A Study On Block G

It seemed to go down well, until twilight, when I heard rumbling beneath blankets. This was no ordinary wind. Her cries rent open the night. I ran my fingers over her, searching for slivers of wood or glass. Beneath delicate shoulder blades, wings had sprouted from bloodless slits - featherless. Each with the texture of woodland moss.

It was early morning the next day that finally roused Leah from her restless sleep. Her eyes fluttered open and she dazed into the vast morning sky above her. A few fluffy white clouds floated peacefully while the sun dazzled the night away to make way for day to come. For a moment or two, she thought everything was normal. She heard a cockerel crowed somewhere nearby and the heavy noise of the hooves of horses.

Tired and bleary eyed, she rose from the warm comfort of her bed. Her gaze was immediately drawn to the window, outside of which a gnarled sycamore grew. It’s branches twisted like distorted limbs, taunting her as it brushed against the glass panes. A biting chill wrapped itself around Avery’s shivering frame, but

Donovan gazed out over the dusky ground. His green eyes darted around looking for any signs of movement. A dry hot breeze hit his rugged cheeks. It was a sensation he was used to. The desert winds were kisses he had loathed and yet, was as familiar as a lover’s embrace. Every night rolled on the same. The odd trader with their beast of burden mewling in the dark. The rank smell of cow excrement tainted the seemingly desolate air. Scrub brush swayed lazily.

It may have been a little windy, but that was expected considering it was the middle of October. There were leaves; so many leaves. All the different colors of the trees in the distance made the moment so much more entrancing, especially the view right ion front of her. Even the smell of the contrasting circus foods was tolerable when she explored his eyes. To her, they seemed like the only thing that mattered. She just wanted to get closer. She wanted to-

This morning wasn’t as pleasant as the previous day, there was a brisk wind that had come down from Mount Toblerone. Buttercup quickly and quietly runs to Twinkie’s house and went around to knock on her window instead of her door. Twinkie was startled at first but then realized that it was just her friend Buttercup. Twinkie opens her window and asks what was wrong.

It was irrational, and selfish for her to feel the muted emptiness she did. Surrounded by new cats, a completely new family, with plentiful food and astounding powers- yet here she sat, with a hushed piece within her. It whispered, bringing longing for what she had known and for whom she had known. The constant movement, messy and rushed was still comforting all the same. The feeling was as light as a down feather, but it just kept falling, tugging, pulling.

The impact of her lithe body against the shrubbery didn’t bother her that much, as it certainly was not her first time to attempt such an endeavour. Her dressing gown was snugged by a stray branch, causing a sizable hole to appear near the seams. The young lady’s hair was windswept with whatever breeze she had acquired due to the physical activity. Her mother remained oblivious to her escapade into the streets of Boston.

Her arm ached with every step she took through the woods in the cold, under a sky covered by rolling clouds closer to black than white-- Rat-black, dirty grey. Any minute, rain would start to drizzle, and then pelt, and then savage the woods, driven by wind that already made the forest canopy murmur and growl.

She found herself, her eyes steady to the horizon, her face aglow, bright, with the last amber rays of sun before dusk beckoned the stars. A reddish beam streaked though the boughs of the great Cotton tree in both brilliant and shadowy beams. Fern trees hung before her like giant emerald curtains and from them drops of water dangled like diamonds on a necklace. The branches of the Guaguos danced, falling upon each other in a virescent mosaic and above the birds warbled. She walked amongst the dripping oranges, and golden pineapples; the pomegranates which hung like broken shards of sunrise from sprawling branches. The wind roared through the leaves, and coiled around her feet. Looking up she saw a flock of Red-billed tropicbirds floating upon grey clouds blowing over from

Lapping at coffee stains, he stood. Nimble and haughty, he was the flighty prince of this wooden land. The light from the window crowns his head, dust dancing in the rays about his horns and painting him ethereal white along his tawny pelt. But the light was fleeting, the sun yet resting its head on the cresting trees far beyond his reach. He looked to the north, to the tower silhouetted against the dying sun, his Mother’s domain. It was not lit. And perhaps, on any other day, he would have ignored this and gone about his business. He would have leapt over the felled pencil and run towards the paper fields, ready to rest his head on an eraser as his Mother began her midnight rein. Today was different, however. The dust had settled upon not only his shoulders, but around his heart, and the weight worried him.

Joyfully, she embraces the sound that 's deafening in the still of the moment. She’s on another pathway made of crudely poured blacktop, it twists and winds in parallel with the sidewalk, to her right is a rusty chain link fence, decorated with carefully designated shrubs of dark green foliage and deep fuchsia blossoms. Behind and below the oxidized barrier is a man made canal, flowing with an algae inundated stream of chartreuse sludge quickly making its way, undaunted and undisturbed by the collection of debris that line its home. The rivulet is in concordance with the other sounds of nature, inaudibly babbling as it journeys, circumambient the detritus thoroughfare. Closing her voluminous deep brown eyes, merely for an infinitesimal moment, soaking up the life, the sounds, the smells that encompass her. Exhaling deeply, she smiles. Walking further down the path, her new residence is microscopic, left in the distance of her perambulation, one foot over the other, she continues, the wetness is dissipating from the zephyr as the minutes pass. Grateful to soak in these sights and sounds, renewed, as if she is newly born. Theoretically, she truly is. Then, she is lost in nature, lost in thoughts, memories of the past. Her life was much different this time last year, she remembers. Last year she had nothing. She had lost her home again, her family, her hope. There were no walks and no partaking in the everyday joys in life, she was trapped. Trapped in a self

It was if the whole world had fallen still, the forest eerily silent other than the harsh breaths of the opposing tom and me. I felt the sun begin to warm my pelt as I realized that it must be mid-morning by now, if not later. All was at peace, the grass below my paws still slightly moist from the morning dew, and the leaves above us whispered secrets to the soft breeze.

A sound, maybe a chainsaw, weed eater, lawn mower something familiar and annoying -- stirred Amelia from unconsciousness. But it wasn’t like waking up, rather it was slow, confusing, and dreamlike. She raised her hands to rub her eyes, and with a jolt of alarm realized simultaneously her hands were bound, as well as her ankles . Like a glass of water thrown in the face her eyes flew open, but her thinking couldn't catch up. She stared, dumbfounded, blinking slowly, trying to focus on her wrists to see what the problem was. She sensed she was outside but it was full dark and glancing up at the sky she saw nothing; although she knew there should be a moon. Pulling and twisting her arms in front of her, her brow furrowed with confusion, she

The bell rang and we all squirmed out of Mrs. Clifford’s room. Everyone with the same waning, goad. Just before we pressed through the iron guard we all hear a scream. A voice so high pitched it sent a shrill through every one of us and echoed down the pale halls. Right, then we knew we were about to have our ID cards handed to us. We drop them in the thermoset polymer pale with the sound of a marble pendulum. Out we go hands on fire, heads melting and sit under an azure, impalpable extremity. The shade from the tree froze us as it blocked out the sun. The whistle blew and we all strutted along the side of the blacktop. Just as we get to the edge we become a herd of gazelles running from a pack of hungry lions. The first