finbar sits in his ragged shirt; it is unbuttoned, and the wind is slinking across his chest and into the sleeves. yellow shoots of scorched grass press into the backs of his legs. a surfboard lies beside him. he runs a brown hand through brown hair, pushing it off his forehead and behind an ear….
“You just terminate the conversation with your anyways.” She wrinkled her nose in displeasure. “As if you have got somewhere to be.” “Maybe I do,” he said. “I like to be in control,” she continued, as if he had not spoken. “Hence my rebelling against the anyways and continuing the conversation regardless.”
“Why don’t you read?” She was genuinely facinated. Needing to read — the itch to fall deeply, bottomlessly, endlessly, into another world — was the same feeling as wanting to kiss somebody. “I don’t know,” he said. “I should.” She smiled, confused.
you see tarspen elia’s eyes first. they are bright and afraid.
the wind whips red dust into your face. you brush it away restlessly. your cheeks are hot; the air is sticky. you can feel your heart pumping through your skin.
only her forehead and the tip of her nose is above the lip of the cliff at first. and her hands: bloodless knuckles, and fingers gripping deep and desperate into the warm dirt like claws. you peer over her and down, at her body suspended above a drop a few metres less than a hundred. she looks up and her gaze meet yours.
“You throw like a girl.” “You make insults like a loser who cannot come up with a better insult.”
“You’re cute,” he said. “Don’t call me cute,” she told him. “I am not cute.” “Okay, you’re ugly.” She raised her eyebrows. “I am not something for you to comment on.”
every summer, they come. when the air is heavy with the scent of flowers and the breeze is warm and the sun scorches through the trees and bakes the earth. dancing over the ground they arrive; rising through the sky, dropping so low their wings graze the dry, crackling grass. as silent as the stars…