painted { h e a r t s } // Meghan : blitz

She had not wandered out here in a while, just to lay aside her trident and sit upon her favorite rock in order to take a moment to consider the deep meaning and intracity of life. It had not seemed necessary with her father's fishing business finally managing its first success, and the demand for her time being tenfold its usual amount. Sitting alone was an unnecessary habit, was it not? Frances liked to tell herself all sorts of things, but that never quite made them true.

It was a nice change, solitude, and she almost would not have noticed the others, or suppose she should say, one other, if it wasn't for it being almost too peaceful. For her neck began to prickle with an indeterminate cause, and if her neck was prickling, then there must be a reason.

The girl of only fifteen swung 180 degrees on her rock and faced the rude boy, who was only innocently drawing lines on the sand, but had still interrupted a time she had dedicated just to herself. She crossed her arms and let out a loud, announcing cluck with her tongue in the hopes to get his attention.

"A moment of peace after a busy day was all I asked for,"

She rises as the boy stands like a lonesome freight in the middle of a cyclone. This is one sailor who will not go down with the ship. The tide is rising, and she has no intention on setting sail with its mistakes. He hurls insults and she shrugs them off, her eyes wide with questioning focus.

"Smart mouth?" She demands, arms still waving madly, "You think that demanding a moment of serenity is smart than you have clearly misunderstood the definition of smart!" The girl guffaws, an arm clutching her stomach for support as she laughs at the boy, "Smart: having or showing quick intelligence or ready mental capability. What I believe you are trying to define is being an ass-hat, in which case, yes, I probably am being one. But people have been being quite rude lately, and I just wanted to be alone, okay? You could have found a different place to do whatever you were doing, you know."

It became quickly obvious that shrewd words would not be a great enough tactic to scare this boy away. Honestly, it was almost a pity, for peacefulness was hard to come by these days. Still, this boy seemed determined to speak to Frances and if she was being true to herself, it had been a while since she had any sort of human interaction that did not have to do with fishing, or worse, expectations.

“It’s my home you know. Look at the detail, the way you can see that crack on the front door. It’s perfect.” He indicates something, but his eyes are distant and the girl can tell that the words are not supposed to be her business. It was quite odd how similar his current anecdotes were to her usual, wordsmith philosophy. Details matter, but not if they overshadow the overall picture. She forgets her anger for a minute, her mouth losing its sarcastic smirk as she waits for the boy to finish his thoughts. The strong temptation to share her own perspective wafts through the salt-filled air, yet the girl bites her tongue until she feels a familiar sting of pain. The boy could not distract her that easily. He continues, his eyes turning to truly take in her secrets. “But in all honesty how does me drawing in the sand affect you?”

A rogue grin stretches across her face with fought eagerness. She does not want to share herself with a perfect stranger, but his questions contain enough honesty for her to question her abrupt nature. "It is not about what you were doing, it is about why you were doing it," Frances responds simply, for once the sarcasm missing from her voice. She meets his eyes daringly, her smile intended this time. "You are interesting," She announces, and for the first time moves away from her rock to come observe his focused work. "Stay entertaining and I might let you stick around for a minute longer. But after that, surely you must leave me alone. Now, tell me, what are you actually doing?"

The boy speaks in a series of images as he describes the little thing he calls art. Family, past experiences, and future hope all seem to shape his words, and she leans into just a little bit closer to hear him describe his masterpiece. If it was stories he wanted then it was stories she could give him, the thread of fables being one of her favorite things. Frances smiled a genuine grin, the corners of her lips pushing into her cheeks and her dark eyes twinkling, not unlike the wise old wizards in stories of old.

"Stories," She whispers and reaches into the sand before her. She traces the outline of her left hand and furrows a brow, her mind working earnestly. "I love stories. Real ones, not just the ones about our lives but the ones we could never actually live out. Where we fly away on our dragons or marry the prince or whatever. Oh, those are my favorite." Her eyes glaze over and she falls into silence, her heart reeling from the thought of a good tale.