Nobody need know who she was, where she was from, where she hid, then and now. Dirty rain drops and battlefield cries, well, not really, just shrieks from kettles and factory chimneys, the ones near where she was crouched in someone's doorway. Ugly feeling, as dirty as the drops that pattered over the eaves.
She picked at her plastic sandles as she pulled a face and watched the cars past when they did. Which was rarely. She had been seated here with a patchwork little knapsack, dawdled beside, drawn on in squiggles and scrawls of friends names and favourite flowers. She was the eternal youngin', printing graffiti-work faerie town worthy, that faded as the borders light set it off to shade.
Hugging herself she lifted her eyes the sky as gray as it could get. Like bleached in cloud cover and chimney expulsions, she smiled a little, sadly, her eyes like two drooping windows to the soul, blue sky bright but in tears, in troubled terror. She was as equipped as a child in body, and as filled up inside with cloud as she could remember. Like she had been born in the smog, and floated down wet-tar roads like even a knife could pass through her in cool-foggy mist.
A while longer, relating to the passing sky, she stood. Time for her to move on from the dark brick, smutty alcove, reaking of sex and unsavoury pastimes. She shivered as she pulled the bag onto her little shoulders and flip-flopped onto the pavement, covered in times watermark of blackened gum and chalk prints gone sour; paw prints from when dogs had run through the concrete while still drying.
The pink plastic slapped the wet concrete in staccaco random steps. The distant factories neared with each set of footprints. The out-of-time travel in likeness to the rain drops falling when they felt like it and wherever.
And such was how the forever youngling had meandered through the World and realms, hobbying and homely, sticking to the grime and colourful art of dingy, southside neighbourhoods, knowing the wrong side of the railway tracks as the only side she knew. A fabulous thief and a winnermaker getaway, she was always running, running and running, even when she was walking or curled in some cardboard box beside a forgotten easel and a junkyards scrap heaps, she was always hiding and on the move.
The young thing had been dislodged from family and found it only as a source of a troubling anxiety. Not quite a pain, but a bother. She had met people and developed friendships to last and be boundless, but forgotten many after years of a child travelling, and she thought maybe so much so soon had dwindled her size and her voice, kept her small, kept her sound; kept her "the kid".
Sometimes a thief most times and Runner, she would assist those who had given her home and hearth with pockets of bullets and stolen derringers and sometimes silences, to help them build their esteem and keep their wage for her next meal. From lifeline to lifeline, her dice was thrown to spill as it would, instead of a two, a six or a one, it was an Eightball, billiards for inventory, roulette for items, and Ten Pins for luxuries and lavash lunches, hearts, spades or solitaire. The banquets, few, and far between.
She walked into Westend that forever lived child-girl-woman, ageless and place-less and yet bound to Bordertown and Rhy'Din because of the Trueblood in her veins. Her washed out bright blue hair, the tips of her ears giveaways and omens to whoever was "in the know" and would either kick her out or take a liking to. She adjusted the bag as she wandered on, looking aimless but having a place to find.
A dirty, moisture laden wind blew down the intersecting four streets. She breathed it in and hunched over, picking up a Hawaii Keyring, like one from the tourist stores before the Border and the World started backwards from Fey magic and the border's seamy light, and if she ever got close enough it all seemed to gleam and meld together, an entire seamless landscape of colour and confused hues. The pink yukelele imprinted was glossy and black lined, and reminded her of home. Of gauche images, like the ones on all her neatly pressed t shirts, before the Home was written off. So too, "Family". Only a few t-shirts remained, stuffed and crammed into the bottom of the bag like lazy, cotton memories, to smell sweet and soft. Only her memories to count.
Putting it in her pocket she headed on. She was alone, but had a feeling hospitality would not be far off, if the rumours were true, and her humble, pringing instincts were tuned.
She picked at her plastic sandles as she pulled a face and watched the cars past when they did. Which was rarely. She had been seated here with a patchwork little knapsack, dawdled beside, drawn on in squiggles and scrawls of friends names and favourite flowers. She was the eternal youngin', printing graffiti-work faerie town worthy, that faded as the borders light set it off to shade.
Hugging herself she lifted her eyes the sky as gray as it could get. Like bleached in cloud cover and chimney expulsions, she smiled a little, sadly, her eyes like two drooping windows to the soul, blue sky bright but in tears, in troubled terror. She was as equipped as a child in body, and as filled up inside with cloud as she could remember. Like she had been born in the smog, and floated down wet-tar roads like even a knife could pass through her in cool-foggy mist.
A while longer, relating to the passing sky, she stood. Time for her to move on from the dark brick, smutty alcove, reaking of sex and unsavoury pastimes. She shivered as she pulled the bag onto her little shoulders and flip-flopped onto the pavement, covered in times watermark of blackened gum and chalk prints gone sour; paw prints from when dogs had run through the concrete while still drying.
The pink plastic slapped the wet concrete in staccaco random steps. The distant factories neared with each set of footprints. The out-of-time travel in likeness to the rain drops falling when they felt like it and wherever.
And such was how the forever youngling had meandered through the World and realms, hobbying and homely, sticking to the grime and colourful art of dingy, southside neighbourhoods, knowing the wrong side of the railway tracks as the only side she knew. A fabulous thief and a winnermaker getaway, she was always running, running and running, even when she was walking or curled in some cardboard box beside a forgotten easel and a junkyards scrap heaps, she was always hiding and on the move.
The young thing had been dislodged from family and found it only as a source of a troubling anxiety. Not quite a pain, but a bother. She had met people and developed friendships to last and be boundless, but forgotten many after years of a child travelling, and she thought maybe so much so soon had dwindled her size and her voice, kept her small, kept her sound; kept her "the kid".
Sometimes a thief most times and Runner, she would assist those who had given her home and hearth with pockets of bullets and stolen derringers and sometimes silences, to help them build their esteem and keep their wage for her next meal. From lifeline to lifeline, her dice was thrown to spill as it would, instead of a two, a six or a one, it was an Eightball, billiards for inventory, roulette for items, and Ten Pins for luxuries and lavash lunches, hearts, spades or solitaire. The banquets, few, and far between.
She walked into Westend that forever lived child-girl-woman, ageless and place-less and yet bound to Bordertown and Rhy'Din because of the Trueblood in her veins. Her washed out bright blue hair, the tips of her ears giveaways and omens to whoever was "in the know" and would either kick her out or take a liking to. She adjusted the bag as she wandered on, looking aimless but having a place to find.
A dirty, moisture laden wind blew down the intersecting four streets. She breathed it in and hunched over, picking up a Hawaii Keyring, like one from the tourist stores before the Border and the World started backwards from Fey magic and the border's seamy light, and if she ever got close enough it all seemed to gleam and meld together, an entire seamless landscape of colour and confused hues. The pink yukelele imprinted was glossy and black lined, and reminded her of home. Of gauche images, like the ones on all her neatly pressed t shirts, before the Home was written off. So too, "Family". Only a few t-shirts remained, stuffed and crammed into the bottom of the bag like lazy, cotton memories, to smell sweet and soft. Only her memories to count.
Putting it in her pocket she headed on. She was alone, but had a feeling hospitality would not be far off, if the rumours were true, and her humble, pringing instincts were tuned.