"We need to get out of here now!" Caspian tensed at the seething whisper, hand flying to the hilt of his sword. He swung around to face the person behind him, only to be met with a hand on his mouth and the livid face of Bastian. Caspian struggled furiously against Bastian's grip, the sounds of clashing steel and shouts of guardsmen getting significantly louder. Bastian pressed his hand harder against his face. "Try and fight me now and we're both likely to die! And I'll be damned if you're the death of me, Grand Knight." With that, Bastian gripped his arm in a vice, leading him away from the fire and fighting, through increasingly dark and dirty alleys. Caspian thought once more about yanking away, but something in his gut told him his chances of trying to flee alone were slim to none. He would be gutted the second one of the soldiers spotted him. And besides, hadn't Bastian saved him before? Most likely for his own gain then, as it had to be now, but if it meant Caspian got to live another day, then he'd gladly take advantage of it. Finally, when his lungs were starting to burn and his feet began tripping over themselves, Bastian finally pulled to a stop. They had made it to the less densely populated area of Kilson City. Here, the citizens were still sleeping, blissfully unaware of the chaos ensuing in the city center. Capsian doubled over, gasping for breath. Despite all his training, there was still no way he'd be able to keep up with anyone of fae blood. Bastian however, seemed right as rain, as if he'd simply taken a stroll alongside the river. He glanced back at Caspian, smirking with every bit of arrogance his body could possess. "Well, Grand Knight, it seems you're a wanted man. And as I see it, you can either turn yourself in and accept death, or stick with me and fight for your freedom. What will it be?"
(I've never written a poem like this before, but I tried my best! The challenge I am giving myself is to write a poem using ballet terms, which I am definitely not knowledgeable in.)
In the beautiful loom of winter, a dance seems to start.
The shadows begin first, stretching their legs as far out as their bodies allow.
The darkness takes center stage with the moon, their bodies bending and molding together, the stars accompanying with gentle demi-pliés.
The wind picks up in a sweeping glissade, teasing the trees, guiding their leaves in tender pirouettes.
The birds and the foxes, the rabbits and mice all a captive audience to winter's frigid embrace. Soft paws and assemblés lead to quiet resting places.
Winter's call is the startup of an orchestra, and the readying feet of dancers. It is the way the sun stands ready, arms open, for the final grand allegro.
Harry sighs and lays his pen down, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Allowing his eyes and mind to focus on his surroundings, for the first time in hours it seems, he realizes that the cafe is almost empty. It's dark now, and the storm has picked up. He glances over at the front counter, where his sister is bent over her homework and chewing on the end of her pencil. It's a nasty habit, but quieter than the constant tapping she would normally do. Their mom is in the back, going over the day's sales. Harry looks down at his journal, glazing over everything he's written in the past- he glances down at his watch -three hours. All that time and work, and still, something seems off. He skims through every word and letter he'd sacrificed his poor hand to, only now feeling the severe cramping in his wrist and fingers. "My dad was a great guy, that's what everyone told me at the funeral...they concluded that it was a setup...some angry junkies taking revenge for him ruining their unlawful lifestyles...even now, with his memory turning fuzzy, I still miss the feeling of his hugs and the sound of his laugh." Very sweet and endearing, a perfect summary and detailing of his father's heroic lifestyle. It was sure to bring many to tears at the tenth anniversary of the death of Sheriff David Robins. For the past three months, Harry had made it his personal goal to write the perfect speech in memorial of his dad. And even after three months, he still finds himself unable to truly tell his dad's story. Something is off, something about the puzzle pieces not quite aligning. Maybe it has to do with the fact that they'd never found the sheriff's murderer, or that Harry distinctly remembers his father's constant absence in the months leading up to his demise. Whatever it is, it's giving Harry a headache. He sighs, even more deeply than before, slouching his body down in his seat. Tipping his head back, he begins to count the ceiling tiles for what feels like the fifth time today. 'Guess this is failed draft number...6? Or 7? Can't even remember now.' He stretches his arms out and looks at his watch- passed down from his dad and grandfather - and sees that he has another couple of hours before the cafe closes and his mom is ready to leave. The joys of owning an almost 24-hour cafe. Plenty of time and quiet to get something done, but also plenty of time to wallow in the failures of not getting anything done. Harry straightens himself out and sits up. He picks up his pencil, turns the page, and begins to start draft number 7 or 8 of his speech.
