Red
The street lamp sheds a pool of light, a tiny island in the vast sea of night. The wind cuts cold through it, but the type of sanctuary it provides is not from the likes of the elements. It provides shelter from that which lurks in the dark.
Lurking like a wolf.
She enters its luminescent embrace like a swimmer emerging from the water for air. She shivers. It is a delicate motion, fit for a delicate form. A tremor that seems to stem more from the soul then the flesh. She grips herself, tightly, as if she can hold in the warmth leeching from her bones by sheer force alone. But it is not just the cold that causes her to shiver. There are other things about this night.
Things like a wolf.
The light falling from the lamp above reflects off her form, till it almost seems that she herself glows. Her skin is the soft white of fine china, her hair the red of burnished copper, her eyes the green of emeralds. She is slender, the first signs of pubesence just starting to round out the thin frame of a child. And while she is but a child, there is something in the haunted look of her eyes that gives lie to the title. Hers are the eyes of someone much older, the eyes of someone who has seen too much, the eyes of the hunted.
Hunted by a wolf.
Her dress gives away her profession. A profression the young should never have to find themselves in. A profession the young are invariably found in. The shoes are too big for her, the spiked heels slapping loudly as her short feet slip out of them when she walks. The stockings look like spiderwebs, clinging enticingly, invitingly, to the unmarred flesh of her short legs. The skirt is short, checked plaid like a school uniform, an intentional similarity. The shirt is white, button down, though the buttons are undone, open to display the soft curve of her stomach. This smooth curve is cut off by a short black top, a top that is too tight over her still blossoming bust. Short. All of it is short, designed to display and highlight. Designed to attract.
Attract a wolf.
An incongruity, an article that clashes with the traditional uniform of her labor. It is huge on her, voluminous. A sweater, zipper broken in the front causing it to hang open, hang below the hem of her skirt. A hood, to shadow her features, hide her copper locks, mask her when it is pulled up. Worn by age and wear, its color has somehow managed to hold. Crimson, the color still bright as fresh blood. A red hood. This is her protection, her working armor. Armor against the harsh cold and the harsher world.
Armor against a wolf.
She huddles deep within the folds of the sweater. Pulls the hood up, cutting off the internal glow, showing it to be nothing more then the reflected light from above. She huddles against the pole of the street lamp, trying to become a part of it, trying to hide. Another piece of the urban landscape. But it is dark all around her, she is the landscape.
A landscape stalked by a wolf.
She does not remember the past, it is merely a trap. Another pitfall to waylay her into fatal hope. She does not think of the future, better to assume it will always be more of the same. She tries not to contemplate the present, a present filled with work, with pain, with fear.
Fear of a wolf.
But she is only human, only really a child, no matter how steeped in the knowledge of a working woman. Like all children, she cant help but dream, cant help but hope. And tonight she dreams that nothing will happen. Hopes that the darkness shall give way to the dawn without her having to perform her trade. Even begins to look for a better life. A life where she does not need to work.
A life free from a wolf.
And then he is there, stepping into the false safety of the light. Huge, hulking, intimidating. His hair is shaggy and grey, like the pelt of some great beast. His face weathered and lined, carved from the petrified wood of some ancient tree. His eyes the dirty yellow of a predator. He is dressed discreetly, conservatively, colors in the camouflage of the urban jungle. Dressed to blend in with the flock.
A sheep skin hiding a wolf.
She jumps, an involuntary reaction, and stumbles, clumsily, to regain her poise. Regain the mask of the working girl. It is too late. His are the senses of the hunter. He smells her fear, tastes her terror, savours her panicked desire to flee. This is his element, the darkness and the prey.
Long way from grandmas. his voice a bass rumble. A voice more accustomed to howling. He smiles as he says it. A smile filled with sharp, yellow teeth. A feral smile.
The smile of a wolf.
this one has actually gotten me in trouble. seems that there is a small group that thinks i am both a pedophile and a supporter of child prostitution. i tend to see it as a fairly realisitic look at the world, and it fits cause we so easily forget that a hundred and fifty years ago the averae age for marriage was about fourteen. it was only in the last century that we developed the idea of forcing are children to remain that way longer.
oh well, enjoy.
The street lamp sheds a pool of light, a tiny island in the vast sea of night. The wind cuts cold through it, but the type of sanctuary it provides is not from the likes of the elements. It provides shelter from that which lurks in the dark.
Lurking like a wolf.
She enters its luminescent embrace like a swimmer emerging from the water for air. She shivers. It is a delicate motion, fit for a delicate form. A tremor that seems to stem more from the soul then the flesh. She grips herself, tightly, as if she can hold in the warmth leeching from her bones by sheer force alone. But it is not just the cold that causes her to shiver. There are other things about this night.
Things like a wolf.
The light falling from the lamp above reflects off her form, till it almost seems that she herself glows. Her skin is the soft white of fine china, her hair the red of burnished copper, her eyes the green of emeralds. She is slender, the first signs of pubesence just starting to round out the thin frame of a child. And while she is but a child, there is something in the haunted look of her eyes that gives lie to the title. Hers are the eyes of someone much older, the eyes of someone who has seen too much, the eyes of the hunted.
Hunted by a wolf.
Her dress gives away her profession. A profression the young should never have to find themselves in. A profession the young are invariably found in. The shoes are too big for her, the spiked heels slapping loudly as her short feet slip out of them when she walks. The stockings look like spiderwebs, clinging enticingly, invitingly, to the unmarred flesh of her short legs. The skirt is short, checked plaid like a school uniform, an intentional similarity. The shirt is white, button down, though the buttons are undone, open to display the soft curve of her stomach. This smooth curve is cut off by a short black top, a top that is too tight over her still blossoming bust. Short. All of it is short, designed to display and highlight. Designed to attract.
Attract a wolf.
An incongruity, an article that clashes with the traditional uniform of her labor. It is huge on her, voluminous. A sweater, zipper broken in the front causing it to hang open, hang below the hem of her skirt. A hood, to shadow her features, hide her copper locks, mask her when it is pulled up. Worn by age and wear, its color has somehow managed to hold. Crimson, the color still bright as fresh blood. A red hood. This is her protection, her working armor. Armor against the harsh cold and the harsher world.
Armor against a wolf.
She huddles deep within the folds of the sweater. Pulls the hood up, cutting off the internal glow, showing it to be nothing more then the reflected light from above. She huddles against the pole of the street lamp, trying to become a part of it, trying to hide. Another piece of the urban landscape. But it is dark all around her, she is the landscape.
A landscape stalked by a wolf.
She does not remember the past, it is merely a trap. Another pitfall to waylay her into fatal hope. She does not think of the future, better to assume it will always be more of the same. She tries not to contemplate the present, a present filled with work, with pain, with fear.
Fear of a wolf.
But she is only human, only really a child, no matter how steeped in the knowledge of a working woman. Like all children, she cant help but dream, cant help but hope. And tonight she dreams that nothing will happen. Hopes that the darkness shall give way to the dawn without her having to perform her trade. Even begins to look for a better life. A life where she does not need to work.
A life free from a wolf.
And then he is there, stepping into the false safety of the light. Huge, hulking, intimidating. His hair is shaggy and grey, like the pelt of some great beast. His face weathered and lined, carved from the petrified wood of some ancient tree. His eyes the dirty yellow of a predator. He is dressed discreetly, conservatively, colors in the camouflage of the urban jungle. Dressed to blend in with the flock.
A sheep skin hiding a wolf.
She jumps, an involuntary reaction, and stumbles, clumsily, to regain her poise. Regain the mask of the working girl. It is too late. His are the senses of the hunter. He smells her fear, tastes her terror, savours her panicked desire to flee. This is his element, the darkness and the prey.
Long way from grandmas. his voice a bass rumble. A voice more accustomed to howling. He smiles as he says it. A smile filled with sharp, yellow teeth. A feral smile.
The smile of a wolf.
this one has actually gotten me in trouble. seems that there is a small group that thinks i am both a pedophile and a supporter of child prostitution. i tend to see it as a fairly realisitic look at the world, and it fits cause we so easily forget that a hundred and fifty years ago the averae age for marriage was about fourteen. it was only in the last century that we developed the idea of forcing are children to remain that way longer.
oh well, enjoy.
VIEW 5 of 5 COMMENTS
But I'll read all that later, cause I have to work soon.
ty bebe