Post by Deleted on Jun 26, 2017 1:28:38 GMT
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[PTabbedContent][PTab=BASIC][attr="class","appicon"]  | [attr="class","hkappname"] Kensuke Rosencrantz [attr="class","appdivider"] [attr="class","appname2"]HELIOS KNIGHTS |
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the road to ruin
littered with the feathers of a thousand cranes
Mom shows you how to properly hold a brush, how to properly position your paper, how to properly sit on the cushion -- did you know that this pose literally means "proper sitting"? Dad sometimes sits with you and tries too, sometimes just watches. You blink behind your glasses, comparing Mom and Dad. Mom's features are either pale or jet-black, round, small, soft. Dad is a little darker, spots on his nose, curly hair, gangly and all angles. Your Mom and Dad talk to you in different kinds of words but it never fazes you. They take turns sitting you in their laps and reading the characters you write aloud to you and you feel loved.[break][break]
You're a pale ghost like your mom but a tall tangle of limbs like your dad. The other kids tease you for this. Adults make faces when they hear your mom try to speak like them imperfectly, or see her passion for your private lessons. You trip and fall when playing with other kids or drop your brush when hooking strokes and you feel bad but your parents always offer smiles and kind words.[break][break]
Sometimes Dad yells or Mom cries. It's in secret. Mom whispers in the tongues Dad can't understand about her cursed blood, and the relatives she watched shrivel before her eyes back in her country. You don't write as much because your handwriting is sloppy now. The brush is heavy in your hand, and the fits make you drop it more. Mom and Dad still smile for you and you smile back. For all the words you know, you don't know how to say you're scared.[break][break]
One of Dad's friends, from an old family of alchemists, knows about Mom's blood. They did tests or something and you drink a foul tasting liquid twice a day. The fits grow less and you can write again. Sometimes the alchemist's kid comes over. They're in a coven, and your parents think you're finally well enough to join. You join the same one your Dad was in because. You've been -- you're still going through -- a lot, but it seems like things are working out. You know in your heart it won't be that simple, but your parents still beam at you, and maybe it's not quite enough, but you feel loved.
the road to ruin
littered with the feathers of a thousand cranes
Mom shows you how to properly hold a brush, how to properly position your paper, how to properly sit on the cushion -- did you know that this pose literally means "proper sitting"? Dad sometimes sits with you and tries too, sometimes just watches. You blink behind your glasses, comparing Mom and Dad. Mom's features are either pale or jet-black, round, small, soft. Dad is a little darker, spots on his nose, curly hair, gangly and all angles. Your Mom and Dad talk to you in different kinds of words but it never fazes you. They take turns sitting you in their laps and reading the characters you write aloud to you and you feel loved.[break][break]
......[break][break]
You're a pale ghost like your mom but a tall tangle of limbs like your dad. The other kids tease you for this. Adults make faces when they hear your mom try to speak like them imperfectly, or see her passion for your private lessons. You trip and fall when playing with other kids or drop your brush when hooking strokes and you feel bad but your parents always offer smiles and kind words.[break][break]
......[break][break]
Sometimes Dad yells or Mom cries. It's in secret. Mom whispers in the tongues Dad can't understand about her cursed blood, and the relatives she watched shrivel before her eyes back in her country. You don't write as much because your handwriting is sloppy now. The brush is heavy in your hand, and the fits make you drop it more. Mom and Dad still smile for you and you smile back. For all the words you know, you don't know how to say you're scared.[break][break]
......[break][break]
One of Dad's friends, from an old family of alchemists, knows about Mom's blood. They did tests or something and you drink a foul tasting liquid twice a day. The fits grow less and you can write again. Sometimes the alchemist's kid comes over. They're in a coven, and your parents think you're finally well enough to join. You join the same one your Dad was in because. You've been -- you're still going through -- a lot, but it seems like things are working out. You know in your heart it won't be that simple, but your parents still beam at you, and maybe it's not quite enough, but you feel loved.
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[attr="class","hkappoocbasic"] agep old pronounsshe/they time zonejst (utc+9) where did you come from?clickin banner ads lol | [attr="class","appbasic4"]
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