Jodainislame
He'd just come home, refamiliarizing his eyes with street he'd run many times, faces who have aged in the past handful of years. One face, no, looking down it was two, stood out from the rest and his eyes could not be torn away.
The sun was suffocating in it's embrace, every inch sweltering to a crisp, only to be satiated by the fresh burst of a fruit's gift.
He stood in the threshold, ever fiber as still as stone. Icy cold walls pulled in on him, crushing him with their unbearable weight. Amongst the dull greys of a royal hue was a smattering of violent crimson, a sickening color.
The bitter cold was held back by thick wooden doors. An older woman sat upon a rickety stool, whose legs strained on the stone beneath them, with the whisper of wurring and a fresh yarn pooling.
Puffing out into billows of thick clouds, a cough rang through the metal space. No matter how much the boy tried to clear the air in front of him it was hopeless, swirling blackness only grew darker as coughs echoed back in a mocking chorus.
They had fallen months ago, time dancing with the sun to make tenderness into frailty. Heavy boots and concrete give an intoxicating orchestra.
She limped through brush, ever vigilant of the crunch of dry leaves beneath her feet. The brush, much like her dangerous shadow, prickly and tearing at whatever it could reach.
Chugging electric colors, feeling the tingling lightning course until bodies are fueled and buzzing. Yet, when you put bad oil in a machine, it tends to break faster.
Shards of clay strewn about the concrete floor, dust pan in an unsteady hand sweeping up crumbs of blackness.
Flying high the the sky with youthful laughter filling the air. A grimace from below, callous with adulthood. Tick tick tick, your time is coming. There be no more time for plunder or these little play pretends.
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