Because even gods retreat. // Pluto & Thurman. (Gryphon)
Feb 9, 2017 11:42:32 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Feb 9, 2017 11:42:32 GMT -5
PLUTO ROSENTHAL
DISTRICT 12
His name is Pluto Rosenthal.
Mother speaks glamorously of him, as if he is a movie-star and a capitalist who introduced bizarre and peculiar concepts to modern methods. A sheen is present in the abyssal eyes of her every time the word ‘Pluto’ and ‘Rosenthal’ escapes her pastel, lipstick-free pink hues. Her skin figuratively glows and the white threads in her brown locks shift into an ethereal state for mere seconds—each and every time she recedes his tale. He was an icon of power, talent and beauty. Golden locks which cascade as wind does on the ocean, an ariose and attention-grappling voice and the power over all precious metals known to existence. He who walks amongst columns sculpted from gold, stomps on lanes lined with sapphires and bathe in the luster of rubies. He rests on the throne of The Underworld leisurely, showering in the presence of his wealth, power and heroic acts. She voices each and every word with an utterly fascinated feeling, weaving a net to captivate others’ minds through the flawlessly crafted and picked syllables.
He was told that Pluto had the most beautiful and seraphic woman of all. She was a goddess herself—a fierce one. Her hair was radiant with the aroma of fresh buds of spring and her skin was a perfect opponent of the oblique, scintillating rays of the spring sun. Flowers flourished in her wake and leaves sang lullabies during her slumbers. The enthralling words never fail to convey her level of education—his mother was worthy of enlightening others. She could grapple the attention of a horde if it was within her desires. She ran her silken digits through his hair, each thread of it cascading out of her grasp in the manner of a liquid; he had been lying on her lap and he had lost track of time. “So,” The pause to her description of the woman was unsatisfying but his eyes rose to meet hers. “Do you, Pluto Rosenthal, has a girl fitting to this description?” The inquiry was said with no weight but the meaning of it brought him to his knees. “You are Pluto, the ruler of The Underworld and the god of precious metals. You should have to sight this girl immediately. Her name is Persephone, the supreme of control over all flowers.” A smile crackled out of the corners of her lips.
His body restlessly rose from the laid posture into a sitting one, the sudden dullness spiking from within his muscles indicated that he had been still in the previous position for a lengthy moment of time. However, the pain was not worthy of being in comparison with the one blazing in his pool of thoughts—it was chaotic and stormy there currently; all thoughts were joining into a whirlpool of unnecessary cluster. Some stray musings traipsed all over the wastelands underneath his thick skull. This feeling was a lightning strike—unexpected and brisk. The impact of this feeling was electrifying. The inquiry of his mother hung in the air and weighted it down—she was curiously awaiting for an answer to the query. “Ah…” Could he deny? Could he give fake confirmation? Could he divulge his true colors? Could he openly state to her his inability to build a family which would have a child unless the mentioned child is of another blood? Can he converse with his mother—an individual who instantly yearns for only three Rosenthals to be in existence simultaneously—about how he loves to stare at the dirt-smeared visage and the barbwire hair of the boys on the streets?
No, he doesn’t think so.
She stares at him using eyes tinted with skepticism.
(Does he have any girl? It echoed, tugging at his strings of thought.)
“I haven’t and I don’t think I will for a while.” He wore the best of his theatrical smiles while giving the answer. And before she could fragmentize him with a far more catastrophic, crashing question, he leapt off the squared bench-like furniture and onto the shade cast by the porch of their house. Then, he hastily crafted a solid excuse—something that had to do with rock-collecting, he doesn’t recall even after seconds of saying it—and ran off into the cloud of dust veiling the entirety of District 12.
Oppressive winds conveyed the lingering coolness of winter onto his vulnerable skin. However, even amidst the harsh style of this dilapidated district, little birds cooed and chirped gleeful memories—mockingjays ricocheted the little tunes they had been working on. Emerald leaves swayed in the breezes, the particles in the gust affectless on them. The synchronization in the march of ash-grey men on their route to the mines was pleasant to stare at, although the synchronized agony and depression on their visages was not. Scintillas of dust are displayed in a crystalline manner the moment they come into contact with the sun—miniature dots swirling in glacier style. Despite the powdery air, the surroundings were normal enough. And, he took comfort in extinguishing the raging flames of anxiety within him with the cold temperature of the district. He had positioned himself on a steady branch which held his weight, back anchored to the rigid stem of the tree he failed to identity.
Pluto was a mere rock-boy, he had neither been excellent with flora nor fauna. He picked this tree from the many grooves because it was sheltered by a canopy of leaves, twigs and branches. And, the flat and board surfaces of its leaves acted as an armor from the sun and offered a cool shade along with tranquility. No one would spot him here. Up in here, he could escape from the chains of tensions life puts around his heel strings. He would have to answer no questions. A mere thought of it causes an echo of in his mind. ‘Do you have a girl fitting to this description?’ she asked. And he laughed with a sarcastic scorn, “No, mom. I do not have a girl fitting to that description but I can name a lot of boys.” His exhaled air carried the frustration and the tendons of stress branching in his innards. He decided to plunge into his thoughts more as he couldn’t bottle them anymore—they were raging and protesting.
But, he did not plunge into his thoughts, for the faint murmurous voices coming from below. Two brown-hues searched for the source and the hints of it led them to the springy-locks of an individual. He couldn’t catch his visage but he could see that his concentration was pinned on the yellowed pages of the journal he was inking on. Letters, he was writing and from afar, they appeared lengthy. A moment of silence occurred in his skull and he leaned towards the decision of assembling a short introduction. Voice went aloud, piercing through the tranquil atmosphere of which the shade of the tree created.
“Such a surprise to see someone who could write perfectly in this district. Well, from this distance, the blurs of your sentences appear to be quite fascinating.”
_____________________________________________________
{x}
Words: 1185
Tags: Gryphon
Tags: Gryphon
