie. I’m back to be in your arms!” She cried out, taking a break from her singing and her violence to announce herself. “[color=white]Or I’ll wrap mine all around you. Whichever!”