lilmb
The downpour fell in sheets, soaking yabelle. Her fur was matted to her little cat body, the ball of yarn she had been tangling was sopping wet. There is nothing sadder than a wet cat. Her ears drooped downwards and her eyes were big.
He was passionate. Not angry, not dramatic, not mean. Passionate. He would argue with vigor that was often mistaken for agression. But he meant no harm and would never hurt anybody, even though he wasn't quiet about it. Just, passionate.
Suppositions are the root of creative curiosity. It is a tool to get another person to relate to a hypothetical situation. Suppose that no one ever supposed anything... We'd never ask questions, never be wrong, never come to any conclusions, wrong or right.
Teetering on the edge, she waited. Waited for some kind of sign to proceed, some kind of feeling, or urge, or cloud in the sky that made her want to do something besides just stand there on the edge. It had been a long time, a long time standing on that edge, waiting without a sign, an urge.
What was he most concerned about in the moment?
Her concern was greater than his own
What concerned myself never seems to concern anyone else
Does anyone find this to be a reason for concern?
He didn't think that she would rally, but just when she seemed the most tired, she showed a strength and bravery he didn't know she had in her. She opened her eyes. It was the last thing anyone expected from her, the doctors, friends, family. They all gathered around her bed and started sobbing at the sight of her liquid brown eyes.
The bow in her hair was satin, it nodded towards the ground as she bowed, the bow of the ship approaching her and the dog in the distance calling "Bow wow! Bow wow!"
He assisted her up the steep incline. Rocks and gravel trailed around as her hiking boots sought out firm grips. They were hurrying to the top of the ridge, rushing to beat the sun as it dropped below the hills in the distance.
She taught herself how to french braid her own hair.
The ducks wade into the pond all together, lifting up the skirts of their feathers delicately as they enter. Water lilies almost float by, but they are anchored to the muddy depths with fronded anchors.
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