Transformations are never easeful. That is, sliding or slipping from one form to another is multi-faceted. An acorn transforms from armor encasement into a classic oak when it is a lucky year: squirrels haven't eaten it, and the ground into which the nut is harbored fits well with the temperatures the whims of burrowing pigs and the shovels of cultivating humans. All in total, the oak's transformation is miraculous.
So too is the transformations humans go through. Not easeful, or easy but one gets used to the ride with practice and acceptance. Bri settled back onto the patchwork pillows, the daytime dreaming began quickly accompanied by the voices of the small lows and deep clicking from the ravens. There were some with talents for reading the past on people, like the boy named Widget in The Night Circus. He was a favorite character, so deftly rendered.
I could love a boy like him, said Corn on more than one occasion. Well, yes but we won't do there and distract this already wandering tale. It is enough to say that along with the vials of medicine plants, Ambriana's shelves contains stories, books, and recordings of voices she loved.
Removing the black leather lace-ups was a ritual for remembering who and what the girl witch was meant to explore. Deviation, the hunt for lust, though not uncommon in many stories was something this girl had very little room for. Like the sadness of addiction to alcohol or mind-bending chemicals lust was a potent element, a saddle on the wild horse best left for other riders.
Specks of history tends to get caught in the laces hidden between the eyelets. Small sharp raven beaks were perfect tools for that purpose. The work was enjoyable, a task made available to choice corbae. The boot ravens knew theirs was a caretaker role and they were well pleased at their assignment.
And what of the small calves? Simple enough to answer really. While the girl-woman disconnected from the leather and laces, it was the calves who buffed off any clinging memories not meant for Bri. If the future, the potentiality was to be given proper 'soil' like the acorn in the ground, the young and small calves must be given time to do their work.
Would the man Lane Baker find a place in this story? The dreams made way. Soft pink voile floated off of bronze rods in front of an open window. The smell of vanilla and hot apple pie soothed her. Her stomach rumbled. The girl nestled deeper into the feel of the familiar stitches. Her patchwork pillows comforted. The sound of a chocolate maker's theme sound circled her lips. She felt kissed a good one.
Funny how wild dreams can get.
Then?
So too is the transformations humans go through. Not easeful, or easy but one gets used to the ride with practice and acceptance. Bri settled back onto the patchwork pillows, the daytime dreaming began quickly accompanied by the voices of the small lows and deep clicking from the ravens. There were some with talents for reading the past on people, like the boy named Widget in The Night Circus. He was a favorite character, so deftly rendered.
I could love a boy like him, said Corn on more than one occasion. Well, yes but we won't do there and distract this already wandering tale. It is enough to say that along with the vials of medicine plants, Ambriana's shelves contains stories, books, and recordings of voices she loved.
Removing the black leather lace-ups was a ritual for remembering who and what the girl witch was meant to explore. Deviation, the hunt for lust, though not uncommon in many stories was something this girl had very little room for. Like the sadness of addiction to alcohol or mind-bending chemicals lust was a potent element, a saddle on the wild horse best left for other riders.
Specks of history tends to get caught in the laces hidden between the eyelets. Small sharp raven beaks were perfect tools for that purpose. The work was enjoyable, a task made available to choice corbae. The boot ravens knew theirs was a caretaker role and they were well pleased at their assignment.
And what of the small calves? Simple enough to answer really. While the girl-woman disconnected from the leather and laces, it was the calves who buffed off any clinging memories not meant for Bri. If the future, the potentiality was to be given proper 'soil' like the acorn in the ground, the young and small calves must be given time to do their work.
Would the man Lane Baker find a place in this story? The dreams made way. Soft pink voile floated off of bronze rods in front of an open window. The smell of vanilla and hot apple pie soothed her. Her stomach rumbled. The girl nestled deeper into the feel of the familiar stitches. Her patchwork pillows comforted. The sound of a chocolate maker's theme sound circled her lips. She felt kissed a good one.
Funny how wild dreams can get.
Then?
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