lost boys. // kou [aeson]
Jan 30, 2018 13:09:42 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Jan 30, 2018 13:09:42 GMT -5
RAVEN SAYER.
First twig, second stick, third shoot—and a triangle is built from the home elements. He fastens a string to bring the joints together. And it’s done: a shooting star.
Idle hands are the evil’s work or so Ma said. That’s why he used to braid Dove’s hair back in days of pink bandages and unadulterated laughter near the green edges of a forest. He would do an array of designs: butterflies, four strands, fishtails, etc. from sun up to sun down. It was more of a device to pass time, less of a hobby.
(“Fasten me a heart today, Raven!”)
A sigh weights down the air surrounding him. Raven slowly rises on his feet from the training station’s floor, muscles aching in protest from rushing out of idleness so spontaneously. But, recesses are a mystery for these twenty three corpses and one breathing ghost. Every second is spent, either by fright or anticipation—or an unholy fusion of both. That’s how life is supposed to course—or some shit.
Most of these days, north, south, east and west don’t meet in the circle of his mental compass. He’s stranded at sea, wading through uncharted waters. Salt water smothers a tree. This is the initial stage of asphyxiation, it seems. It’s not long before the other symptoms rise like steam from a kettle over a soft blaze. But, he’s keen on bottling them up ‘till he just can’t anymore. ‘Till it breaks through the glass and fountains out, a frenzied rivulet of fucked up emotions.
He gives a cursory glimpse at the reflection of a lost boy on the training center’s doors as he takes his exit, ambling down labyrinthine hallways aimlessly with no sense of navigation. It’s a voluntary act—he wants to get lost, meet up with a new wall at every turn, a new story to ponder upon. Bury the hatchet of tedium.
One hand absent-mindedly toyed with his palm-size triangle of shoots whilst he waits for a target to fling it at. A new corner carries him to a different hallway and Raven brings a steady momentum to his hand, firing the little trinket forward towards a wall.
But, suddenly, there’s a wall of flesh and bones and faces—and triangle clatters to a stop near the person’s feet. “Oh,” He mutters—and then raises volume. “Sorry, I- didn’t see you there.” Recognition flashes as eyes rake up his frame. It’s a tribute, leveling Raven’s height to a daunting extent.
(Technically, a three-sided triangle,
but a boy can emerge a different picture.)
but a boy can emerge a different picture.)
Idle hands are the evil’s work or so Ma said. That’s why he used to braid Dove’s hair back in days of pink bandages and unadulterated laughter near the green edges of a forest. He would do an array of designs: butterflies, four strands, fishtails, etc. from sun up to sun down. It was more of a device to pass time, less of a hobby.
(“Fasten me a heart today, Raven!”)
A sigh weights down the air surrounding him. Raven slowly rises on his feet from the training station’s floor, muscles aching in protest from rushing out of idleness so spontaneously. But, recesses are a mystery for these twenty three corpses and one breathing ghost. Every second is spent, either by fright or anticipation—or an unholy fusion of both. That’s how life is supposed to course—or some shit.
Most of these days, north, south, east and west don’t meet in the circle of his mental compass. He’s stranded at sea, wading through uncharted waters. Salt water smothers a tree. This is the initial stage of asphyxiation, it seems. It’s not long before the other symptoms rise like steam from a kettle over a soft blaze. But, he’s keen on bottling them up ‘till he just can’t anymore. ‘Till it breaks through the glass and fountains out, a frenzied rivulet of fucked up emotions.
He gives a cursory glimpse at the reflection of a lost boy on the training center’s doors as he takes his exit, ambling down labyrinthine hallways aimlessly with no sense of navigation. It’s a voluntary act—he wants to get lost, meet up with a new wall at every turn, a new story to ponder upon. Bury the hatchet of tedium.
One hand absent-mindedly toyed with his palm-size triangle of shoots whilst he waits for a target to fling it at. A new corner carries him to a different hallway and Raven brings a steady momentum to his hand, firing the little trinket forward towards a wall.
But, suddenly, there’s a wall of flesh and bones and faces—and triangle clatters to a stop near the person’s feet. “Oh,” He mutters—and then raises volume. “Sorry, I- didn’t see you there.” Recognition flashes as eyes rake up his frame. It’s a tribute, leveling Raven’s height to a daunting extent.
