[the princess of the paupers.] (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lookslikelove) wrote2006-11-28 01:28 pm
lookslikelove) wrote2006-11-28 01:28 pm
Entry tags:
the faraway girl and such strange things
The start of something probably a lot bigger. Because I like to play with older things.
They were boring shoes, nondescript at best, dull at worst, made of thin brown leather, broken and worn. She watched them, her nose wrinkled slightly in observation and faraway thought, wiggling her toes in the boring shoes, watching light brown and yellow lines crack and move their way over and across her feet. They reminded her of the lines on the palms on her hands and she wondered what future could be determined from them. A grim one, she suspected, full of rubbish bins and second hand shops, of old things being lost or worn away, by some power greater than she possessed.
That thought, its simplicity and its absurdity caused her to let out a small snort of laughter. The fact that she was contemplating the future in her footwear, suggested madness or loneliness or something not quite mainstream to allow for long survival. Evolution would weed her out, or at the very least, break her down into the rest of the fold. She rolled her eyes at her own ridiculousness. The same thoughts that bred dreams of faraway places, of craggy rocks that fell into the cold grey sea. Of towers of stone and plains of grass that felt different under bare toes.
The bench underneath her was hard and solid, a very real thing as far as senses could tell. She drummed her fingers on the wood, still watching her shoes, the wind blowing her hair into her mouth, the strands getting caught in her lip gloss and making her face wrinkle in childish distaste as she tried to free them without using her fingers. She failed at that attempt, and pulled them free with a long fingered hand half covered by the sleeves of her sweater.
It was cold, not frigid, just cold, the same sort of crispness in the air that suggested that the fight between autumn and winter was in full alert, and the leaves of the trees were the victims of the war.
These thoughts, this tiny notion, did not last long, interruption coming up on her, just like clockwork.
“Izzie! Izzie!” She sighed at the nickname, and tried not to feel too bad about the use of it. It was an ugly name, but it was sweeter than the name she usually wore. It was freer. She smiled absently as she looked up, notions of the future gone for the moment as she turned faraway eyes on her fast approaching companion.
“Sorry, I’m late. Lost track of the time and all that jazz, you know,” the girl explained with a dramatic wave of her hand and a roll of her eyes. “Have you been waiting long? Oh wait, of course you have. Always waiting, aren’t you? Funny.”
Isolde laughed, the uneasiness that hinted in the action covered by the bawdier self-appreciative laughter of her friend. All of it echoed slightly off the brick houses across the way, a strange mesh of voices bouncing back at them. She shrugged slightly, answering the question without words.
“Not always, just sometimes. But no, I wasn’t here for long, at least I don’t think I was,” she replied calmly, studying Brigit with the same pensive stare she’d been using on her shoes moments earlier, taking in the girl’s flyaway dirt brown hair, and laughing face.
Brigit shivered and gave her a playful shove with her elbow. “Yeah, sure,” she laughed, grinning again. “Jesus, it’s fucking freezing, let’s go before we freeze to this bench.”
Resolutely, as if the weight of the world was pressing down on her and she only just noticed it, Isolde stood up, pressing down on the soles of her boring shoes, no match for the bounce with it her friend had sprung herself up on. Hands shoved into pockets to protect them, arm hooked into Brigit’s, as if they’d sprung from the Wizard of Oz, the two girls took off down the sidewalk, matching grey skirts swishing in their movements and the wind, steps falling out in an odd pattern, a mix of speed and slow, as they tried to beat the weather.
A triumph of modern man as they clomped out down the street, ducking under signs, and around parked cars, cyclists and children moving about them before they ducked, laughing absent into their destination, the smell of vinyl, cardboard, and incense greeting them. The promise of future wasted afternoons lingered in the air as Brigit broke free of their interlock to sit, unwelcomed on the counter, Isolde turning to run her fingers over the carefully organized albums in their crates. She liked the tiny promises in them, the whispers of new songs, of new trends, of new things, all waiting to be mixed and blended with the old things. They waited for her, and she wondered which ones would be saved for years to come, replayed and retold, and if they would hold a hint of her, something to case in her memory. A relaxing bit of melancholy to drum out the ordinary, but mostly it just touched her as she escaped, held her as she faded away.
They were boring shoes, nondescript at best, dull at worst, made of thin brown leather, broken and worn. She watched them, her nose wrinkled slightly in observation and faraway thought, wiggling her toes in the boring shoes, watching light brown and yellow lines crack and move their way over and across her feet. They reminded her of the lines on the palms on her hands and she wondered what future could be determined from them. A grim one, she suspected, full of rubbish bins and second hand shops, of old things being lost or worn away, by some power greater than she possessed.
That thought, its simplicity and its absurdity caused her to let out a small snort of laughter. The fact that she was contemplating the future in her footwear, suggested madness or loneliness or something not quite mainstream to allow for long survival. Evolution would weed her out, or at the very least, break her down into the rest of the fold. She rolled her eyes at her own ridiculousness. The same thoughts that bred dreams of faraway places, of craggy rocks that fell into the cold grey sea. Of towers of stone and plains of grass that felt different under bare toes.
The bench underneath her was hard and solid, a very real thing as far as senses could tell. She drummed her fingers on the wood, still watching her shoes, the wind blowing her hair into her mouth, the strands getting caught in her lip gloss and making her face wrinkle in childish distaste as she tried to free them without using her fingers. She failed at that attempt, and pulled them free with a long fingered hand half covered by the sleeves of her sweater.
It was cold, not frigid, just cold, the same sort of crispness in the air that suggested that the fight between autumn and winter was in full alert, and the leaves of the trees were the victims of the war.
These thoughts, this tiny notion, did not last long, interruption coming up on her, just like clockwork.
“Izzie! Izzie!” She sighed at the nickname, and tried not to feel too bad about the use of it. It was an ugly name, but it was sweeter than the name she usually wore. It was freer. She smiled absently as she looked up, notions of the future gone for the moment as she turned faraway eyes on her fast approaching companion.
“Sorry, I’m late. Lost track of the time and all that jazz, you know,” the girl explained with a dramatic wave of her hand and a roll of her eyes. “Have you been waiting long? Oh wait, of course you have. Always waiting, aren’t you? Funny.”
Isolde laughed, the uneasiness that hinted in the action covered by the bawdier self-appreciative laughter of her friend. All of it echoed slightly off the brick houses across the way, a strange mesh of voices bouncing back at them. She shrugged slightly, answering the question without words.
“Not always, just sometimes. But no, I wasn’t here for long, at least I don’t think I was,” she replied calmly, studying Brigit with the same pensive stare she’d been using on her shoes moments earlier, taking in the girl’s flyaway dirt brown hair, and laughing face.
Brigit shivered and gave her a playful shove with her elbow. “Yeah, sure,” she laughed, grinning again. “Jesus, it’s fucking freezing, let’s go before we freeze to this bench.”
Resolutely, as if the weight of the world was pressing down on her and she only just noticed it, Isolde stood up, pressing down on the soles of her boring shoes, no match for the bounce with it her friend had sprung herself up on. Hands shoved into pockets to protect them, arm hooked into Brigit’s, as if they’d sprung from the Wizard of Oz, the two girls took off down the sidewalk, matching grey skirts swishing in their movements and the wind, steps falling out in an odd pattern, a mix of speed and slow, as they tried to beat the weather.
A triumph of modern man as they clomped out down the street, ducking under signs, and around parked cars, cyclists and children moving about them before they ducked, laughing absent into their destination, the smell of vinyl, cardboard, and incense greeting them. The promise of future wasted afternoons lingered in the air as Brigit broke free of their interlock to sit, unwelcomed on the counter, Isolde turning to run her fingers over the carefully organized albums in their crates. She liked the tiny promises in them, the whispers of new songs, of new trends, of new things, all waiting to be mixed and blended with the old things. They waited for her, and she wondered which ones would be saved for years to come, replayed and retold, and if they would hold a hint of her, something to case in her memory. A relaxing bit of melancholy to drum out the ordinary, but mostly it just touched her as she escaped, held her as she faded away.