Persie Stamers // D7 // WIP

She spun on the needles, her bare feet carelessly falling. A ribbon was tied in her hair, the bow slipping from its knot. The satin fabric was the colour of flesh that had been struck sharply moments before. The colour contrasting with her short waves of chocolate hanging from her head, desperately trying to break free from her scalp, as the momentum of her slight body beneath continued to twirl. She hummed as she turned, old songs of work and play, joy and sorrow. Her voice was strained, and her throat was tight, her head hung back on her neck, her rosy nose to the grey sky, lips closed in a smile. Her hands, skeletal with skin draped over her nuckles, were outstretched, fingers reaching for the breeze. She knew nothing could touch her if she didn't want it to. The clouds above were the colour of slate, threatening to release the fluffy white flakes on the forest below. Ever-greens sway with the current of air, waving to the girl below, and their smell was potent in her nostrils. She wore no shoes, and only a thin dress, and the late-autum air whipped around her like icy knives, but she continued to hum, the music in her larynx was the only thing conscious thought she had. But that was unusual. Her strings of intuition were frayed, and tied in different directions, pulling her each way. But there, in the trees, her mind had been clear, the only noises to be heard were the vibration coming from her rounded neck, and the whispers of the timber, communicating through the wind. She wished they wouldn't chop down the trees.

The woods were her oasis, and the creek of the trees dancing in the gale was her lullaby. The cabin where she lived with her family was identical the others in the row. Small and humble, but still the places where so many hearts found themselves to belong. Her mother's mother lives with them as well. Her skin sagged to the ground, and she whistled through her crooked teeth as she spoke, but she always knew what there was to know. Her wisdom was legendary among the three children in the house. The old woman was granted the softest bed in the building, and the child could only describe it as sleeping on a cloud. Her grandchildren shared a mat on the loft of the cabin, where they would sleep on their sides, their ribs falling and rising in sync, as they slumbered. There was two girls younger than the one who wore the pink ribbon. The three were best friends, but the eldest was more distant. She preferred to tell her secrets to ancient giants that stood outside the door. Her mother worried for her daughter, since she spent her time conversing with hardwoods, and not studying, or managing to spark genuine friendship with real people. Her father rolled his eyes when his daughter would beg him to stay home, to not go into the woods to murder her friends. The rest of the people called her a fool, strangers who didn't understand why her friends meant anything to her. But she would tell the forest, that they were more than an economy, and they were more than a source of sustenance. They were a gift from a greater being, whose creation was the most brilliant, and understanding, more than any other of works of art that breathed the clean air.