pameghan
That book we all had to read: Pony Boy and Soda. Grade eight. Dr. Anderson's classroom: she was terrifying and formidable and ugly. Or seemed so at the time. Like a desert lizard you wouldn't want to cross. Turning on the tape deck for another installment of Dr. Jeckyll & Mr. Hyde.
Endlessness in a puddle, she thought. Each small layer of water blanketing the other, and she would shrink herself to lie between them, looking up through the vitrious gel at the world, a little hazy and blasted through with light.
Thinking of Angela - Angellas I have met. Loud, boisterous, impossible to look away angels in the forefront. Not guardians so much as blazing torch women, winged, sure. Won't sit still for a painting - or a sketch, even.
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thinkingangelaangellasmetloudboisterousimpossibleangelsforefrontguardiansblazingtorchwingedsuresitpainting