like an omen — francisco. & denali.
Feb 10, 2019 5:54:59 GMT -5
Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Feb 10, 2019 5:54:59 GMT -5
![](https://i.imgur.com/sEVz6Jd.png)
The world is quiet here,
no more pandemonium.
Either Francis was brave enough for the thunderstorms ahead, or he was numb, nerve endings all so frozen over like a lake caught in cruel winter that they couldn't bridge a way between the dark fear and his radiant heart.
His fingertips middle and toy with the marigolds, all cheaply held in an old vase with no water. He isn't surprised that the buds are dried-up, the color is unsaturated, and the heads are bowed down, as if in shame or defeat.
Still, Francis does not help it rise because he's worried that touching one head may break it, and that breakage may become an extensive, intricate metaphor which can be used to tell his own fate.
The boy breaks a flower head like a wishbone,
& those actions revisit his own bones, ten fold.
Superstitions and omens are haunting and, to him, real. They are as real as the blue in his veins, and the red of his arteries. And they are so haunting, but he likes the way they scream at him, winding each coarse finger of theirs around his pale throat and forces him to translate the warning signs to coherent words. Forces him to heed.
Do not wait for the pistol to be held between Death's bony fingers; throw it out of reach, out of touch — so that even Death cannot touch it.
Yet, there are little, subtle ways he can do to bring color back to these marigolds. He's willing to try his best without doing much at all. Rising to his feet, the movements far from sinuous, Francisco unlaces his left shoe.
After discarding it, he strides over to the rustic sink.
The water, cool to touch and the eyes, flows in gentle stream down into his shoe, leaking from a few crevices here and there. Quickly, he returns to the vase and transfers the water, watching the gleam of a current as it rises to the vase's brims. Pleased, Francis exhales a small laugh that is insignificantly lighter than the heaviness atop his chest.
But, the justice building's door creaks open and he, alarmed, acts unexpectedly in the face of unexpectedness — flailing his arm to look around which, in turn, topples the vase over to the ground.
Francis hisses at the loud crack, looking away from the pile of wet, broken clay and broken flower heads. But he's caught glimpses of it and the prophecies stare back at him, in utter shambles and ruins. The water laps at his socks, drenching the fabric; his toes curl and hide like scared creatures.
Ahead, astride over the door's threshold, is Denali Lyons, her hair the color of the marigold petals on the floor. A walking omen, she is.
“Are you always looking for the element of surprise?” Francisco asks, sighing. “Why aren't you visiting the other girl?”
He meant to say, why him?
But, he is brimmed with unspoken thoughts, each one locked away with no crevice to escape from.
“I— I think I want to be left alone.”
But if he truly wants to be alone,
then why does he crave to be found?
no more pandemonium.
Either Francis was brave enough for the thunderstorms ahead, or he was numb, nerve endings all so frozen over like a lake caught in cruel winter that they couldn't bridge a way between the dark fear and his radiant heart.
His fingertips middle and toy with the marigolds, all cheaply held in an old vase with no water. He isn't surprised that the buds are dried-up, the color is unsaturated, and the heads are bowed down, as if in shame or defeat.
Still, Francis does not help it rise because he's worried that touching one head may break it, and that breakage may become an extensive, intricate metaphor which can be used to tell his own fate.
The boy breaks a flower head like a wishbone,
& those actions revisit his own bones, ten fold.
Superstitions and omens are haunting and, to him, real. They are as real as the blue in his veins, and the red of his arteries. And they are so haunting, but he likes the way they scream at him, winding each coarse finger of theirs around his pale throat and forces him to translate the warning signs to coherent words. Forces him to heed.
Do not wait for the pistol to be held between Death's bony fingers; throw it out of reach, out of touch — so that even Death cannot touch it.
Yet, there are little, subtle ways he can do to bring color back to these marigolds. He's willing to try his best without doing much at all. Rising to his feet, the movements far from sinuous, Francisco unlaces his left shoe.
After discarding it, he strides over to the rustic sink.
The water, cool to touch and the eyes, flows in gentle stream down into his shoe, leaking from a few crevices here and there. Quickly, he returns to the vase and transfers the water, watching the gleam of a current as it rises to the vase's brims. Pleased, Francis exhales a small laugh that is insignificantly lighter than the heaviness atop his chest.
But, the justice building's door creaks open and he, alarmed, acts unexpectedly in the face of unexpectedness — flailing his arm to look around which, in turn, topples the vase over to the ground.
Francis hisses at the loud crack, looking away from the pile of wet, broken clay and broken flower heads. But he's caught glimpses of it and the prophecies stare back at him, in utter shambles and ruins. The water laps at his socks, drenching the fabric; his toes curl and hide like scared creatures.
Ahead, astride over the door's threshold, is Denali Lyons, her hair the color of the marigold petals on the floor. A walking omen, she is.
“Are you always looking for the element of surprise?” Francisco asks, sighing. “Why aren't you visiting the other girl?”
He meant to say, why him?
But, he is brimmed with unspoken thoughts, each one locked away with no crevice to escape from.
“I— I think I want to be left alone.”
But if he truly wants to be alone,
then why does he crave to be found?