01-02-2011, 09:10 PM
The irony of a town named Wolfville was not lost on Vera as she explored it upon four paws, her bag strapped along her back and an opulent ruby amulet dangling from her neck. Her lupus form was unnaturally unfamiliar, a state she had found herself in rarely while living luxuriously in Moscow; the community's marked preference had always been that of the optime form, many of its residents playing house and imitating the typical human lifestyle in dresses and a coat of fur they could never take off (much to their chagrin, Vera postulated). Moscow had been vibrant, a city of wonders and celebrations and occupations -- it functioned much as it had when its creators had lived, its citizens working and producing. Although it regressed technologically, the culture thrived, though it was often dimmed in her own household by her decidedly unhappy mother and tortured artist father. Only her brother, so vivacious and gregarious, had carried the adoration for unabashed festivity -- a fervor that surely trumped that of the humans, so historically downtrodden.
She was sure this town was once great, but its glory was extinguished. The wilderness had invaded, encroaching on concrete with the aid of time; it was a battle lost before it had begun. Nonetheless, it was quaint, a cluster of shops with faded awnings, some ripped and drooping. Across the cracked road was a bookstore, its windows smeared with filth, but so achingly lovely she wasted little time approaching it. Two minutes later, and she was erect, running fingers through her dark hair and pulling from her bag an engraved silver comb. She tried the door as she ran its teeth through the silk strands, sighing with a heave of her chest. Locked -- she would have to break in. Slipping a gold band on her right ring finger, she eyed the streets, searching for a stone to send sailing through the glass. Nabokov burned her through its leather tomb, its spine debilitated and pages torn much like an old man. Her silver gaze flickered to the surrounding stores, most unrecognizable after years of neglect. She entered the nearest.
As if a hurricane had torn past the door swinging loosely on its hinges, the store appeared ransacked, a collection of chairs and tables overturned. The far wall was host to a laminated menu, the words indecipherable but situated aside a simplistic image of a hot cup of coffee. A chair would do, she decided. Grabbing the old wooden seat with a ginger touch, she exited the establishment, eying the bookstore a she held her method of breaking and entering.
(436)
She was sure this town was once great, but its glory was extinguished. The wilderness had invaded, encroaching on concrete with the aid of time; it was a battle lost before it had begun. Nonetheless, it was quaint, a cluster of shops with faded awnings, some ripped and drooping. Across the cracked road was a bookstore, its windows smeared with filth, but so achingly lovely she wasted little time approaching it. Two minutes later, and she was erect, running fingers through her dark hair and pulling from her bag an engraved silver comb. She tried the door as she ran its teeth through the silk strands, sighing with a heave of her chest. Locked -- she would have to break in. Slipping a gold band on her right ring finger, she eyed the streets, searching for a stone to send sailing through the glass. Nabokov burned her through its leather tomb, its spine debilitated and pages torn much like an old man. Her silver gaze flickered to the surrounding stores, most unrecognizable after years of neglect. She entered the nearest.
As if a hurricane had torn past the door swinging loosely on its hinges, the store appeared ransacked, a collection of chairs and tables overturned. The far wall was host to a laminated menu, the words indecipherable but situated aside a simplistic image of a hot cup of coffee. A chair would do, she decided. Grabbing the old wooden seat with a ginger touch, she exited the establishment, eying the bookstore a she held her method of breaking and entering.
(436)