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Viewing Single Post From: Until all our yesterdays are lighted fools...
Cicada Days
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keep running yoshi
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((Irene Djezari continued from I Say You Kill Your Heroes And Fly, Fly, Baby Don't Cry))

This was refreshing.

Irene’s legs had enough pump action to put her shotgun to shame. Like, she was moving so fast she could have run whole gym laps around anyone who’d tried to follow her. At least those hapless souls would get a consolation prize. Call that her dust.

She’d roamed around the edge of that huge fancy building uptop the hill. Curiosity hadn’t quite thoroughly grabbed at her when she’d been passing the doors. Or the other doors, or the other other doors. Sure she’d almost been dragged by her own will, but you know what? Inertia was a property of matter, and Irene sure as hell mattered. The morbidly alien charm of those bolted, glaze-frosted windows tempted for sure. But, as with the equally alien charm of Cochise boys Irene opted for awkwardly shuffling away to show her deference.

The sky continued to froth and foam with the promise of rain. Still didn’t seem quite right, the way the breeze shoved something that smelled like the beach she’d never visited in her life into her face. Okay, besides the beach she'd just come from. That beach didn't count. This air was the wrong thing, the absolute wrong thing to greet Irene a new day. She decided she didn’t particularly care for this weather. Give her a tumbleweed and a flesh-melting sun-kissed sear that left both sides crispy when she walked. Give her a rare cold Kingman day with a skateboard and a friend. And…

Maybe take away the gun and the bag? But no, both those things continued to stubbornly exist, jostling for position on her hip. A thirty-two declared itself in bold white, a touch too boldly for Irene’s comfort or sensibilities. She was hardly a fashion demagogue, but even she knew the Kors-esque branding was a hackneyed. Sure she was the pot calling the midnight dress black, but she had right to complain even though she was also probably at fault somehow.

This was confusing.

Irene's geodesic warped. Seagulls cast away, some sort of song lit the island with a Saturday morning's cartoon harmonies. She looked to the bell tower looming over her third circuit around the asylum's breadth.

It was suddenly an odd feeling. Being here, where eyes could be hidden neatly behind the hundreds of windows poised stoically overhead. She didn’t like it. What she did like, how her thoughts dissolved into the body rattling, flesh rending strikes of foot against ground. She didn’t know where she was going, that hadn’t changed since her conception in some Vegas showroom. But wherever she was going, she was going there fast. She barrelled until she couldn’t barrel anymore and all her excess gun barrel was half shoved down her own asscrack so wild and free her free-for-all sprint carried her.

In the form of too long didn’t read:

Go go go gogogogo. Fly little birdie, fly until you wait where the fuck was this metaphor going. Towards the bell tower.

Towards the bell tower.

Towards the bell tower.

Towards the-

Anyways, this beach looked familiar. She swore she could see herself in the distance, awakening to the tender touch of a carefree ocean's surf, dancing the ever despised sand from her various orifices. It all looked different, somehow. Like someone had removed the shitty Instagram filter casting bleached pastels over the contour of the terrain. How long had there been boats? How long had there been a cave? How long had there been Olivia and Hannah?

Two girls her senior made for quite the sight, cast in relief against the rocks. She observed faces. Pale and smooth and pale and smooth and pale and green and pale and pink. So much for 'no Instagram filter'. It was an odd feeling that welled up into a lump in Irene's throat, one she couldn't swallow down no matter how aggressively compulsive her gulps. Every step closer she took tracked dirt over sand, ground unfamiliar territory into the crevasses of her sneaks.

Irene winced. Did Hannah have to be so loud? She was still too far to be too close. It wasn't the appropriate time to play Taps, even if the cave absorbed the sound all nice. At least her actual voice lingered pleasant on the ear. Made Irene lose The Game though. She whispered the necessary 'lost' clause to herself with a theatric 'drat!' and a 'I would have gotten away with it if it weren't for you meddling kids!' on her lips. And her mouth stayed open, because she had more to say or however it was that actually meaningful and relevant speech was supposed to work:

"That's pretty out of character, Olive. Aaaannnd, pretty badass, t-b-h." Irene smiled and giggled the rest of her unsaid greeting as she continued to trudge the rest of the way. Her eyes glimmered with an approximate bit of joy. The sort that had probably looked better on her back home. Something in the air, and all. As for Hannah, Irene wasn't so sure how she was supposed to respond to that? There was a line, or something. 'What's past is prologue'. But Irene wasn't the Shakespeare buff, so blurting out old dead white guy quotes wasn't her place. Her place was right... here. About arms length from each girl, where a hug could be delivered when she stopped feeling so tentative about doing that for whatever reason.

This was awkward.
V7

V6 - Like you imagined when you... were young...
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Until all our yesterdays are lighted fools... · The Cove