𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞

Little Bit of Clair

Clair's hand scrawled messily across his parchment. It must've been 4:00 in the morning by now. With tired eyes he cast a glance towards the grandfather clock that lie in his temporary room. It's now familiar ticks were comforting to the boy.

3:58, it read.

Clair sighed at shook his head at his work. It all seemed a jumble of words, as if he'd carelessly thrown them into a jar. Whereas his normal stories were carefully plucked words, neatly stacked in the jar. He wanted to write, but his mind was elsewhere. He just didn't know where.

Occasionally it was Ruby. Other times Cathryn and Liverpool. But mainly, Florence. Her and those wide eyes of hers. He recalled the way her slim fingers wrapped around her drink at the bar. Clair wished he could draw. The first thing he'd draw would be her. Although he couldn't draw, he figured writing was still illustrating. Though more as if commands, to tell the reader how to illustrate it in their mind. So, Clair illustrated Florence for himself on the paper.

Mousy tufts of her hair springing gloriously free from the pearly ribbon.

Ashen ocean colored eyes piercing through him, ever curious and eager to learn.

Dainty hands so fine they'd break like porcelain if your weren't careful enough.

Lips like storm clouds, dark and entrancing.

Figure chiseled by the gods themselves it seemed.

Clair found the words piecing together to create the image of Florence in his mind. Slowly, he nodded off with image of her still etched into his mind.