in a world called catasrophe
#1
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This land had been the closest thing Poe D’Angelo had ever had to religion. Its saints were ghosts and the preachers were old trees that spoke in tongues. It had governed her once, until she had cut the primal umbilical cord and toughened the pads of her hind legs for the pavement and began to collect clothing instead of the stones she had called magic treasure. She had not walked on four legs in eighteen months, and gone without some kind of clothing for more than a day in twelve. But she could still close her eyes and manoeuvre through this place with her eyes closed and year its rhythm if her ears were bound against her skull. Just like her family, this place did not grip her, but she the touch was never quite lost, no matter how much time was spent without.


She returned on the whims of her curiosity, a stifled hope that the scents of her past would return periodically drawing her out of the city and away from the coast. Misery, Samhain, Physe, Ahren, Roman, Ana. None of their scents had resurrected, even though half had been spotted shortly after her initial return from overseas. A short hello and a long goodbye, it seemed like that was the way life went and Poe was growing accustomed to it. Or at least she had stopped fighting it.


She wore a long patchwork jacket that broke the nipping jaws of autumn’s chill before reaching the fur and flesh of her torso and thighs. The ground was freckled with orange and red leaves, contrasting the monotones that made up much of the Moaning Woods. It hinted at a more conventional beauty than the land normally conjured and brought back very particular memories. She had only walked these lands at this time of year once in her life, during the first rotation of her years passed. Dancing flames over the bodies of dead and living came to life over and over in the dewy surface of those golden-red leaves, haunting her with cold sweats on newly chilling nights. She hadn’t been prepared to live on her own when she took off, and there had been more than one occasion that it had nearly cost her life, but she walked over new leaves two years later, a fiercely independent girl for it. She had never come to know those hell-born siblings of that time, or returned to her mother’s den for her birthday or the fall festivities, but with the outstretch of time and perspective, they appeared different from the emotion her memories described it as. It had been a difficult time for everyone, that year. She had thought herself to be so much the lost outcast, she had perhaps been one of the majority. The unusual pixie-smile and dancing gait had been left at the border, and Poe walked slowly now with a small frown and lightly closed eyes.
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