Verklempt, she jutted her bony palms into the sockets of her eyes, pushing back in the light and the truth... and what was left of her tears. The sun was right in front of her, and she could feel her short ponytails tickling her neck as she swayed in search of a frescade, and somebody's steady hand lengthened over her shoulder. She felt the tunnels under her toes and the rays of light trying to shush her up, warming up her cold, wet lips. Her blood dripped helter-skelter around her bones and her amber eyes sunk down and down and down... and over the sun and out of space.
She drew the constellations and colored them a clear violet. She was a shy woman, and a queen among her subjects, the Stars. "Lo and behold, she pirouetted with her emerald cloak and vanished," the 12th of October, 2042 smacked the eyes of old grandpa via headline, and he spun around almost too recklessly in his seat and clicked on the television with a nearly violent crack in the air, flicking to the morning news, then coughed with the biggest set of egg-white eyes, "Lenny, you better come hear this!" It was the beginning and the peak of a fairy tale. This was the newest bedtime story throughout the world. Children climbed laps and parents forced up tents, and all adolescents gave up on gossip and game consoles and sneaked out of glass windows. The jobless rode the skies with their eyes and wished all night. They wished every night. Journalists hushed their papers and drew the colors of Miss Verklempt with the most stellar of words, dreaming and downing bottles of champagne, celebrating what was left of the apologies of vainglorious scientists, laughing laughing laughing. "Ha ha ha! They store all their findings, whisper hastily and ostentatiously about them when we're milling about! There isn't anything left to lionize to that extent!" The hidden are unmasked. Evolution among the young ones runs through the streets because of this. What have we been thinking?! Writing?!?! You need to see!
Oh but they still did write. Their personal discoveries were cluttered throughout the corridors, banging against business buildings, and they would still pause other times. She had come swinging between the buildings one more time, and the light promise of her warmth swept the autumn leaves, swept open the windows, and heads poked out as sirens flashed. Eyes were as curious as ever and hearts were pumping greedily. A cry flew in, and there she was again. Her cloak was a pristine white and a crimson red that time and her eyes released a downpour of light and water, and she was so so so beautiful. But she was also so so so pained. Her mouth was open in a shriek of distress. Viridian trails of constellations were written furiously under her fingers. She was a mural forgotten under rambunctious graffiti. And the white lab coats couldn't cognize her reasons. The hopeless grew hopeful and the lions roared once, then twice, then thrice. Every breath was stolen as she ran through the cloudless heaven.
A mother rocked her baby back and forth, oblivious like many were, and her firstborn son who was already ten almost drooped out of his bedroom window, saying, "What a secret. Feel better. Strange lady."
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