11-21-2007, 04:30 AM
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- Luz Cresceno - November 17th, 2002 - Luperci Ortus - windmillwarrior@gmail.com - never had paris, AIM Major apologies for the rust, and the run-on sentences of death. College = a dropkick to inspiration testicles. Whatever had been gained or lost – a dash of swagger, a pinch of well-ground pride – since she’d last seen these dead elms and gnarl-face oaks had been cast off like clothing, or else remained well-concealed. The sneaky curves of this particular astronomer were conducive to such false-sorcery, such sleight-of-hand, such silly tricks that left her looking nearly untouched by a year, a month, a thousand days. Or perhaps she truly changed little with the wheel of seasons. She had all the accouterments of the fairer sex; yet she lacked the summer-sweetness and ripeness of maidenhood, having bartered them away well within infancy for a certain androgyne charm. Perhaps, since that ordinary day when she’d tethered her heart to the breezes, she’d gotten a double-portion of youth in return, a few extra mouthfuls that somehow lessened the doled pleasances of hip and breast. But I doubt it, and I digress. She strayed at the borderland. Such places were usually her haunts; she woke at dusk, slid into her grass-blade bed at dawn, and strode as a native throughout the half-real hours favored by thieves and poetry. Luz Cresceno was an astronomer: a profession that straddled science and fancy, or perhaps less prettily strapped law to the lights of night. Yet she felt no ease in this particular place. It didn’t evince in her face; her countenance was all serene angles and a single, lopsided smile. Perhaps her lightly slumped shoulders told a different story. There, at her side, was her tattered pillowcase; her fingers bore its weight like a well-remembered dream, with all the familiarity and reverence due to a container of her lifetime’s accruement. The brass intruments jangled a very little, even as her star maps made parchment-whispers, as time-yellowed paper is wont to do. Behind her was the east, and the quick slip of night into day. Before her lay doubt and fearful possibility littered about the mist-bottomed world of C.louded T.ears. Like sparks, like dark flecks amid a paltry purple, her thoughts lived and burned in her eyes. More conveniently discerned by the eyes was the werewolf elegance (a lattice of lupine ease and human posture) of spine, limb, and lesser portions of her optime form leaning against a grandfather oak, posed in some perfect mockery of contemplation. She waited with low-lidded eyes – for what was a roll of the die, but she waited nonetheless. |
