He cut her loose, so he ran. He ran as hard as he could, through walls and corridors of open air freshness. He ran harder than he could, his muscles rushing forth to drag his ailing faltering body along. His lungs split at the seam, and his heart rode to his head.
She stood waiting when he turned the corner home, holding up to the glow of a streetlight one thread she hid away, so she'd always find him when he wasn't looking.
4 comments:
i guess i should say thank you, for cutting all my strings. but if it's all the same to you, i wish you'd left my wings.
*golf clap*
Really, though. I don't shear feathers. You've got the wrong culprit.
http://pleasefindthis.blogspot.com/2009/10/mechanics-of-puppetry.html
:|
WHOA.
:)
*impressed smile*
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