Always [Open]

[Phoenix Marilyn Crowe]

Saturday melted summer mornings were often spent like this--simply leaning against the back of a rustic old tree trunk, feeling the grooves of it spindle into her spine, with the scent of smoke and crumpled summer leaves filling into the humid air. Today was a difficult day to either spend outside or inside, surprisingly--At least, to the girl who was use to the cold summers of northern Denmark. She longed for days like this, where she could take her old ancient scripts, novels, albums of ancient preserved rhetoric, and simply sit underneath the ember of green trees while the sun filtered through it. Though some were playing in the lake, she was far away from those who would interrupt her isolation. Yet she was not out of sight, with her soda-pop red strawberry hair, primed and curled, until not a single strand fell out of place. She was far into something old, something lovely and romantic--now, not the same romance women read today. No, something as beautiful as it was tragic--a story of the beauty of nature, humanity, and it's absolute degradation of it's innocence. Nature was something the woman loved dearly, in a way, a bit more than people, even.

Nature was alive but never oppressive, never trying to tangle and bury another of it's kin within it's roots. It did not try to suck the earth dry until it could no longer bleed seeds of greed, nor did it fight to trample each other in order to grow taller, wider, to be better. There was no malice in their roots, only the will to live--the will to be alive, the very thing, perhaps, that humans lacked the most.

Phoenix had felt the crime of it, the brunt of mortal defects, the frailty of goodness, the will of the offender to break the one they want to break. Yes, she felt it, horridly, and was burdened to become less like the flesh she shared with other mortals, and more like the roots that supported her now: Strong-willed, everlasting, good. This was her innermost desire, to love and to live, without seeking or being sought out. To ponder what there is to ponder without leaving anything to wonder; but, as always, it was interrupted.

Always.


Outfit

[Chaz Dimas Ezequiel]

The Hufflepuff quidditch captain had gathered his friends as soon as class ended for the day. Clothes were discarded and swimwear was donned as they all sought to enjoy these last remaining summer days, not wishing to have left them home when they got on the train at platform nine and three quarters. It was a massive mixed group of kids from every house full of laughter and excitement as they headed down to the lake. Chaz was tossing a soccer ball in the air as he walked before a particularly bubbly girl hopped onto his back, but he never wavered and simply laughed as he continued towards the lake with her for the ride. This was customary. This was the usual on days like this.

When having finally reached the lake, towels were laid in the grass and sand, drinks were produced from bags with snacks, some laid out for tanning and some decided it was time to play. Chaz and a few of the guys got a game of soccer going, shirts versus skins. Chaz pulled off his shirt and tossed it aside with a grin, earning a few whistles and cat calls from the ladies. He winked, flexed, and someone instructed him to stop showing off. Laughing, the game began and they were in their own world.

It seemed as if the skins were winning, which was unsurprising considering Chaz's love for soccer, when a kick went awry and sent the ball flying towards a tree. Some hemmed and hawed, but Chaz was the one who went after it, stating he would be back. He broke out into a simple jog after the leather ball, trying not to lose sight of it as it rolled and rolled until it stopped by a pair of delicate feet. His job slowed into a slow stride as his gaze followed up from those delicate feet along the length of fair legs where a book rested, slender fingers having pried it open for its contents. He noticed the subtle shine of latex fashioned in a cream bikini with red hearts all along it and red bows at the straps. It was complimentary to the red of her lips and of her hair. Before Chaz was fully aware of it, he had came to a complete stop and was simply staring in awe at the girl before him, forgetting what it was he was here for in the first place.

"Oh," he had finally remembered then, his smile formed out of a mix of embarrassment and the sudden giddy feeling that rouse within when meeting a really pretty girl. His accent was very evident, even though he tried his best to sound understandable to others. However, there were times he forgot to speak English, and he'd let a few words slip in his mother tongue, especially when caught off guard. "Eu sinto muito.*" He reached down and picked up the soccer ball, grasping it as if to indicate the basis of his apology.

He stood there chewing his lower lip for an awkward moment feeling at a loss for words and yet searching for all the words in the world to say something, anything! Usually, a person would get what they needed and go, but he was compelled to stay. He at least had to know her name.

"Sorry, but can I ask...what is that you are reading?" He nodded to the book in her hands, not even worrying about his friends who waited for him back at the lake side.




*Translation: I'm sorry.
OUTFIT

[Phoenix Marilyn Crowe]

Never have I fallen
But I am quickly on my way
You hold a heart in your hands
That has never before been given away

The shade washed her snow-white skin until it was tinted with gray, tinting the white until it was no longer pure. In reality, behind that fragile beauty, behind that soft-spoken rose, was actually something dead. She was less like a rose and more like the thistles that sprouted one--tainted, untouchable, hurting whomever tried to search it's violet branches until they found a rose worth plucking off the brazen bush. The rose had wilted, and like night and day, it had set beyond the stars--wanting to return one day, but for now there was nothing but scars.

She wished no one would look at her, but she would not express this.

Taking her pen, she dipped it in a can of red ink, and with thin fingers, began to write across the pages, circling words that stood out to her--words that could stand alone as a poem in and of itself.

"I" "Am" "Lost""In" "Your" "Magic"

Before she could go further, she heard the crumpling of grass all at once as it folded beneath a white ball--the thing gently tipping into her foot, and stopping. It did not hurt, in fact, it had barely touched her, yet her attention was drawn upwards, bright red hair folding in soft curves, and bouncing slightly as she moved. Her lips were pursed as silver eyes followed a bare foot, following strong calves, dilating at masculine, curving abs, before her eyes had finally reached his. He was anything but weak--in fact, his eyes showed the most strength, as they bore into hers, making her wishing she could turn away.

Instead, Phoenix felt her red lips pull into a subtly warm smile, and she continued to stare into his own eyes, with as much as the same strength as he. As he reached down to pull the ball into his hands, she continued to watch him, eyebrow now quirked a little in amusement, before she spoke. "Oh?" As if to mimic him, before turning her eyes down towards her book. "Beautiful." She remarked, whilst continuing to read, "Was that Portuguese?" The Ravenclaw woman looked up again, amused, nearly looking playful before she turned her head away from his handsome face. She noticed the way he bit his bottom lip, and tilted her head at it, catching herself staring there, and blushing a bit, before bringing up her book and hiding her nose in it.

"...I'm reading a collection of poetry." She finally admitted, her voice smooth and strong; If, you could compare it, it sounded much like silver. "...This one is done by Williams, 'Never have I Fallen'."