and the crashes are heaven, for a sinner like me

Levent Kartal · 10-06-2012, 10:52 PM

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they took for granted your soul
and it's ours now to steal

Word Count → 000

The Turkish man’s lips moved as he whispered a silent prayer, his eyes closed and his cream fingers curled into the fur at the nape of Wilson’s neck. He wondered if the ocean would simply sweep out across the whole of the city and wash the buildings away, or if a skyscraper might fall under the might of the wind itself; it certainly sounded like this smaller clothing store would collapse if the rain beat just a little bit harder on its roof.

Minutes passed, but they stretched like an eternity. Levent shifted nervously and was rewarded with a stab of pain through his back from being cramped in the same position for so long. Gritting his teeth, he tried to stand up and stumbled against the wall as the cat crouched nervously at his feet. By the time he’d thrown a hand out to catch himself and paused to catch his breath, however, Levent heard another scream from the mare: but this one with a different message. Most of the sounds had been wordless terror even from the point of Low Speech, but this one was a fearful demand, a question that cracked at the end: a plea for this someone or something to reveal themselves.

“Someone else is here,” Levent growled to the cat, but even as much he wanted to hunker down and leave that someone to their fate, he didn’t want Mai to injure herself or them in the panic. He left Wilson in the dressing room, though, not wanting to risk him being outside of the safe nest.

The brown wolf stepped out into the main room, throwing a command at the mare in her own tongue to calm down. Her response was as sarcastic and contemptuous as ever, but there was a note of sheer panic in her voice that he chose to ignore. The whites of her eyes showing, her ears flattened, the paint horse managed to step back away from the red merle dog she’d been about to corner, her legs shaking.

“You here for shelter?” Levent asked the dog, his own ears flattened, his hair and head-cloth in disarray. He tried to keep his voice level, maybe even a little ironic in its tone, but his words came out too flat and curt for his liking, betraying his fear—if his bristling bottlebrush tail and acidic reek didn’t already.

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