63. Summer:
The wedding was beautiful. The day dawned bright and clear, small
white clouds adding to the character of the blue sky, matching the
flowing white dress of the bride. The sun shone clearly on the guests
at the reception on the beach and Oregon was surprisingly kind on the
new couple.
Who is getting married? Dunno. I could see Robyn having a summer wedding, though she is one of the few. Most of my characters and I are autumn wedding sorts.
125. Trouble Lurking:
Robyn held her breath as she held her position. Somewhere out there
in the darkness was something or someone out to get her. She had heard
rocks move and a branch snap, a sign that these were not people used to
stalking in nature, but rather in more man made environs. when she felt
she had frozen for long enough she slow counted to fifteen, listening.
There! And it had paid off. The scuff of a shoe to her left told her
where her hunter was and she was off, edging silently to the right.
Dun dun DUN!!
144. Two Roads: Robyn
was only six when she discovered the path that led to her secret
hideaway. It had begun with a fascination with animals and the paths
they wore into the ground, subtle to all but the discerning eye. She
would follow the faint trails here and there through the local woods
when she was supposed to be doing chores or studying or helping her
aunt, who would forgive a child’s inquisitiveness and love of nature.
If she came upon a branch in the trail she was following she would take
the one most travelled, or if they were equally worn, the one to the
left, returning after finding the end, or the next day, to take the
other fork. Soon these became as easily identifiable to her as streets
with signs to adults as she methodically mapped the trails in her head
and sometimes on a map she hid in her favorite horse book.
She hasn't yet discovered the magic of mirrors. :) I did quite a bit of research about The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost and thought about tying it in, but in the end, the poem had nothing to do with the final product.
50. Spade:
“Honey, where are you going with that?” asked Craig Tolliver as his
young daughter walked by, hauling behind her a shovel that was nearly as
tall as she was.
“Austin and I are digging a hole,” Robyn said, not stopping as she
continued across the yard. (If she didn’t stop maybe he wouldn’t stop
her or ask anymore questions).
“Where
are you digging this hole?” Craig’s ‘father senses’ were tingling.
This was no ordinary hole. Not that any hole from those two would be
ordinary.
“In the woods,” Robyn didn’t seem deterred by the fact that her father was following her down the street.
“Why?”
Robyn
finally stopped with an exasperated sigh and turned to face her father.
She propped the shovel on her shoulder and hip as she planted her
hands on her hips and began to explain with exaggerated patience.
“Austin
has been taking care of a baby bird that fell out of it’s nest. It
died last night so we are going to bury it. He’s bringing the box and
the Bible and I’m bringing the shovel and flowers.”
Robyn
indicated the daisies and dandelions from their yard and lavender and
rose bloom, likely from Mrs. Carlyle's, sticking out of her back pocket.
“I see … may I come along?”
“Only if Austin says yes.”
DAWW! ^_^
178. Thirst:
Young Robyn stood before the audience, her auburn hair slicked back
into a ballerina’s top knot, her lean dancer’s body clad in a form
fitting, pink leotard and gauzy pink tulle skirt. She was positioned as
she ought to be for the beginning of her routine, left leg extended at a
45 degree angle, left arm reaching to the side and behind, right leg
supporting her weight and right arm extended to reach the lights above.
Despite all this physical perfection though, all she could think about
was the icy, condensated, cold water bottle she had turned down from
the mother backstage.
I don't know how well this describes the pose in my head, I was sitting at a library computer and wasn't going to start contorting myself. :)
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