ToneDeafTheBard
She kept the scrap of paper in her pocket for a long time, and then she forgot to take it out before putting her jeans through the wash. She forgot several times, in fact, and she only ever let go of the one thing she felt proved that Amelia was ever alive, her only way to prove they had known each other, when it had been dissolved by Tide detergent.
She rest on top of her bed, completely unchanged except for her lack of footwear, and stared up at the ceiling. Her eyes were dry and tired and her body ached horribly every time she so much as breathed deeply, but her mind was still on the fritz and it kept her from falling asleep. Of all the things she figured could keep her up at night, of all the things that made *sense*, it was that maze of urban alleyways that arrested her consciousness: the darkness, the labyrinthine chase, the dank odor of rust and beer...
There were a couple of ways the girls at the 'stead described her. "Francis is the redhead, dyed, obviously," Natania said, and Ódri explained that she was the one who carried me to the doctor that night they found me. Esperanza just said she was distant, and that if I ever got a sense of who Francis really is I should tell them all about her because Francis was still an enigma to them.
Ódri prides herself on knowing more about Francis than the rest of us, and maybe that's true since she's always following her around like a lost little girl. But Francis is hardest on Ódri-- colder, sharper, even more-- distant.
She knelt by the radiator in the room and inspected the flecks of white paint that had chipped off. Her finger spooned the Canadian penny out of her fraying jean pockets, and she placed it gently underneath the radiator, close enough to the wall to keep it hidden.
The penny would stay here forever, or until the next owners vacuumed the room very thoroughly. But Yael would go. She had to go.
She was never really aware of the badge she wore. She only time it begged her notice was when she was flat-faced on the ground and she could feel the small metal pin poke her when she was pressed against the pavement. Nobody eyed the badge, really, since she kept it in her wallet in her pocket. They could tell she was a cop by the uniform anyhow.
That was the thing about the nomads: everyone was a provider. The hunters provided meat and protection; the pickers gathered plants of medicinal and sustainable value; the elderly and the idling (of whom there were few) crafted bracelets and other embellishments to nurse everyone's pride. Everyone pulled their own weight, even those who ought not to. There were no Naunis or Prinpos.
She wanted to announce it to everyone but she knew she couldn't. She simply couldn't, and that tore at her.
She was sitting on that same old rock overlooking the edge of the hill stewing over how unfair it all was for hours, maybe. The sun got tired of it and started to retreat to its own business. The night was friendlier, as always.
She recalled the memory. It was the most quietly exciting time of her life.
She and Ganjo were only about eleven then, but they were strong and big for their age, and they had already crafted their own items, though rather shoddily. They showed an eagerness for exactitude, however, and it was that auspiciousness that got them invited to The Woodpecker's estate.
Besra watched him draw back the arrow. His muscles rippled when he pulled back the string, but it was a natural kind of stress, like the ocean building up a wave. He stared straight ahead at the target and, with a quick jolt, released the arrow. It hit the dummy right in the throat.
"Haven't seen that man miss yet," Besra told the empress beside her. "I think he's the one."
The awakening was excruciating. Amelia had been on watch, immediately alerted by the sudden sharp rustling of dry leaves and roughspun. In a heartbeat, she had an arrow sitting on her bow string, aiming down the shaft. But eventually, Amelia realized that the sound was coming from the seeker. Directing her attention back to the camp, she found Norine thrashing around, her eyes shut tightly enough to carve wrinkles like trenches around her eyes.
load more entries