At the Violet Hour
#12
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Woop! I think this is my fastest reply in months, haha.

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Although she didn't mean to, the girl crept forward as Skye started to talk about books, as if the words were physically pulling her tiny form closer and closer. If the humans cared enough to write about wolves, what about dogs? Were there books about dogs, too? And forests, and deserts? Bindu's dark eyes shone, hungry with curiosity, though beneath it she was feeling a little confused. Human things were dangerous, her mother had always said, and yet the teen was deeply intrigued.

White paws parted the blooms gently, careful not to harm any of them; heaven forbid she leave any trace here, in this beautiful place, of her clumsiness and stupidity. About a foot away from the ginger-headed lady Bindu paused. She did not hide her gaze, which devoured Skye's every move; the white wolf drew a block of white paper and a strange black stick from her backpack. The calico teen was thoroughly perplexed. Books were supposed to have lines and lines of tiny black squiggles -this book was blank. I must be stupid, the teen thought in frustration, and squinted a little harder at the white paper over Skye's shoulder. She must not be looking carefully enough. All books had words in them.

Skye's fingers made swirling marks on the paper with the stick, thin charcoal lines that twirled like magic. Bindu gasped in awe as her friend finished her work. There, standing out against a white sky was a blooming flower. Some characters were scribbled near it, but they were unrecognizable. As she stared at the drawing, the girl listened to Skye talk and understood what the strange blank book was for; for writing in.

Bindu hated her optime body, the fingers and toes and bent limbs. But only a wolf with hands could write and draw, spinning a stick of charcoal across white pages like ivory. And though she hated it, daughter of the desert admitted to herself that two-legs alone could do something this beautiful.


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