and the sea is just a wetter version of the skies
day 13, according to my calculations, and i like fridays here.
friday is party-day. every friday evening there's a soiree here on the campsite, where everyone piles on long tables and we eat together a meal that's served from here, and afterwards we dance. i like the dancing. i like sitting at a table with all the kids my age, drinking wine and whatever else, talking, eating. the dancing is funny because there's always the same old songs.
okay, i'm losing interest.
yesterday was a good day. weird weather and we went out for a delicious lunch. i had salade nicoise and a desert that was a scoop of vanilla ice cream and a sort of round chocolate brownie. it was warm inside and the chocolate melted and oozed out of it, ohgod, it was so good.
today i walked up to this place that used to be a lake until the dam broke and it mostly drained. now, some years later, it's a smaller lake and there's lots of wild plants around it and it's beautiful. i trudged through the human-high plants for a while, trying to get to the lakeside, but i couldn't. so i walked around and stood on the grassy banks at the other side. then i sat down and wrote a story about a kid who turns into a unicorn.
i didn't come up with it by myself, though! i asked for prompts and then islandzombie sort of jokily said "write a story about a kid who turns into a unicorn." and i thought 'fuckyeah!' and did. (it's sort of a my little pony unicorn, okay? i don't know much about unicorns. fail.)
Then you came along like a swan off of the lake
The boy’s curls always looked like they were dancing. Sophie loved that about him, the way they swiveled round gracefully in the sunshine, in the rain, in the wind. She touched them sometimes, reaching up to smooth her hand through the silky strands. They felt soft and cool and liquid, like water. Shimmery and magical. He’d smile at her and duck his head, her Danny would.
They were only eight back then.
And when, from time to time, a light dusting of glitter would appear on his cheekbones, it’d only make her smile wider, and she’d take his hand so they could play. Her skirts riffling behind her and she was never surprised.
Then came the thinthinthin layer of tiny soft white hairs on his skin, and suddenly he seemed paler. Even more ethereal. The small bump between his eyebrows appeared around that time, too, and when Sophie felt particularly daring, she’d briefly kiss the spot with her eyes closed. They’d continue their game with secretive smiles and smudges of pink on their cheeks.
When they’d built a big fort in Danny’s room, with pillows and sheets and chairs and Danny’s mattress, Sophie looked at him and wondered if she was imagining the light in his eyes and the streaks of blue and green swirling in his curls. They were inching in on nine.
Danny showed her the flowers and stars on his hip at his ninth birthday party, with cake in his brightly colored hair and the edges of fear and bravery in his eyes. The lump had grown, too. Sophie only found it beautiful.
He cried once, Danny did, when his hands stopped working and his feet started to hurt in his shoes. Sophie watched him with tears heavy in her eyes and lashes, and she held his hand and bit her lip and willed the droplets not to fall.
He stopped coming to school and for a long time the seat next to Sophie was empty.
His tail had grown long and curly and it danced like his hair. His horn was glossy and beautiful, sharp, elegant. His fur shiny, sometimes leaving a fine glittery dust behind, his eyes light and happy, his manes bright and sometimes braided carefully (courtesy of Sophie).
And Danny and Sophie never stopped playing.