Where The Wild Things Weave | Open

[L△LIA]

I love the world
I want to take it with me

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The sidewalk cracks looked like stone lacework twisting out from beneath the dusting of snow that lined their route. Fractures sprawled out in a chaotic shatterwork pattern, the breaks across each flagstone intertwining with one another to create a wildly inconvenient trip-hazard. Residents who lived along this street — children with perpetually skinned knees and elderly women with aching joints — despised the difficult walkways, wishing the District would bother to patch them, but knowing they wouldn't. Their community struggled with too many other problems to worry over something as minor as the upkeep of its streets. Hunger always trumps the need to repave pathways and Monáe was thankful. This wretched, inconvenient mess of a sidewalk was practically her Mecca.

Taking a lingering moment to allow her gaze to wander across the broken lines, she held her breath in awe. Each intricate fissure seemed carefully plotted, one winding brilliantly into the next. It was so exquisite that pangs of envy shot through her chest, desperately jealous that the ground had designed something that made Monáe's own weaving handiwork feel like a simple game of Cat's Cradle. Her fingers mimed the pattern through the early morning air, wanting to claim it for her own, to tuck it away and carry it with her.

Winter nipped at her exposed hands, easily finding its way between the gaps in her thin lace gloves to the skin beneath. With an irritated sigh, Monáe pushed them back into her pockets, regretfully nudging the captivating interstices with the toe of her boot and wishing that spring would return. She missed the days of weaving outdoors, of making daisy chains and twisting her own kind of crop circles into the grassy meadows. Confining her hands to the prison of her pockets was a form of torture. Memorizing the labyrinth in front of her seemed so necessary and the inability to teach its memory to her hands felt crippling.

"If I had no hands —" the words scorched across her mind, a paralyzing shudder of fear crawling down her spine as she realized what she had just said and what it would mean. Her voice flinched against the idea, cutting the thought short in terror.

If I had no hands, I would probably kill myself.

Gasping at the turn her own thoughts were taking, Monáe shook her head, hoping the force of the movement would push them out. "Oh! That's awful, Monáe, just awful. This is why jealousy doesn't suit you. Just walk away and be content not to understand it, if it's this amazing now, just think how beautifully it will have grown by springtime." Yes, if it's this amazing now...

Involuntarily, her eyes drifted back down, the seams of the split stonework casting its voodoo charms over her once more. She wanted to grasp its logic, it was necessary.

"If I had no hands," hesitantly, she returned to her previous thoughts, pausing to let the panic pass once more before persevering on, "how would I weave?" She wanted to run from the thought, to hide away, curled up into the fetal position, practicing tying the knots she always found comfort in, until it disappeared. Curling her fingers around the loose thread stashed in her pocket, she contemplated this plan of action, feet shuffling anxiously, ready to sprint at a moments notice. The sound of her boots shifting against the ground brought her back, whispering the answer she was searching for.

A wild grin tugged at the corners of her lips as she carefully traced the coveted patterns with her footsteps. Slowly at first, teaching each turn to her body until the dizzying loops began to feel like an extension of her. "It's like dancing," she laughed, head thrown back and eyes shut to the world as she stitched the the feeling tightly into her memory. It was something she could keep with her. Spinning impulsively on her heel, she broke out into a second round of haphazard giggles, until a patch of ice decided to bring her crashing back into reality.

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[Vulnerable]

I am the wolf, and you are the moon.
And the endless sky we are but one, we are alive.
In my dreams, moon and I.

It was an odd sighting, truly. The girl that he had seen just spun around on the stone and made him instantaneously think of the wonders of weaving. Wonderful. He could relate weaving to anything it seemed. But what had fascinated him the most was the ability of the girl to catch his eye. Usually, he would never stop to stare at another living human being. He knew what it felt like to be watched and he liked the feeling. Why should he ever give anyone else the same amount of satisfaction as he had been given when he was being watched weaving in public? It had made no sense to him why he would do such a thing. But, indeed, he stood there without a cause and looked into oblivion, watching her ever so gentle movements across the stone slabs that she was walking across before. It was magnetism, truly. His eyes never fled away from her legs, her feet that spun around in a circle. Eventually, though, she had become dizzy and fallen down onto the stone. Of course, most people would walk over to help if they were nice. Ezra wasn't sure if he should go over and help her up from the ground. He didn't mknow if he was nice or not. Was he evil? Was he good? These questions were both undecided to the boy. He could not choose an alignment. All he could honestly say is that he was a human, one that liked to have fun by hurting others. But, did that truly make him evil? He wasn't sure.

Letting out a sigh of hesitation, his quiet footsteps could barely be heard as he walked over to the girl who had just fallen on the slippery ice. What was he going to do? Was he really going to help her up; or was he going to make her a part of the sick game that he played with just about everyone that he knew? He extended his hand, hoping that she would grab it, that she would pull herself up off of the ice. "You seem to like to dance around. Next time, be more careful, my lady," There it was. The charming voice that he let out when he had talked to people. He may have sounded a bit pompous or lavish, even though his life was quite the opposite. He used that voice to charm most people, to make them like him. He knew it was a bit alluring to some, and it beckoned. That's why he was great at speaking when he did speak to others willingly; it was the sound of his voice. His eyes paid attention to the ice under the girl quite quickly, looking at its ability to stay almost crystal clear, minus dirt that managed to get on it. It was beautiful. Now, if one could make clothing of a material that was able to look like that, mainly hats or earrings, he would bet that it would be much more beautiful than the ice on the ground.

Even though he had his hand extended out to the girl to help her up, during the moment where he had stared at the ice, he seemed to be in a bit of a daze. He was thinking about creation again; crafting; weaving, whatever you wanted to call the process of making new clothes from material. He always did this when he had those idle thoughts skipping around in his mind. As quickly as they had skipped into his mind, though, they were gone and he paid his attention back to the girl on the ground, giving her a false smile and hopefully a false sense of security. It was his decision that she would just be another victim like anyone else he talked to, a victim of his sadistic manipulation, "Let's get you up off of the ground, m'lady. Are you hurt?" He seemed sincere when he was speaking to her in such a kind voice, but he wasn't. He didn't make it obvious, though. This was a game, all of this was just a game and he was the game master. He controlled every aspect.


Word Count; 699

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[L△LIA]

( M O N Á E C A S P I A T H O R N E )




And the distance is greater
Than any rope I ever tied around your waist
To keep our tumbles in rhythm

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Gravity abruptly tugged Monáe to the ground, pressing her cheek against the webwork of sidewalk cracks she was so charmed by. Perhaps that was why she didn't particularly mind the fall — in its way, the accident gave her another perspective for what she had wanted: to be closer to understanding. Really, that was the key to everything for her. Deciphering and interpreting were the arduous part; once she got past that, everything else came so naturally. For the moment however, she was content. The pattern she so desperately coveted had been tucked away into her memory and no matter how she tumbled, it couldn't slip from her grasp now.

"You seem to like to dance around. Next time, be more careful, my lady," a stranger's voice called out to her from above. Craning her neck back to peer up at him from from her low position, she gave a lopsided smile in reply, her face partially numbed from the ice it was resting against. "Let's get you up off of the ground, m'lady. Are you hurt?"

Accepting the hand that had been extended to her, she allowed herself to be pulled up, a piece of her secretly reluctant to part from the shattered flagstones beneath their feet. "Oh, no need to worry, I'm not half as breakable as I look. Thank you, for the hand —" Pausing at the thought, she held her palms out, examining them for any damage that might have been inflicted, before straightening up her lace gloves and proudly presenting her hands to the unfamiliar boy standing in front of her. "Look! Not a scrape on them. It didn't even hurt; although I suppose they're a bit numb from the ice, but that's really just how ice works... so I imagine I'd be rather more concerned if they weren't."

"I was just memorizing the sidewalk — sometimes my mother dances though, but she moves as gracefully as a ghost and I don't think ghosts could fall like that even if they tried. Even so, it did feel like dancing, especially with that grand finale of a pirouette," a slight giggle escaped her throat at the idea of comparing her stumble to something so contradictory, "but if it weren't so cold I would have used my hands instead." Glancing down at her feet with a wide grin stretched across her lips, she balanced on her heels for a moment and tapped the toes of her boots back and forth against the earth. The quiet cadence of their rhythm echoed dully against the air as she replayed their earlier movements in her mind: Seven loops to the left, then pin and backtrack. Repeat and knot in the framework for a Chantilly edging, twisting counter to the pins and plaiting every third hook into the interior web...

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[Vulnerable]

I am the wolf, and you are the moon.
And the endless sky we are but one, we are alive.
In my dreams, moon and I.

Poor girl. There she was, on the ground from the fall. She wasn't hurt, that was not what was going to hurt her. Still, Ezra could feel his trap slowly seeking into the girl. He knew he was going to catch her like a fish with a rod very soon, lure her to him with his charm and delicate touch and help. It made him almost want to give off his smile, that smile adorned with gorgeous white teeth and mint scented breath. But, he couldn't declare victory just yet. Sure, he could sense that she was going to fall for it quite easily because she seemed like a girl of weakness; a girl without strength. She had frailty to her, something that he was all too common with. Something that he could see every day at this point and not care about. She was a simple pawn, not a queen, a king, or even a horseman. She was just a pawn. And to aid this thought that had passed, her smile shown towards him. It was lopsided, but it had still made him feel warm on the inside, a fuzzy feeling protruding all around his body. Frail, and she had a smile for him. 'Easy pickings'

[/i], he thought, giving her a smile of his own to try and lure her a little further. He needed to go from being a stranger to a friend as soon as possible. He needed to build trust, even through the both of them; who have never seen each other before this moment. This may not be easily gained, but he could attempt it. His teeth, almost pearly in color, were flashed to the girl in a grand, but brief, smile of his own.

He helped her up, though. It was a simple task, having the girl get up off of the ground with the use of both of his hands. During the swift process, he was as quiet as winter snow falling down onto the ground in an intricate, almost planned, manner. "I am sorry if I did not need to actually help, m'lady. I do not like to see others in distress, it irks me," He exclaimed to the frail girl, his words forming like words being written upon by a blank, white sheet of paper. The words would have been filled with a sort of malice if it weren't for the false accent covering up any words to hide the true intention of Ezra, "And you look so delicate, like a single flower in a dark basement. I could not stand there and not try to help you. I just hope that you don't mind my act of chivalry, m'lady." Ezra carefully grabbed her right hand when she had presented the both of them and twisted it around, but not enough to send a shock of pain through her wrist, just so that he could kiss the back of her hand with his cold, slightly chapped lips. She had an interesting set of fingers, though. Which caught his eye instantaneously after he kissed the back of her hand. Delicate fingers.. A trait that Ezra he himself had, perfect for weaving. He didn't mention this however, as he did not want to scare her off. That is, if the kiss on the hand did not scare her off already. One mistake, and the little game that he was playing with this girl could be over in a single instant. Like that, all he could think about was ruining things for himself. Quickly, he shook the thought of it off and went back to being as formal as he was before. He gently let go of her hand, flashing a second smile at the girl.

"Your mother is a dancer? An interesting hobby for someone that lives around in District 8, the district usually full of weaving. I would not mind to see someone dancing, though. What people put in dance is beautiful. It can be poetry, a story, or just for fun, on separate occasions," Ezra grinned, reminding himself of dancing and how the twisting of their legs had reminded himself of his own passion and his own hobby; weaving. He still couldn't stop thinking about it. But that is what happened to you when you truly loved something, you just would not be able to stop thinking about it at any given second. You could relate anything to it and find a reason to mention it. That's what love was. And that was truly the only sense of love that Ezra had ever felt over anything or anyone, "Truly, though, I love weaving. Dancing could never replace weaving in any sort of way, how you can put your own little personal style into what you create. You can truly create anything you want as long as you have enough drive to do it. You are limitless in it, and it is limitless in you."

The giggle drove him to give a laugh of his own. Yes, that was what had made him think she was dancing along the side walk and down onto the icy ground. The spin at the end, it made him think of it. But, she actually hadn't been. Ah well, he hoped for it and he could still imagine it in his mind as a dance of sorts. It really was, but the girl didn't acknowledge it. Either way, it was lovely for an odd reason that maybe only Ezra could have noticed, "You are cold, m'lady?" Ezra slipped out of the fully white jacket that he had on, revealing the also fully white long sleeve shirt under it. Quietly, he would wrap it around her shoulders and extend a warm smile. She was going to take the jacket whether she liked it or not. There wasn't a 'no' in the dictionary that he would take from her over the jacket. And he was used to the cold weather. But, of course, he was sure she might want to throw away the jacket later, depending on what form of pawn she would be in the near future if she would be becoming his friend.

"I am Ezra, by the way. It is very nice to meet such a lovely girl such as yourself. And might I ask what your name is?" His voice was gentle and quiet, waiting for a response to be gotten from the other. He wanted to hear her name. In fact, he was going to claim it. Use it; bend it; twist it around. This would be a name that he was going to remember for future use, surely, "And, I made that jacket myself. Do not say anything about me letting you have a jacket that isn't exactly that colorful as a whole, as I didn't exactly pay for it. Weaving helps with a lot of things, most of all, keeping warm in the winter weather and helps to attract some attention to yourself; if you want it." Even though he made note that she was just supposed to be a pawn, he did not mind giving her a simple gift. Sure, he was poor and being hungry was not exactly an uncommon or rare thing in his household, but he truly didn't care to give something to get something. In this face; future fun and toying around with the mind. An experiment, really, is what he was looking for after giving the gift. An experiment of wits.
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Word Count; 1245[/center][/size]

[L△LIA]

( M O N Á E C A S P I A T H O R N E )




Do I love like a stranger?
The world keeps getting stranger
All the time

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...twisting slowly into the sub-section of the midpoint opening, being careful not to pull too hard and accidentally pucker the borders, until the second chain spiral-stitches across the—

"I am sorry if I did not need to actually help, m'lady. I do not like to see others in distress, it irks me." His words broke her from her neurotic reverie, rewinding her attention back to their conversation and away from the sidewalk cipher in her mind. An apology — why would he apologize for helping me up... does he think I meant to stay down there longer, tracing the patterns all day? I probably would have, but oh, in this cold, it's really best that I— "And you look so delicate, like a single flower in a dark basement. I could not stand there and not try to help you. I just hope that you don't mind my act of chivalry, m'lady."

Apologies and similes about flowers and chivalry... Monáe tilted her head in contemplation. Something in this was new. There were abstract intentions within his words that she couldn't recall encountering before, that she had never learned to perceive and properly identify. Despite her ability to ramble on almost infinitely, the decoding of implied meanings, sub-contexts, and figures of speech were not among her conversational strengths; her misinterpretations had a tendency to kindle awkward misunderstandings that she was unable to rectify, ignorant to their existence. Holding her breath for an instant, she fought down a sudden spark of anxiety that twinged through her body.

At least she was aware of her current cluelessness. All too often this was not the case, but after years of conscious practice, she was improving. Throughout her life, she had always had difficultly understanding others. There would be times when she would come across someone laughing or crying as if their entire life rested on that single, fleeting emotion and Monáe couldn't begin to fathom why. Whatever they were feeling seemed so far away from her that it became incomprehensible. When she was young, she remembered reaching out and touching their faces, as if her fingers could bridge the divide and glean a sense of understanding directly from their skin. Instead, most people would pull away and leave her even further from them than before.

Over time, she taught herself to fight against her tactile instincts, learning to rely on words to comprehend meaning. It was always difficult though, especially as she grew and her still frank and candid comments were confronted with her peer's discoveries of insinuation and sarcasm. If they weren't going to say what they meant, Monáe didn't understand how they expected her to perceive their implications. In her ensuing confusion, it often took all of her self-control to resist the urge to reach out to them physically, as she had previously done as a child, feeling so unable to get through to them verbally.

Nevertheless, she was unprepared when the boy in front of her leaned forward and pressed his lips to the back of one of her still outstretched hands, as if trying to illustrate his words in the same method she used to. In its way, the gesture shouldn't have seemed so strange — to Monáe, touch was simple and straightforward, the one language she felt she spoke with complete fluency. However, she was again confronted with something wholly new. Never had a stranger kissed her before, even if the act had been inoffensively directed to her hand. Although she wasn't one to shy away from physical contact with those around her, constantly reaching out to explore the world with her hands, and was herself frequently accused of crossing the personal boundaries of others, this was still inexplicably different.

Dumbstruck at having encountered a line that she had never crossed herself, she nodded along silently in passive response as he continued speaking, most of his words slipping away before she could catch them. "You are cold, m'lady?" Preempting a reply, he was already draping his jacket across her shoulders, the whiteness of its fabric contrasting against the long, tawny overcoat she was already wearing. Two coats. I have two coats now. The simplicity of the thought gave her an anchor point, a new foothold and opportunity for reentry into their conversation. The ice was numbing before, but the cold can't touch me now. I was pulled up from the ground and now there is not only distance between the ice and I, but a pair of coats. This boy gave me the second one. "I am Ezra, by the way. It is very nice to meet such a lovely girl such as yourself." He says his name is Ezra. He called me a flower in a basement and I don't know why, but he thinks I do. Now he's calling me lovely — my father calls my mother lovely. My mother is a ghost. I told Ezra this earlier, even though my father told me not to say things like that anymore. He says people will misunderstand and think awful things about my mother if I tell them she's a ghost, but her skin is so pale and her voice so faraway, of course that's what she is. Other people don't move as softly as she does, only ghosts do.

Slowly, she turned everything back through her mind as if retracing a pattern. It was the same method she had previously utilized to follow the cracks beneath their feet, each step edited down to a simple piece of straightforward logic, but this time, instead of fabricating lace, it created a coping ritual. As long as she focused on what she knew, she wouldn't get so lost in frustration over the parts that she didn't quite grasp. "And might I ask what your name is?" One more quiet, steady breath and the anxiety that had stunned her into uncharacteristic silence began to ebb. Her name — something else she knew. My name is Monáe Caspia Thorne. I like my name; it sounds soft, like the name of a ghost. I like ghosts. My mother is a lovely ghost. The repetition was comforting. "And, I made that jacket myself. Do not say anything about me letting you have a jacket that isn't exactly that colorful as a whole, as I didn't exactly pay for it. Weaving helps with a lot of things, most of all, keeping warm in the winter weather and helps to attract some attention to yourself; if you want it."

"Thank you." Speaking began to feel easy once more, natural, as she turned her gaze to her own shoulders to inspect the gift she'd been given. I have two coats now, the thought echoed soothingly in her mind, simple and concrete. "Monáe. My name is Monáe Thorne." The jacket was a crisp foil to her own garments, a bright flash against their warm, muted tones. Even from a casual glance, she could immediately tell it was well constructed and made from quality fabric. Ezra made it. I make things too. "I'm a lacemaker," she said, fishing a half-completed prototype from her pocket and pressing it into the palm of his hand. Loose tan and olive threads tangled messily around the edges, but as they converged into the center of the web, they began to twist into the greater logic of the design and become more coherent. "I found a bird's nest last week. Grass had been woven into it like green Chantilly edging and the plaiting of the twigs spiraled into its center just like that—" motioning with her fingers, she traced the whorl of the motif inward, "—I suppose that means I didn't make it entirely on my own, you could say a little birdie helped me. It won't keep you warm or attract a lot of attention, but it's a gift."

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[Vulnerable]

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They pull
the strings on
the puppet...

Strings snap, and
the puppet is no more.

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In oddity, he had wondered why the girl was so quiet. He was hoping to get some general idea of a response from her, but for a while, she hung on the words that she had, when she was saying before. Did he push the barrier a bit when he had kissed her hand? Did he go beyond any boundary that she might have put up in defense of the strangers that she encountered? Had he damaged an already damaged person? After all, he knew little about this person. It would be worthless trying to hurt someone who had already been quite misconstrued. The expression of his face, though, did not show one of concern. Instead, he tucked that feeling away, safe in the back of his mind and made it clear that it was not allowed to come out. Showing a concerned expression after she had said she was alright? She may think that he was up to something, if she did not seem to have a screw lose. Who really knew, this girl may have simply had no idea what she was doing or who to talk to; how to talk to people. She could be a lot like Ezra, in a way, without the idea of how to manipulate someone. She looked like a person that could trust easy, though, and Ezra continued to prey on this, even though his immediate idea would be to flee and just let the girl keep the jacket that he had just wrapped around her shoulders.

But, that silence still managed to crack him from the inside out, like the snow that fell upon the ground and made his fingers feel numb. 'Numb, stay numb to the feeling that I am receiving. Stay numb,' Ezra had said to himself in his thoughts. The voice in his mind sounded a bit distorted from Ezra. It sounded like it had a bit of a darker pitch, and it spoke quieter. But, still loud enough to make itself known only to Ezra and the thoughts that surrounded it. Of course, that was what his actual voice sounded like when it wasn't trying to toy around with someone's heart like puppets on a string. His voice was a bit deep, but it had a soothing quiet to it. He had gotten the quietness not from his family, but the inability to speak with his actual, supposedly dominate identity. Or, at the time, it was the dominant identity. They still have their same ploys and tricks, but something about how he had developed himself now made him seem a bit darker in intent and it actually had less point to what he was doing.

Before, he may have just tried to get food off of someone else and he wasn't exactly trying to have fun. He grew into this person, a shell, a husk of a person, that loved to have fun by crushing others spirits. It was a sick and twisted game of the mind, but Ezra compared the game to chess. The monarch was himself. His family took the role of the queen, being the only other part of himself that he loved. The people that he made fall in love with him with knights on horses. Bishops were a little less lower class than the knights; they took up the role of people that catered to him. The people that could become obsessive. The rooks were also a part of himself; the shields that he put up around his manipulative identity. And, then, there were the regular pawns. The ones that he had used for fun, petty enjoyment. Monae, surely, was just a simple pawn to him and nothing more. But, she had struck him with the silence. It made him feel as if she had already managed to ruin the mission he was on; a mission to hurt someone. But, was she smart enough to notice that he was on the prowl for someone to manipulate? The thought ran through his mind again. What if she had heard about him before? Maybe one of the people of his past knew her; she could be a distant friend to one of the people he had left in shambles. Could she had been a friend to one of them?

Het let out a little cough from his mouth and let the hot breath hit his own hand as he coughed, not mentioning those idle thoughts that danced around his head like needles; sowing the white fabric that he usually had his nimble fingers on. His left hand had clenched into a cold, quiet fist but quickly, his fingers retracted back out. Finally, the silence was averted.. He had gotten a response, a simple thank you, that had told him all of the thoughts that had run through nhis mind were probably wrong. A good signal to get for him, indeed. And, it made a smile light up on his face. He wasn't sure whether he was happy she said thank you, or happy that she fell for the first of his tricks. He never could process that feeling; happiness. It seemed grotesque to the seventeen year old. Maybe it was because he had never known if he had ever experienced true happiness; only the temporary, shell of happiness that had been left behind after he got done with the victims. That's what he wanted to do this for; for the rush; for the feeling again. It was like a pill that you want to take, having a positive outcome for a while and then having a sudden down fall like you were sky diving into the air out of a plane or a hover craft of some sort, like the ones that they had in the Capitol. As soon as you hit the ground, though, the rush becomes a regret. All of the happiness that you once had is gone and in comes a flurry of pain from the sudden loss of happiness that you had managed to endure; an obliteration of hope. That's why he kept going back for more and more. One could classify him as an emotional savage, no, an emotional cannibal of the highest degree. All that he could manage to scramble out of his mouth after thinking for those odd few minutes that he had to think was a simple, "You're welcome."

It was not an easy word for Ezra of all people to say. He had, honestly, only used the words when he was truly trying, and he was trying hard to earn Monae's trust, even if they had only been in this moment for ten minutes at the max. The cold had set the mood; and their relative like for weaving had also connected them like fabric being weaved into something else or a patch being gently attached to a shirt. Something of that sort. The pang of happiness, or what he thought may have been happiness, clung to him when she had mentioned that she was a lacemaker. It gave him someone to relate to. It made him smile, even, let out a little chuckle from his chapped lips. It was all part of the game. Or, was it their game? It seemed that he had simply become of a pawn of the game as well when he became entrapped at the design of what she had just pressed against the palm of his hand. A word had come out of his mouth at that moment, a word that had seemed shy. It didn't pass that accent that he gave other people, but it did manage to say in that same quiet tone that he used to speak in, "Beautiful." And it was beautiful, the way that it had been created. The way that this design had been so fancy, well thought up and original. It was truly beautiful, even if it looked like it was only half completed, "Do you usually make it so.. beautiful? I do not think that I could ever come up with something such as this. I thought that my creations had a lot of beauty, but.. then I look at yours and automatically think of a burning jealousy; like brimstone. But, not a bad jealousy, a good jealousy. If that's possible."

Strangely for Ezra, he was being honest. He was a bit jealous of how the girl could do that with just grass and a bird's nest. Anything that he made himself was surely made out of fabric already made, but she had managed to get things from the land and the creatures that had maintained the land. Creatures and beasts that weren't the peace keepers or officials from the lavish Capitol though. Creatures such as a simple bird, which Ezra would not harm because it is not a human. For a moment, he questioned whether what he was doing was right in any way, shape, or form. It wasn't. But it did not stop him before and it would not stop him now because he had already gotten so close to the girl that he could almost feel his plan proceeding, "If we had known each other before this single moment, I would have made you teach me how to weave like-- like this. It looks.. quite nice. And not something that I would usually think to use to make pieces of clothing either. That's what makes it better, the thought that you put into it." Ezra tried to seem not too strange, constantly complimenting the girl. If anything, this was the one compliment that he could hold up to. The one that he was not lying about. Of course, this also meant that he would lie about not lying. If it ever did come to fruition that he was simply using her, he would admit it. He never complimented people, ever. The only people who deserved compliments were his sister, his father, and himself. No one else. With the smile fading, serenely, he slipped the prototype into his pocket and shielded it from other eyes. Another thank you would slip out of his mouth, and there, he fell into silence.

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[L△LIA]

( M O N Á E C A S P I A T H O R N E )




In their eyes is the place that you finally discovered
That you love it here, you've got to stay
On the bottom of the rock, an island
On which you find you love it when you twitch
You feel that itch in you petticoat
Your pretty pretty petticoat

"Beautiful." A pause. The corners of Monáe's mouth twitched shyly with the hint of another smile, unable to stop her quiet pride from tugging at her lips. Most people seemed to find her slightly eccentric, even the ones that appreciated her skills, but she found no backhanded tone hidden behind Ezra's simple compliment. Beautiful, her mind echoed softly, basking in each syllable. "Do you usually make it so... beautiful? I do not think that I could ever come up with something such as this." Was it really? Everyone told her she was obsessed, that it was unnatural for a person to



"I thought that my creations had a lot of beauty, but.. then I look at yours and automatically think of a burning jealousy; like brimstone. But, not a bad jealousy, a good jealousy. If that's possible."



"If we had known each other before this single moment, I would have made you teach me how to weave like-- like this. It looks.. quite nice. And not something that I would usually think to use to make pieces of clothing either. That's what makes it better, the thought that you put into it."

WIP — Forgot I have to go to workkk... D: