07-11-2008, 01:13 AM
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Table by Tammi!
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Pardon the delay. My laptop hasn't been working at my cottage, so I've had to borrow someone else's now. I'll be back to regular posting soon, though. :]
The stoned tough-guy was seemingly fascinated by her dress, and Poe replied with an equally blatant interest in his physical features; the details of his marking, the curve of his lower eyelid, cradling gasping pupils as he looked closer at the pink fabric, and the way the muscles in his face pinched and pulled when she spoke. His hesitancy was explained as he pushed out a few basic words in Spanish off of his tongue, landing in the lap of her dress. She grinned with open amusement, mellowed by a wedge of nostalgia and simple appreciation for even the small, broken piece of one of those romance languages that she had strolled amongst too briefly, but so vividly. ”Ah, señor, this old thing? Just a party dress I found in a pile of memories and high heeled shoes,” she chimed back in a warm, rolling tone that came from too little sleep, a little alcohol and a great, subdued interest in dancing with this quirky, serendipitous moment of time in a secret city nook.
In a tower of steel Nature forges a deal To raise wonderful hell
It was all about angles, levels and tints, these egos that shaped the lands and the bodies that tred it. While Anslem lived so close to the conflict between wolf and coyote that he could smell the bad blood as it boiled and steamed, Poe’s worldly idealism and unconventional life between concrete and ocean distracted her senses with anything but. Seemingly impossibly, she had caught only the softest breeze of the discrimination that painted lines across this (and the last) landscape, despite the violent having torn her own flesh once. The fundamental concepts were so foreign to her eclectic experiences that it would sound laughable to have it presented to her at this point in her life. But then again, Poe D’Angelo laughed for many reasons, so perhaps it would be less telling that it might seem/The stoned tough-guy was seemingly fascinated by her dress, and Poe replied with an equally blatant interest in his physical features; the details of his marking, the curve of his lower eyelid, cradling gasping pupils as he looked closer at the pink fabric, and the way the muscles in his face pinched and pulled when she spoke. His hesitancy was explained as he pushed out a few basic words in Spanish off of his tongue, landing in the lap of her dress. She grinned with open amusement, mellowed by a wedge of nostalgia and simple appreciation for even the small, broken piece of one of those romance languages that she had strolled amongst too briefly, but so vividly. ”Ah, señor, this old thing? Just a party dress I found in a pile of memories and high heeled shoes,” she chimed back in a warm, rolling tone that came from too little sleep, a little alcohol and a great, subdued interest in dancing with this quirky, serendipitous moment of time in a secret city nook.
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