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Cicada Days
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keep running yoshi
[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Flesh and bone and bright. Slowly the tones began to melt away. Vapors dribbled off them, etching air into the vaguest of shapes. A map. A wave. A plastic casing, a plastic wreath. Steel, cast into violence.

Tina's ears split. They went without protection, as firm bolting welded her to her mockery of a stave. Muffled loud, like a gun shot chromatic over an octave. Back and forth, back and forth, fingers danced on a piano diminuendo. Pressure on her lip. Enamel. A face, a request for thought. Tina tasted the slightest tinge of iron and rust. It splashed from the sinewy pillow she crushed with incisors. It hurt. Sentences exchanged. It hurt. The velvety cream of a shoulder rubbed by fabric as it mightily flexed. The drift of vapors, until the air was clean of all but the remaining miasma. Noxious on her breath. A finger trembled though Tina was a statue. She could breathe.

It hurt.

She felt her chest tense, loosen. Tense, loosen. Tense, loosen. Lungfuls in syncopation, whistling mutely through eroded crags of teeth. Each step. A discombobulated accordion, air leaking with every footfall. Her shadow was cast. The typecast of G047, unassuming, darkened a few shades. Zero saturation could become negative. Thoughts continued to churn, hollow racket of cogs and clanks.

Tina's field of vision narrowed. A distant din that continued to stubbornly echo, it was finally silenced. She could only hear her own breath. Tepid. A weapon clattered to her side, briefly abandoned. Her fingers wove, a clumsy backstitch. The purr of a zipper. Nothing but muted hues inside, but one hue stood out. Grayscale, more so than it's surroundings. The gentle god-fearing gift of a girl who didn't fear god. Reverence led greasy fingerprints only lightly against the fibers of anothers' child, pride. Pride. An emotion.


Would do. She could wear it, even if it weren't her own. But not on her body. On her soul, where it would be warm. In her bag, where it would be safe. Lily Caldwell's gift to Tina Luz was carefully buried, sealed hermetically by masses of other meaningless fabrics.

One breath, just one. It smelled only of the sun's gentle touch and a spring breeze. Home. If she put one foot before another, if she made toe meet heel... But she needed to hold a weapon.

She breathed choke.

((Florentina Luz continued in Rückenfigur))
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Imprimatura · Solitary Confinement