AI Art: It was a cold morning, the kind of chill that bit through fabric and seeped into bone. My hands were stiff and numb as I clutched a stick I’d sharpened—something I had found while wandering the forest days before. I had shaped it into a crude spear, convincing myself it might help me catch fish, but staring at the river’s dark surface, I saw no silver glimmers beneath. The water was still, heavy, and the idea of stepping in made me shiver. My clothes, layered in worn, West-African–styled fabrics draped over one another, were hardly suited for getting soaked; they trapped warmth poorly, and my fireplace at home gave off more smoke than heat. I sighed, amber eyes narrowing bitterly. This was pointless. I dangled my feet in the icy current, feeling the sting climb up my slender legs. My caramel-toned skin prickled with gooseflesh, freckles catching the faint light of dawn. “Hm,” I muttered, my voice edged with sarcasm, “the sun’s coming up, the gulls are already screaming… I’d better leave before I make more of a fool of myself.” Pulling my toes out, I slipped into my thin leather slippers, their soles already thinning from wear. Each step across the stone pathway sent a sting up through my feet, the pavement pressing cruelly against me. As I crossed one of the arched bridges that stitched the city together, I paused mid-span. Below, the river cut through the heart of the city like a cold vein, splitting sidewalks and neighborhoods apart. For a moment I wondered—if I let myself fall in and drift, where would the water carry me? Toward the sea? Toward nothing? The thought lingered, heavy, before I tossed the stick into the stream with a blank expression. Just like me, it was useless. The city around me stirred awake. Its skyline was a strange harmony of styles: Copenhagen-like towers with pitched roofs sat beside grand arches carved in English stonework, all tangled with domes and minarets borrowed from South Asian design. It was a dense coastal city, alive with echoes of trade and salt winds, but all I felt was its weight. My home waited for me down a secluded alley, tucked away from the main streets. The morning bell tolled, its metallic chime rolling through the fog to announce the hour—six o’clock. My heart sank. Bad. Very bad. I couldn’t let anyone see me like this, hollow-eyed, hair unkempt, skin trembling from hunger and cold. So I quickened my pace, clutching my layered clothes around my petite frame, running to disappear before eyes could find me. But my slippers betrayed me. Their frayed edges caught on the uneven stones, and in an instant I pitched forward. My face met the pavement with a violent crack. Blackness swallowed everything. When I opened my eyes again, I was in a bed. My forehead was tightly wrapped in bandages, and my face felt foreign, numb, as if it no longer belonged to me. My head throbbed with a deep ache that pulsed behind my amber eyes. The air smelled of iron, metallic and heavy, and the room itself was bleak—darkened cots pushed against stone walls, sheets crumpled, shadows lingering in corners. A monastery, perhaps. It made little sense. Why would someone like me—a common boy, barely nineteen, scrawny from missed meals—be carried into such a place? The thought should have unsettled me, but my exhaustion pressed harder than my curiosity. I let out a long, shaky sigh. There was nothing I could do, not with this pain hammering through my skull. So I sank back into the mattress, rough but softer than the wooden floor of my home, and let my body surrender.
Created by bouncy kitten
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bouncy kitten
bouncy kitten
It was a cold morning, the kind of chill that bit through fabric and seeped into bone. My hands were stiff and numb as I clutched a stick I’d sharpened—something I had found while wandering the forest days before. I had shaped it into a crude spear, convincing myself it might help me catch fish, but staring at the river’s dark surface, I saw no silver glimmers beneath. The water was still, heavy, and the idea of stepping in made me shiver. My clothes, layered in worn, West-African–styled fabrics draped over one another, were hardly suited for getting soaked; they trapped warmth poorly, and my fireplace at home gave off more smoke than heat. I sighed, amber eyes narrowing bitterly. This was pointless. I dangled my feet in the icy current, feeling the sting climb up my slender legs. My caramel-toned skin prickled with gooseflesh, freckles catching the faint light of dawn. “Hm,” I muttered, my voice edged with sarcasm, “the sun’s coming up, the gulls are already screaming… I’d better leave before I make more of a fool of myself.” Pulling my toes out, I slipped into my thin leather slippers, their soles already thinning from wear. Each step across the stone pathway sent a sting up through my feet, the pavement pressing cruelly against me. As I crossed one of the arched bridges that stitched the city together, I paused mid-span. Below, the river cut through the heart of the city like a cold vein, splitting sidewalks and neighborhoods apart. For a moment I wondered—if I let myself fall in and drift, where would the water carry me? Toward the sea? Toward nothing? The thought lingered, heavy, before I tossed the stick into the stream with a blank expression. Just like me, it was useless. The city around me stirred awake. Its skyline was a strange harmony of styles: Copenhagen-like towers with pitched roofs sat beside grand arches carved in English stonework, all tangled with domes and minarets borrowed from South Asian design. It was a dense coastal city, alive with echoes of trade and salt winds, but all I felt was its weight. My home waited for me down a secluded alley, tucked away from the main streets. The morning bell tolled, its metallic chime rolling through the fog to announce the hour—six o’clock. My heart sank. Bad. Very bad. I couldn’t let anyone see me like this, hollow-eyed, hair unkempt, skin trembling from hunger and cold. So I quickened my pace, clutching my layered clothes around my petite frame, running to disappear before eyes could find me. But my slippers betrayed me. Their frayed edges caught on the uneven stones, and in an instant I pitched forward. My face met the pavement with a violent crack. Blackness swallowed everything. When I opened my eyes again, I was in a bed. My forehead was tightly wrapped in bandages, and my face felt foreign, numb, as if it no longer belonged to me. My head throbbed with a deep ache that pulsed behind my amber eyes. The air smelled of iron, metallic and heavy, and the room itself was bleak—darkened cots pushed against stone walls, sheets crumpled, shadows lingering in corners. A monastery, perhaps. It made little sense. Why would someone like me—a common boy, barely nineteen, scrawny from missed meals—be carried into such a place? The thought should have unsettled me, but my exhaustion pressed harder than my curiosity. I let out a long, shaky sigh. There was nothing I could do, not with this pain hammering through my skull. So I sank back into the mattress, rough but softer than the wooden floor of my home, and let my body surrender.
3 months ago