there is still the sun that shines,
and whispering rain in the evenings,
and blossoms and birds at the window
that greet one in the gentle mornings
and whispering rain in the evenings,
and blossoms and birds at the window
that greet one in the gentle mornings
The lavender girl startled, losing her grip on her pencil as it dropped to the paper. Her lashes fluttered, her eyes rising to settle on the man who had come up behind her like a ghost. Fiona drops her head bashfully, a shy smile curling the very corners of her lips. She was not used to others seeing her work since she so often sought out secluded places like this in which to draw. Though she had gifted art before, those pieces were always intended to be seen. Most of her art was meant as a medium to help her think.
Fiona flipped to a blank page, once more brandishing her pencil, and began to write. I only draw what is already there. A pause, a moment of consideration, then, Do you not see the world as beautiful? The flower girl dipped her head, inviting him to join her if he wished. Though truthfully, she imagined it might be more comfortable for him to read her flowing script if he could get closer. This part Fiona was used to: sharing her thoughts, getting to know others in such an intimate way. It was the only way she knew. How else was she supposed to build new friendships?
It was that thought that brought a look of distress to Fiona's fine features, like a hostess who had forgotten to set out the drinks before the guests arrived, like she had forgotten something terribly important. Her pencil passed over the paper again. Forgive me, my name is Fiona. I am mute. It was an afterthought. A defining piece of her, perhaps even what made her who she was, but she so rarely thought about it. To her it was almost like saying Hello, my name is Fiona and I breathe, but she believed out of courtesy it was a bit of information she needed to offer. Not everyone would be willing to have a half conversation and she understood that.
Fiona flipped to a blank page, once more brandishing her pencil, and began to write. I only draw what is already there. A pause, a moment of consideration, then, Do you not see the world as beautiful? The flower girl dipped her head, inviting him to join her if he wished. Though truthfully, she imagined it might be more comfortable for him to read her flowing script if he could get closer. This part Fiona was used to: sharing her thoughts, getting to know others in such an intimate way. It was the only way she knew. How else was she supposed to build new friendships?
It was that thought that brought a look of distress to Fiona's fine features, like a hostess who had forgotten to set out the drinks before the guests arrived, like she had forgotten something terribly important. Her pencil passed over the paper again. Forgive me, my name is Fiona. I am mute. It was an afterthought. A defining piece of her, perhaps even what made her who she was, but she so rarely thought about it. To her it was almost like saying Hello, my name is Fiona and I breathe, but she believed out of courtesy it was a bit of information she needed to offer. Not everyone would be willing to have a half conversation and she understood that.
@Raum Fiona: doesn't think twice about a strange man showing up behind her without making a sound, no matter how long he stood there for
