You’re welcome to everyone whose name I did!

I’ll start a RR, if people like this prompt/first sentence: She ran as fast as she could. 

Your footsteps are soft on the floor. It's surprising, the way you move, the way you can stop your bare feet from pattering against the wood. You approach the table, reaching for whatever you can. A glass, a scrap of wood, a piece of cloth.

The wind blows through the open window. You turn to it, you stare at it, then you turn away from it. You keep moving, keep going while the wind goes, in one constant motion. You've never stayed in one place long, moving in order to avoid being caught while you snatch, while you take.

In the morning, someone will toss their child in the air. They'll laugh then look for what they're missing. When they don't find it, the pixies are blamed. The spirits, the mischevious little house creatures that come and go as they please. Little odds and ends always seem to go missing, and they laugh and they blame you. They're right, of course. But do they really think you exist?

You don't know. 

She stared at the small wooden box in her hands. She had seen it before, on each of her birthdays. They could never quite afford fancy packaging or large gifts, so the tiny gifts she received year after year were presented in this little box. 

Hi Fleet could you possibly do my name (Cerinthe?)

Random writing about random stuff in my life.

It's that ring in his voice in the s's, or the twisted vowels in those Chinese syllables we can never get quite right, or his smile, when he was explaining union of two sets to toby - his delight in teaching, the slight apprehension, but also triumph, and the attitude of "Here it is, the answer you're looking for; it was right in front of you the whole time, and now you've got it." and i hear her stories and i know he really does have a love for his kids that is obvious and caring even as he does not let her call him "dad" in class. he tries to maintain order, that's certain, and a sense of he is the teacher, you are students, which is why she must call him what we call him - but he also, i see, tries to blend with our class, perhaps insecurely, but really trying, if i am reading him right, and he says himself he's still getting used to teaching seventh grade. i wonder how he feels as he doles out our F's and B-'s; does he think he's failing? I want him to know that he's not, it's just our class that can't think, can't concentrate. certain things i won't forget, the way he whipped out his phone and took a picture when he saw shanelle's sketchbook, the way he said. "smiling when you're all in trouble? you're like my son reuben". he terrifies me in a way but he's also the best teacher i've ever had, i think, at least he is interesting.

That was about my math teacher. and no he's not Chinese. That first sentence just popped into my head and i had to write it down. So i did it in my journal and then i thought i might as well put it here, to show what i've been up to while i was gone, I guess. Thoughts? It doesn't really have the best grammar or anything, I would have made it into one sentence if I didn't have at least a little self respect. I guess its just my thoughts coming in one wild rush. And i know some of it doesn't make sense of of context. but. still. 

Here's your hand lettering Cerinthe! I hope you like it. Let me know if you would like a redo-- this didn't take me that long!

Flowers would almost wind around their ankles as they walked, knowing the best paths through the meadows and glens. Nature loved her, it seemed.

Until the day she stepped into the meadow and never left again.