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Fairytale- RussiaAmericaOnce upon a time, not so very long ago, there was a new nation. It started out as such a small little country under the care of a hot-headed english man. His hair was bright blond, almost gold just like the sun's color itself was caught in his hair. His eyes were so blue that it put the sky's bright blue to shame. He was a good little nation, he loved his big brother even though he could be mean, he had a vast amount of land, and he usually stayed out of the way. Alfred was his name, and the small nation decided what he wanted to be when he was ever so young and playing with the toy soldiers. He wanted to be a hero. Someone who stood for something good, and strong, and virtuous, and all that awesome stuff! As this nation expanded, grew, and thrived the dream of being a hero never faded from his ever fairytale-centric mind; one thing he noticed as he grew was that all heroes have on common denominator: a villain. It was unfortunate that nations could never truly be heroes. So under the
Love was evil to themLove was evil to them. "Zachary" the mist stretched from the locket writing out the servant's name, the ten year old didn't speak. The locket wrote her thoughts. "Give me one thousand reasons to never love." The apparitional butler in all dark clothes and translucent skin looked on the sun kissed skin of his mistress. Her eyes were downcast in deep thought and small tremors buzzed through her body like an army of bees flying through system making her tremble. Zachary sighed looking at Ani, so small with a mind far beyond her time, filled with a thirst for revenge and mature at heart to understand differences between love, lust, and admiration. The girl was smart enough to never allow her heart to be swayed, she kept her fragile heart hard as a stone yet she was still so tiny, so small, and only human.
Ani was undoubtably in love with the teenage shapeshifter they met while talking to the female's gypsy mentor. The shapeshifter was affectionate and gushed over Ani's tiny frame that had
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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