Post by CAMILIA LUVSIIK on Jun 2, 2015 17:55:04 GMT
just some development stuff for my characters. feel free to ignore me lol.
[googlefont="Esteban"]
There's nothing more simply exhuasting than looking at something old and worn. Something that was once upon a time new and sparkling clean -- now you can't even stand to look at it.
It just brings back too much heartache.
Not the bad kind; the kind that makes your heart soar and each breath quicken as you fondle it gently, brushing your thumbs against each worn edge and scratch, inwardly you chuckle about how each bruise was earned.
Yap yap! That sound, so famailar, it makes your very spine ache by holding up every pound of you. Trotting over, tail wagging, and paws at your knees. There's that kindness that makes you smile, "Hermes."
What you had was a collar: brown and aging like yellow cheese. It feels as if it'd crumble and turn into dust in your very palms. But it's strong. You look at that tiny puppy -- so old now -- and slip it over his neck with trembling fingertips. "You've gotten so big, it's 'bout time for a new collar, huh, buddy?"
He leaps on you, licking your chin and whining as he burrows deeper, ever-so deeply, back into the cracked part of your soul you never knew you had.
Before you know it, you snatch the collar from him and it breaks. Breaking into a bumbling, shambling run (you'll break into pieces like glass) you curl your arm and throw it. As far as you can. Far, far, far away into someplace else.
Hermes is crying those soft little doggy tears, but you feel no shame.
"Hey," Says an elderly man, knees shaking, arthritis-ridden. He picks up that broken collar and holds it like a precious treasure, "this lil' tyke must be sure grown by now!"
Not quite.
It just brings back too much heartache.
Not the bad kind; the kind that makes your heart soar and each breath quicken as you fondle it gently, brushing your thumbs against each worn edge and scratch, inwardly you chuckle about how each bruise was earned.
Yap yap! That sound, so famailar, it makes your very spine ache by holding up every pound of you. Trotting over, tail wagging, and paws at your knees. There's that kindness that makes you smile, "Hermes."
What you had was a collar: brown and aging like yellow cheese. It feels as if it'd crumble and turn into dust in your very palms. But it's strong. You look at that tiny puppy -- so old now -- and slip it over his neck with trembling fingertips. "You've gotten so big, it's 'bout time for a new collar, huh, buddy?"
He leaps on you, licking your chin and whining as he burrows deeper, ever-so deeply, back into the cracked part of your soul you never knew you had.
Before you know it, you snatch the collar from him and it breaks. Breaking into a bumbling, shambling run (you'll break into pieces like glass) you curl your arm and throw it. As far as you can. Far, far, far away into someplace else.
Hermes is crying those soft little doggy tears, but you feel no shame.
––––
"Hey," Says an elderly man, knees shaking, arthritis-ridden. He picks up that broken collar and holds it like a precious treasure, "this lil' tyke must be sure grown by now!"
Not quite.