Warm padded shoulders, on a plaid shirt, with a barren, burnt, wrinkled head. Grandpa.
We're walking, and I'm on his shoulders! Good, nothing bad will happen, nothing at all, not again, no way. See? Grandma, sister, and dad are here too! Nothing could go wrong. Right guys?
"Right guys?" No movement. They flicker. I don't notice.
"Never mind. No one ever listens to the smallest, because they have nothing to say, anyways."
We round the corner. The starry night unfolds around the skyscrapers of downtown, and the cool spiny red one looks tall and menacing. I stop. I panic.
My voice won't come, my legs won't move, my hand won't let go, my worries rise, turn to fears, to fear, turn to terror and tears start to pour oily and thick on my face.
I can't move. And then I can.
I crane my neck, moving the last bit of me that I can, and I see it. It won't go away either, and I can't blink to see if it's real. It can't be. It shouldn't be.
The eyes are
Downing this viscous tar of a drink, in the shape of a grinning wolf, it, no, they, seems to give you a smug wink as the flames of the dragon slam into your throat. You stumble back, pained by this fiery burn in your gullet, but it soon turns savory, then sweet, to the sweet sweet taste of greed. Your body takes in this foreign, yet familiar palette, and morphs to it’s will, growing you a tail, scales spitting out of your skin, red, bronze, silver, then gold, and coins fall from your short cropped hair. Your irises shine gold, and your red eyeliner turns metallic. Your ears grow, thin, grow, thin, grow some more, and little tufts grow out of the top, red and shiny, becoming scaly and narrow. You are now a golden kobolt.
How he (Alexandar) would write:
So Thundr is gone A better way to call it would be changd but that doesnt chang much So the Fey told the amazing idea of writing it down Mother tot me to write Mother mother mother She got away Maybe she died trying Died a slow painful grooling death She needs more punishment But the work with the “Firestorms” has been good Sometimes, the fight makes me feel agen Feel good agen and maybe if i get good enuf I can bring father back and we will be happy again
So. Thunder is gone. A better way to call it would be different but that doesn't change much. So the Fey suggested the amazing idea of writing it down. Mother taught me to write. Mother, mother, mother. She got away. Maybe she died trying. Died a slow, painful, gruelling death. She needs to feel my pain. But the work with the “Firestorms” has been good. Sometimes, the anger makes me feel again.