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There was a fire in the backwoods. It flit from one point to the next in leaps and bounds; the snow hardly stopped it, save for the occasional gulley. Even within the tenebrous thicket, where not even the stars would breach the dismal sheet of ambiguous cloud-cover above, the cinder found her way.
It seemed fitting that someone so irascible would be welcomed to this place, this newness, by the nothingness of winter. The thick silence of it.
The witching hour came and went; the clouds drifted by sluggishly, contemptuously, as if eager to try and douse the flame they spied from their heavenly perch with wave after wave of sleet.
When the flame stopped its roaming, it sat like a tiny ember at the foot of a disintegrating copse of birch trees. They were like match-sticks, barely able to handle the beating of the wind or the frigidity of the season. At their ruined base, where the snow had been driven in to a great aggregation of nearly impenetrable slag, the woman sat and waited.
She coiled herself as tightly as her limber body could manage, pulled her tail across her snout, and stared out through the night — bright eyes narrowed to blazing slits of molten gold despite the incessant gloom.
But she would not sleep. She would only wait, and watch, until the storm exhausted itself and she could be on the march once again.
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There was a fire in the backwoods. It flit from one point to the next in leaps and bounds; the snow hardly stopped it, save for the occasional gulley. Even within the tenebrous thicket, where not even the stars would breach the dismal sheet of ambiguous cloud-cover above, the cinder found her way.
It seemed fitting that someone so irascible would be welcomed to this place, this newness, by the nothingness of winter. The thick silence of it.
The witching hour came and went; the clouds drifted by sluggishly, contemptuously, as if eager to try and douse the flame they spied from their heavenly perch with wave after wave of sleet.
When the flame stopped its roaming, it sat like a tiny ember at the foot of a disintegrating copse of birch trees. They were like match-sticks, barely able to handle the beating of the wind or the frigidity of the season. At their ruined base, where the snow had been driven in to a great aggregation of nearly impenetrable slag, the woman sat and waited.
She coiled herself as tightly as her limber body could manage, pulled her tail across her snout, and stared out through the night — bright eyes narrowed to blazing slits of molten gold despite the incessant gloom.
But she would not sleep. She would only wait, and watch, until the storm exhausted itself and she could be on the march once again.
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Messages In This Thread
shadow on the sun - by Nootka - January 26, 2017, 02:44 AM
RE: shadow on the sun - by Birk - February 04, 2017, 02:10 PM
RE: shadow on the sun - by Nootka - February 06, 2017, 07:20 PM
RE: shadow on the sun - by Birk - February 07, 2017, 02:21 PM
RE: shadow on the sun - by Nootka - February 08, 2017, 09:13 PM
RE: shadow on the sun - by Birk - February 19, 2017, 05:11 PM