Title: once upon a never time
Author: miss toad
Rating: G
Summary: A bit of dribble- no trees but his whispering leaves, affably
provided until the change that does shatter the heart.
Notes: Originally junk in my livejournal. A very small little ficlet
writing after I'd gotten sick. Which doesn't say anything. Honestly. I
rather like it, even if it is truly terrible and small.. Now, if anyone can
name the two featured, I may be able to scrounge up something of your
choice for you! Not that you'd want it. Hah, the technical junk (ah, ffvii
stuff, no belong to me), is longer than the 'story'!
There were no trees to extend skeletal arms towards her, asking for a hug. None to climb and earn splinters in. Her giants of nature were man made poles of steel and metal, far and few in between as most light needed was provided by the steel sky above. She read books with curiosity and longing, imagining what leaves might look like, might sound like as they rubbed together in innocent affection.
When they were young he had drawn her a tree, telling her of the unique varieties that spotted his native land Wutaii. They had lain beneath the endless plate of artificial light on cold concrete, arms crossed beneath their heads as they dreamed themselves a forest with plush moss beneath. Gentle whispers that mocked the clash of leaves drifted from him, and when she closed her eyes she saw it all.
He had left to return as a ghost with dead eyes, and there was no time for imagination. If ever in desperation she thrust at him the sketch by a young, pained boy, gloved hands tore down the paper tree and instead of timid rustling there was cold laughter and the fragile shatter of her bleeding heart.
But all hearts bleed, it's their job.
There were no trees to extend skeletal arms towards her, asking for a hug. None to climb and earn splinters in. Her giants of nature were man made poles of steel and metal, far and few in between as most light needed was provided by the steel sky above. She read books with curiosity and longing, imagining what leaves might look like, might sound like as they rubbed together in innocent affection.
When they were young he had drawn her a tree, telling her of the unique varieties that spotted his native land Wutaii. They had lain beneath the endless plate of artificial light on cold concrete, arms crossed beneath their heads as they dreamed themselves a forest with plush moss beneath. Gentle whispers that mocked the clash of leaves drifted from him, and when she closed her eyes she saw it all.
He had left to return as a ghost with dead eyes, and there was no time for imagination. If ever in desperation she thrust at him the sketch by a young, pained boy, gloved hands tore down the paper tree and instead of timid rustling there was cold laughter and the fragile shatter of her bleeding heart.
But all hearts bleed, it's their job.