|
23rd Fall 506AV Age 15 Rozze's family home Late morning |
A monster this was. A terrifying creature send right from the dark voids of the aperture in Nyka, from which is crawled out as a prerequisite to terrorise the homes of those with arachnophobia. Well, perhaps to say that Rozz was phobic would be quite the overstatement. At lest she didn't think of herself as such for if such was the case, than why would she linger in such close proximity, chest tight, still as a nuit, tear filled eyes. Transfixed she was, eyes thrust into the slender body of the monster, fear perpetuation though each and every fibre of her body but her eyes would not avert. She would not descent her boot upon it for simply she would observe it closely and perhaps within that observation, the seeds of artistic inspiration would linger. And if not then at least an increased understanding of the dreadful thing which frightened her so.
A creature the sizie perhaps slightly greater than her thumb nail. A great frightening horror from the abyss of those darkest surreal thoughts of the puppeteer of creation. The one who scribed the anatomy of each and every being that walked and crawled upon this land.
Having now found herself beyond that tender age where frivolities, such as existence of those creatures lesser than her, had very little bearing upon the hold in the whole. That age at which the senseless murder of arachnids was simply an interesting way to pass the time. She had never deprived a spider of it's very own spark of life, for beforehand she had been simply terrified of the creatures. Now she would not kill one for the respect in which she had grown towards everyone and everything that lived. Perhaps if it had committed some great crime, some profound fallacy... but such was not the case and so she'd remain in quiet and distant awe at it's sight. A conscience clean is a conscience worth having.
This had been one of those early mornings when a gentle haze of foggy dust hovered about all, obscuring the features of her home with a sepia glow. Or perhaps it was the awakening sun, alas rising in the sky, that ore this warmer hue. Rays, straight as a razor'd edge penetrated the translucent glass of the window in her room, descending upon the wooden panels in a profoundly poetic aesthetic. Those were the rays that awakened her this belated of mornings, brushing the sands of sleep from her eye lids with their motherly caress. A stillness within her room, the white ghostly gown upon her slender figure that now lost it's childish roundness, having developed that of a little woman, though retaining it's youthfulness in the most fragile of fashions. All this was so very picturesque, as if painted in a children's book by the elusive hand of a story teller. And Rozz herself was a story. A ghostly girl in her tranquil element; the vintage aesthetic of her little chamber, with the floor boards that cheeked and the bod that seemed timeless in it's darkening age and a stack of books and sketch books all piled atop one another in barely organised entropy. That was the element of little Rozz Potato.
For she was naturally observant of all this. It was somehow coded within her very djed to see the world in terms of art rather than for what it was. And that which was not beautiful - though finding things that had not been beautiful to her youthful eyes was truly a difficult endeavour - she would avert her attention from quickly. So in the dual meaning of the word ghost - one being an entity dead to the world, the other being a living breathing one which moved though it in the very manner of such - Rozz perhaps was the later. thus she was perpetually frazzled and perpetually somewhat sleepy.
Much took place as a prerequisite to the encounter with that dreadful creature which crawled from beneath her bed, having established it's presence in the crevice between the delightfully papered, though decayed, wall and the mahogany of the floor. Then again much always happened in her youthful head which dreams much and frequently. Thus it took a certain amount of self discipline to forsake the homely warmth of the duvet which kept her company every night, the tender softness of the pillow. A head already spun with the web of enticing ideas, the observation of the romantic scene before her. The awe which her eyes bore when looking upon that certain slant of light, that sepia haze, that fable which was her room in this hour. All to be simply erased the moment in which that naked foot creaked on the cooler wood, the curling of her toes, partly in balance and partly at the horror of events unfolding before her.
The spider had nested itself directly before her as if to challenge the girl who was indeed so very much bigger than it. Then again, often she found that she was scared of many things which lacked size in comparison - safe for perhaps loneliness and darkness. Yes those two things, also terribly frighting for one my never know what greatly more terrible a horror may lined in the lonely mind of perpetual darkness, were so much bigger than her and therefore so very scary.
A creature the sizie perhaps slightly greater than her thumb nail. A great frightening horror from the abyss of those darkest surreal thoughts of the puppeteer of creation. The one who scribed the anatomy of each and every being that walked and crawled upon this land.
Having now found herself beyond that tender age where frivolities, such as existence of those creatures lesser than her, had very little bearing upon the hold in the whole. That age at which the senseless murder of arachnids was simply an interesting way to pass the time. She had never deprived a spider of it's very own spark of life, for beforehand she had been simply terrified of the creatures. Now she would not kill one for the respect in which she had grown towards everyone and everything that lived. Perhaps if it had committed some great crime, some profound fallacy... but such was not the case and so she'd remain in quiet and distant awe at it's sight. A conscience clean is a conscience worth having.
This had been one of those early mornings when a gentle haze of foggy dust hovered about all, obscuring the features of her home with a sepia glow. Or perhaps it was the awakening sun, alas rising in the sky, that ore this warmer hue. Rays, straight as a razor'd edge penetrated the translucent glass of the window in her room, descending upon the wooden panels in a profoundly poetic aesthetic. Those were the rays that awakened her this belated of mornings, brushing the sands of sleep from her eye lids with their motherly caress. A stillness within her room, the white ghostly gown upon her slender figure that now lost it's childish roundness, having developed that of a little woman, though retaining it's youthfulness in the most fragile of fashions. All this was so very picturesque, as if painted in a children's book by the elusive hand of a story teller. And Rozz herself was a story. A ghostly girl in her tranquil element; the vintage aesthetic of her little chamber, with the floor boards that cheeked and the bod that seemed timeless in it's darkening age and a stack of books and sketch books all piled atop one another in barely organised entropy. That was the element of little Rozz Potato.
For she was naturally observant of all this. It was somehow coded within her very djed to see the world in terms of art rather than for what it was. And that which was not beautiful - though finding things that had not been beautiful to her youthful eyes was truly a difficult endeavour - she would avert her attention from quickly. So in the dual meaning of the word ghost - one being an entity dead to the world, the other being a living breathing one which moved though it in the very manner of such - Rozz perhaps was the later. thus she was perpetually frazzled and perpetually somewhat sleepy.
Much took place as a prerequisite to the encounter with that dreadful creature which crawled from beneath her bed, having established it's presence in the crevice between the delightfully papered, though decayed, wall and the mahogany of the floor. Then again much always happened in her youthful head which dreams much and frequently. Thus it took a certain amount of self discipline to forsake the homely warmth of the duvet which kept her company every night, the tender softness of the pillow. A head already spun with the web of enticing ideas, the observation of the romantic scene before her. The awe which her eyes bore when looking upon that certain slant of light, that sepia haze, that fable which was her room in this hour. All to be simply erased the moment in which that naked foot creaked on the cooler wood, the curling of her toes, partly in balance and partly at the horror of events unfolding before her.
The spider had nested itself directly before her as if to challenge the girl who was indeed so very much bigger than it. Then again, often she found that she was scared of many things which lacked size in comparison - safe for perhaps loneliness and darkness. Yes those two things, also terribly frighting for one my never know what greatly more terrible a horror may lined in the lonely mind of perpetual darkness, were so much bigger than her and therefore so very scary.
