neela chiffon d8 | cb | fin
Jan 17, 2016 3:19:24 GMT -5
Post by Lyn𝛿is on Jan 17, 2016 3:19:24 GMT -5
Neela Chiffon
twelve. district eight. female
Your body may be frail and limping, but your spirit is a calescent smolder, an inferno raging until it burns out not only yourself but everyone around you.
"Satin, do you like the lizard I've folded -"
"Yeah, sure. Keep them out of my way, we've already got enough of those things cluttering up the house."
Mother storms in, snatching the paper creation from your hands.
"Another one?" she sniffs. "I don't get why you make the same things over and over. Useless frivolity," she sighs, and you hold your breath, afraid she'll crumple it up in her fist, but she just sets it down again and turns away.
They're not the same, you think, but the words get caught in your throat. You've never been one to speak up for yourself.
You dread the day they'll barge into your space and demand that you "cease this nonsense", and in your nightmares they - your mother, your father, your sister - are all stomping down on the delicate creatures, smashing them into a trash can and forbidding you from so much as touching a colorful scrap of paper for the next year or however long it would take you to stop wanting to.
It's not like similar things haven't happened before, after all.
To one so engaged, there are few things more constricting than the disparaging words of those who, lacking the same capacity of absorption, believe it their duty to drag you to the shallower waters where they reside.
The menagerie of paper animals is your latest fascination. An old legend runs through the creases, telling of a creature in murky lakes who would grant one's innermost wish, if summoned by the flapping of a thousand paper birds.
You long to catch a glimpse of that creature, though you're not sure what you would wish for.
"Satin, do you like the lizard I've folded -"
"Yeah, sure. Keep them out of my way, we've already got enough of those things cluttering up the house."
Mother storms in, snatching the paper creation from your hands.
"Another one?" she sniffs. "I don't get why you make the same things over and over. Useless frivolity," she sighs, and you hold your breath, afraid she'll crumple it up in her fist, but she just sets it down again and turns away.
They're not the same, you think, but the words get caught in your throat. You've never been one to speak up for yourself.
You dread the day they'll barge into your space and demand that you "cease this nonsense", and in your nightmares they - your mother, your father, your sister - are all stomping down on the delicate creatures, smashing them into a trash can and forbidding you from so much as touching a colorful scrap of paper for the next year or however long it would take you to stop wanting to.
It's not like similar things haven't happened before, after all.
To one so engaged, there are few things more constricting than the disparaging words of those who, lacking the same capacity of absorption, believe it their duty to drag you to the shallower waters where they reside.
The menagerie of paper animals is your latest fascination. An old legend runs through the creases, telling of a creature in murky lakes who would grant one's innermost wish, if summoned by the flapping of a thousand paper birds.
You long to catch a glimpse of that creature, though you're not sure what you would wish for.
