marronmarvel
softly the feathers
ruffle in the summer wind
black bird flies away
There is nothing that brings joy when one is filled with fury; and yet, despite Potter's insolence, the corner of Snape's mouth tugs upward into a faint smile of amusement. Perhaps, he thinks, the boy can be taught humility. Taught to be less like his father and more like his mother. He has her eyes, after all.
"Ten points from Gryffindor."
Hello, Pretty. I know things are rough for you right now, but I love you. Hang in there, all right? Things will find a way of working themselves out, and someday soon we'll have the chance to have our own crazy adventures together instead of just talking about what the future might possibly hold. The world is full of brightness and wonder, and I can't wait to experience all of that with you, my love.
The first time I went to a funeral, I was thirteen going on fourteen. My grandfather had just passed away after a heart attack, and it was one of the worst experiences of my life. I remember going up to the casket to see him, his face looking strange and rubbery, fake with a giant smile spread across his lips. I remember kissing his forehead and saying goodbye.
The only other thing I remember were his hands. His hands were often swollen at the joints from arthritis, but there on that day, they were smooth. They looked pain free. Somehow, that brought me a tiny bit of solace.
Their family tartan was a mixture of reds and grays and greens, a cloth worn by generations and generations before him. Today was different than many other days, however; it was very rare for Ian to put on a kilt, but he would make an exception today as he stood together with his uncles, brothers, cousins -- kinsmen. A row of plaid stretched out along the hill.
In the distance, bagpipes played "Amazing Grace" as they lowered Ian's father into the ground.
The dark green matte board was covered with the remains of white chalk, places where worlds were discovered, kingdoms created and destroyed, wars were started and won -- and lost. And never once had the old chalkboard failed its owner, who had been teaching in that same classroom, using that same chalkboard for nearly thirty years.
"Obsolete," they had told him. They would replace it with a touch screen, with technology pretty, shiny, any new.
He ran his finger over the surface of the chalkboard, white powder sticking to his fingers. Times were changing, and so...
The radio played "Any Way You Want It" in the background of the overcrowded bar, full of rednecks and rockers and professionals who were ready for the weekend.
"Two beers, please," he called over the sound of a group of already-tipsy middle-aged woman singing along with Journey to his left. He paid the bartender in cash and grabbed the bottles, turning away from the bar and toward the rest of the seedy, run-down pub, this mecca for the working class of this sleepy Midwest town. Now to find someone to share that second beer with.
Adjusting the backpack slung over his shoulder, Grant surveyed the landscape before him. Old and worn out, it was rugged, vicious, full of strange landscape formations and teeming with creatures that were no doubt as scared of him as he was of them -- yet ready to strike at a moment's notice. This would be an adventure, certainly; the first day of school usually was.
A stack of pictures strewn across the hardwood floor; memories from a life shared between two loves as the days and years rolled by. The montage of photos brought a tear to his eye as aged fingers lifted a wedding photo from the pile. She was gone now, but never forgotten.
writing since 2011 · 9 entries · 9 days shown up
each square is a day—lit means Marron showed up.
3longest streak
9days written
1entries / week
the words Marron reaches for
nowfullchalkboardrememberbroughtagedfingerslandscapewornstrangereadyplayedbaralongworkingwhite