Her hands are always the same, soft and firm as old well-worn leather and covered with fine traceries of scars. Some of the scars you recognize—the finger she almost lost slicing onions when she laughed too hard at one of your jokes, the scattered dots where bees objected to her plucking a chunk of honeycomb, the shiny burn-scars on her fingertips that she’d had to beg your help with. Most of them you do not. She was already ancient when you first met. ...
(this is the third part of Claire’s story. The rest may be found here) That was a mistake. What was she thinking? She hasn’t yet brought herself to drop the flower—could she even if she wanted to? Its broken stem oozes with something that’s not honey, sticky and warm against her sweaty fingers, gripping tight— Claire’s heart pounds in her ears, beating in tune with her frantic footfalls, each step crushing insects and leaves alike beneath her filthy shoes; she’s making noise, so much noise, enough to scare off all the forest’s creatures and quiet their sounds— ...
Slipping into the club, music pounding at your ears, in your bones, the thrum of life and song and dance; friends with you for a moment then gone in the kaleidoscope whirl, torn apart, joining the crowd– And you go with them, lost in light and sound and movement. The noise is inside you, it is you, filling your motions with beautiful Purpose; twirling through the crowd, intersecting and diverging, no partner lasting more than a few moments–that’s not what tonight wants of you. ...