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Of Anna BethOne.
The sky opened its mouth and rain fell with the silent threat of being hail. Yet, Anna Beth glimpsed Mr. Dustbeard sitting on the bench whose surface was all too familiar to her fingers and whose faded brown had become a hue her eyes searched for everywhere. So, she decided to join him. He being there gave Anna Beth strength to conquer the rain. It dissolved her pride and replaced it with knotted strings of sympathy. He would have liked her to be there. She would have liked to feel the rain lick at her shoulders and brow. She would have liked to look into his eyes and ride on his smile before finding something else to unravel. It exasperated her, this craving to work people out.
Mr. Dustbeards hands were pale with age and rough with experience. The ridges that covered his palms were apparent, and here and there the peach of his skin would be interrupted by a blotch of brown.
worldsShes done her teenage years justice and braved the aftershock of adulthood, but a child stares back at her through the mirror. She sees full cheeks and a checkered dress; quiet features and reticent eyes. It is an accurate reflection.
A tape recorder rests still in her left pocket. It is almost antique, the number of times its been fixed and dropped. And fixed. She recalls her disappointment the first time shed recorded something with it. She was the age of her reflection in the mirror.
Shed bought the tape recorder to echo the sounds she liked. Sounds can never be repeated. The world can never be repeated.
Instead, it captured and tortured them. The sounds came out bare and trembling. It wasnt right. She kept it anyway. It was her only means of remembering.
Her childhood was caught between wanderings and discoveries.
quiet fairytalesShe was the witch, he was the peasant with a princes heart.
Her skin was a shadow, her eyes coal. Her beauty was derived from distortion, her heartbeat was phantom.
Still, he yearned for her. Even if her heart was but a mere imprint, he wanted it.
She feared him. He wielded love, the only thing she was incapable of conjuring. And so the fairytale was shattered to hatch a mere story.
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