truenorth
The wardrobe was more grand a piece of furniture than Clare had ever seen before. The wood, all stained red in the way that made you think of living wood, that made you feel the heat of life under your fingertips when you touched it. And the brass fixtures, of course, carved with more delicacy than most of the fine jewelry pieces she saw around the necks of all the ladies of court. The more she took it in, the more Clare wanted to cry with the joy of her one persistent thought- this elegant thing belonged to her.
It seemed darker than usual...or maybe that was just because he was afraid where he hadn't been before. Ever since that stranger had showed up at his house, screaming in the night about how dangerous it was, he'd been shaky and jumpy. Maybe this security job hadn't been the best idea... And the fact that the buildings were all totally empty was somehow not as comforting as it should have been...
Bats navigate entirely on sonar. That's such a weird thing to think about. They're these tiny creatures in the world, a lot of them no bigger than our hands, and they can't see. I remember once I was little, and I close my eyes in the dark and tried to picture my yard mentally and navigate my way around my yard. I tripped over a rock and fell, and it scared me so much, I felt like the most powerless creature in the universe. But bats don't suffer from existentialist crises of identity like humans do.
Science is one of those things I wish I knew more about. I understand that it's essentially as close to magic as we'll ever get, messing with the chemistry of living things, and the physics of the universe. I've always been baffled by people who think science and religion are opposites, because I've always seen God in the way your heart makes blood pump, and sunlight sets off the color of your eyes.
The lines are laid out in such a specific pattern, like the way God writes lines into your body. They spider out across the skin of you, and collide harmoniously into little shapes like stars and crosses. They are the proof of both nature and industry in your hands.
Saturday had always been her favorite day. It was the one time she could shut herself off from the world and all of its people. She could sit on her green velour chair with her feet up on the little pumpkin colored ottoman with the fringe and drink her orange rooibos tea and let all of the grief of the week melt out of her.
The earth crumbled away beneath his steel-toed boots and floated off like they were suspended by some invisible stream. In reality, knowing that he was standing on the edge of the planet's gravitational field was considerably less comfortable that a babbling brook would have been.
There wasn't really any organized order. At least, not in a system known to man. But there they were, a configuration of used lighters laid out on the table, in various states of decay- cracked, burned, scuffed, scraped, or just plain broken, complete with jagged edge. Each was perfectly straight up and down, lined up in even rows and columns, as if there was an imaginary grid with one square each dedicated to a lighter. His dedication to their order and preservation was positively alien.
Soups! Well, let's see, what can I say about soups? I mean, I don't have much...soups are essentially just various ingredients mixed into hot water, aren't they? What's so impressive about soup? Not much.