I don’t know why, but I’m always so sleepy lately.
My arms and legs feel so heavy, and sleep is a resolute force on my body. Just standing around, my eyes winking, at any time of the day, I could slip and slide into slumber. And as I crouch now, precariously, on a rock, I feel really very fatigued, and I have to tell myself that I haven’t even been awake a quarter of the day. It’s certainly not time to nap.
Wolves yawn when they are nervous, for the most part, but I yawn out of genuine weariness. I bounce off of my perch, shaking my maw and so stumbling a bit, trying to wake myself up. My eyelids flutter. My jaw parts, letting my arching tongue point upwards. My paws drag noisily on the floor of this sylvan mausoleum. I’m so young… Shouldn’t I be more peppy? Something must be awry, but I think that thinking about it could only worsen my physical condition by topping it with a nice side of melancholy.
Maybe this is what winter does. It depresses you. It’s a miserable, virgin beauty; the whiteness of the snow always moved me. The world is a catacomb, and the moon wept crystals on the graves. This is how I feel. I feel like I’m stalking the crypt, and would I say I’m half-alive or half-dead?
But the winter sun is on me, and though there is no warmth, there is a premonition of springtime.
Post by Haze & Drizzle on Feb 26, 2010 5:20:05 GMT -5
((Your writing style is very different, almost quirky in a way. Welcome to TS..))
The day was dragging lazily through it's normal occurances. Most things were busily looking for food or scrounging for whatever they had found. Little voices squeaked and chirped in the ground and in the trees, twittering noise filled the air with song and longing for winter's quick end.
Haze hated this time of year. Winter was lovely and all, but right around springtime when things began to wake up and make noise again, was when the big black brute barely got his daily naps throughout the day. A deep throaty growl seeped out of his shining canines, one eye of gold peering out into the empty day. Such noise, such hustle and bustle, and for what? Something that came and went every year? What was so special about spring anyway to make such a fuss.
Ivory white was she, patiently waiting for the black shadow at her side to wake. Unlike her brother, the fae loved watching the little insignificant lives twitter on and flit about in their busy states. Eyes of ice blue watched as each bird flew past, or a pair of squirrels quarreling over a single acorn nut, to the tiny rodents that vanished almost as fast as they appeared beneath the melting snow.
"Come now brother, haven't you wasted enough of the day dozing yet?" Drizzle teased, her tail flicking softly into him as she witnessed him stirring. Not much got by the sharp eyed gaze of the white fae; she was too clever, to smart not to notice tiny stirring here and there. Haze merely gave a gentle grunt, clambering to his paws and stretching out in his laziness. Beside his sister he was a brute. Tall and broad, muscles that were strong and well sinued. Fur as black as night itself and an attitude just as dark. Not like Drizzle was much of an angel herself; with fur as white as the snow melting around them, her limbs lengthy and agilic, her fur long and flowing she was like a phantom in white.
"Time to find something to eat...since I can't enjoy a nap in peace." Haze growled, and off the two went, matching one another's strides in perfect unison. Haze and Drizzle, the twins of the Carpathian mountains, were on the move. And no sooner had they begun did they stumble upon a whelp no bigger then a mouthful in size. Haze's fur stood on end, and his eyes became piercing, watching the pup meander along at a sluggish pace. They wouldn't even need to waste any energy on it, it seemed barely able to run away. Perhaps winter had been hard on it, or perhaps it had just woken up from a doze itself. Either way, the twins didn't care. Food was food, regardless of what it disguised itself as. Both figures emerged from the brush, cutting off the little pup's route with only a few paw steps forward. Brutish Haze growled hungrily, savagely , his tail high in a domineering way, a droplet of hot saliva melting into the snow from his open maw. Drizzle's snarling face was much more sinister only in the way of being deadly sweet.
"Why hello little one...on a stroll are we?"Drizzle's voice was like a sweet poison you couldn't stop drinking, her tail high and her ice blue eyes watching, calculating, deciphering every movement their prey made. Haze would do nothing, until a particular command was given; he was the brawn, Drizzle was the brain when it came to outwitting now a days. Still, if this pup wasn't careful, she'd end up on the very wrong end of two sets of hungry mouths...
"Come to join us for breakfast?"
Image by Firefly ~*+The Original Twins of TS+*~ Traveling Mischeif makers of the Skyline Mountains Haze, the brother in black Drizzle, the sister in white Twins
I wanted to personify the forest. Only the sounds of insectan larking is stimulating me. There's no wildness to it right now while I try to listen to its breathing, the wind sighing and blowing through the boughs. In my gut, the same air spins around, in then out. As I walk, I try to recycle my breaths, trying to breath and re-breath the same air. Trying to inhale what I exhale.
Alertfulness evades me. My paws, small in my opinion (though I have heard adamant denials of this), fit into the melting imprints of a wolf who had wandered this path before me. Now I follow her steps, smelling her and her smells, feeling intimate with who she was. The weathered trees and the soul of the forest that yawns before me – they were all things that she saw. The effervescent thoughts of rebirth by the smells of rotting wood. (Wet grass is spring; wet leaves are fall.)
A heart shaped palm with four toes, each tipped with the points of curved talons. Every print is one that I cannot completely fill. I don't think that this is a kind of stalking and that in the end, I may find my shepherd. My future lingers over her past. Like I'm damned to haunt her. I feel emotionally hypersensitive in my languish.
There was that saying, When I pronounce the word Future, the first syllable already belongs to the past. I recite it outloud, mumbling to myself like a lunatic. Why do I keep thinking this way ? It must be in my loneliness, ha, because I'm not mad.
Simply distracted by teen angst...
Wait...
Teeth. Two neat rows of rather large dents, slick with spit, grin at me. Like a Cheshire cat, the smile is first, and then the pair of eyes. They are a warm gold, but they chill me. But there is actually another, I soon notice, rivaling the first in intimidating me. She is the unalloyed opposite of him, the first.
Draw a venn diagram, and the only conjunction written in that in-between space was frightening but also in each their own way.
How did I not notice them? I feel myself smile weakly, my tail pressing between my legs. Greetings are spoken, and I think of the next line of that poem: When I pronounce the word silence, I destroy it.
The girl, of fair-hair and blue eyes, asks me if I would like to join them for breakfast. I produce a, Yes, from my mouth, hear a feeble whine escape me, and stare in earnest submission at the space between their bodies.
ooc: the parts of the poem are from Wislawa Szymborska. And thanks, I guess. I can't tell if that's a good or bad thing...