Post by Bronte Pottinger on Mar 13, 2016 6:03:44 GMT
The wind seemed especially violent today. It was quickly becoming a nuisance to Bronte. He had searched since his arrival on Earth for a way to tie his hair back, and finding none he had forgotten his cause until this very moment. He sat quickly on a log, despondent and disoriented. He was unable to understand where his own hair ended and the world around him began. It was a new and fresh Hell for him to deal with, but he was determined not to be bested. In his best attempt he gathered his dirty blonde hair into his hands, a makeshift and impermanent ponytail, and felt the ends of this unruly abomination snaking out around his fingers. He sighed loudly, his personal distress signal, and lost himself momentarily in both a diatribe against his slithering and striking hair and also a dance down memory lane back to his education of Greek Mythology.
How must it have felt to have literal snakes for hair? How could these women stand it? I wonder if the snakes ever gave them wet-willies.
Similarly, he contemplated what it must have been like to have the ability to turn men into stone. No, that wouldn't do. Bronte liked to talk too much and was naturally intrusive with his eyes. If everyone he looked at turned to stone, he wouldn't have any conversation partners. No, that certainly wouldn't do.
The weight of his hands still wrapped around his rebellious hair, jolted him out of his contemplation on the now doubly-ancient mythologies of ancient civilizations and back to his current situation. He had to find a hair tie. He looked about him for a pliable material from which to form this necessity, but found nothing. Another distress signal went out but this time he stood up on his log. In conjunction with his long legs and elongated torso, the height of the log gave him a fairly useful view of the camp. He searched desperately for anyone with a handle on their life and more importantly a handle on their hair. Boy or girl, long or medium hair, it didn't matter. He needed to see someone who was evolved enough to have figured this situation out.
Disappointment washed over him like the ripples of lava down the volcanoes he had seen in books as a child, and orbited him like Saturn's rings which he had also seen as a child but simply by looking out his window ever so often. Finally, he spotted her. A girl with the beautiful luxury of kempt hair. "What a miraculous sight!" he thought to himself and bolted off in her direction. His ridiculously long gait wouldn't have taken him long to catch up to her, except that she was obviously just preparing for a flight into the woods and had managed to head off on her journey before he could pick her out of the crowd again.
How must it have felt to have literal snakes for hair? How could these women stand it? I wonder if the snakes ever gave them wet-willies.
Similarly, he contemplated what it must have been like to have the ability to turn men into stone. No, that wouldn't do. Bronte liked to talk too much and was naturally intrusive with his eyes. If everyone he looked at turned to stone, he wouldn't have any conversation partners. No, that certainly wouldn't do.
The weight of his hands still wrapped around his rebellious hair, jolted him out of his contemplation on the now doubly-ancient mythologies of ancient civilizations and back to his current situation. He had to find a hair tie. He looked about him for a pliable material from which to form this necessity, but found nothing. Another distress signal went out but this time he stood up on his log. In conjunction with his long legs and elongated torso, the height of the log gave him a fairly useful view of the camp. He searched desperately for anyone with a handle on their life and more importantly a handle on their hair. Boy or girl, long or medium hair, it didn't matter. He needed to see someone who was evolved enough to have figured this situation out.
Disappointment washed over him like the ripples of lava down the volcanoes he had seen in books as a child, and orbited him like Saturn's rings which he had also seen as a child but simply by looking out his window ever so often. Finally, he spotted her. A girl with the beautiful luxury of kempt hair. "What a miraculous sight!" he thought to himself and bolted off in her direction. His ridiculously long gait wouldn't have taken him long to catch up to her, except that she was obviously just preparing for a flight into the woods and had managed to head off on her journey before he could pick her out of the crowd again.
Squinted eyes and flared nostrils followed this failure but he was far from deterred. He would wait for her as long as it took. He was in this for the long-haul. This was a problem and he was going to solve it, no matter how useless it may seem to anyone else. So, he took to the ground and threw himself in the very spot he had seen her preparing at. This must be her spot. Little did she know she was about to have a dinner guest when she returned to her little home. He looked around, bored already, and unable to use his hands for anything other than holding his hair, for someone (absolutely anyone) to cure him of his boredom.
