#oc; prose.

[whysosilents-blog]

allyn!

the first breath after pushing open a bay window at night. snowy dandelion fuzz, grass tickling the skin of his cheeks. a cape the colour of royalty, worn from adventure. distant laughter, distant memories. ‘a lion’s pride’ tavern’s tune. the graceful curve of fingers as if they were just about to play a harp. 

[whysosilents-blog]

irvin tho

chiseled white marble. the home-run crack of a baseball bat. eloquent, elaborately painted versailles ceilings. the sound of the ball rolling, rolling, rolling around the roulette table (and the twinge at the temple when cheers erupt). a crown dusted black, silver in the light. a single word “kneel.” twenty attack dogs on a rigid leash, carnivore eyes, armed to the teeth.

[whysosilents-blog]

thomas

the sound of a pen scrawling against a hard surface and a checkbook snapping closed like alligator teeth. crocodile skin shoes the colour of a mexican black kingsnake, pristine, maybe unworn. the smell of new leather, specifically around the belt area (noted when one is kneeling to hastily unfasten it). open curtains and soft cotton sheets that catch the warmth of 7am’s sun. two rooks on a chess board closing in on the king.

[whysosilents-blog]

wrath!

black gun smoke, volcanic ash. hollowness and embers. knuckles salted with the darkest shade of blood. oxford shoes reverberating inside an empty corridor. sternocleidomastoid muscles and lower mandible. sleek obsidian bed sheets outlined with two hours of sleep. everything utterly dark and fragmented.