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Cicada Days
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keep running yoshi
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Latanna watched Hannah as she ran, and ran, and in the sun washed backdrop a light-anointed Aunt Marion and Uncle Jamison danced oh so gently with their babes to each arm, Jamison Junior to his father, Johannes to his mother.

Six-o-clock, to the dot, in the evening. Latanna clasped her hands before herself, shoulders steepling. Hair fluttering away by the whims of a gentle breeze, as did her skirt of ethereal, almost undefined color. All colors seemed to melt together somehow, in such a warm moment.

Latanna called for Hannah once. She was almost to the treeline. The mischievous girl looked back with a toss of head over shoulder, careless, free even from the concept of freedom. God's providence, yet, shone down on her, casting russet hue shadows over her cheeks.

"I'll be fine, Lala!"

No, she wouldn't be. Latanna's voice rung clear through all the distance between them as she reiterated her point.

"C'mon..?! Pleeeease!!"

Certainly not. Latanna did not waver, not an inch of her statue-cast form. Not a grain of sand would have slipped out of the hourglass neck between her fingers, for she held them tight, a fist's worth of two fingers firmly beckoning. Once, all that was needed.

"Ugh! Okay!!"


Pure white walls, timeless, flanked on all sides. Chilled floors of marble stretched wall-to-wall. A dais in the precise center of the room, on each of it's cardinal directions two simple steps ascended, hewn out of the marble. On the walls crosses hung in intervals, adorning every alcove with simple and elegant wooden faith. In it's center was a dollop of pure alabaster, man-size, a pool that yawned open with crystal-clear water, fed by a small bowl fountain so gentle as to be silent. It's shallow basin was brightened by the light that streamed in from windowed rafters, clear glass letting in the brilliance of the desert sun. All was clean, in a homely way, as fresh as one's own bedroom would be when recently swept, dusted, tidied.

One thing out of place, a decidedly cheap plastic face, a thin band of a tacky blue hue, ticking away seconds a mite too late with it's silvery hands perpetually racing away inches.
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... but we must pick ourselves up again... · V6 Meanwhile...