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skonen_bladesHis eyebrows were angry animals that guarded the twin caves of his eyes. A wet, malevolent intelligence glittered back there in the depths. I’d say that his eyebrows were perched there but they were entirely too flat to his skull and too large to be compared to anything as agile and graceful as a bird. They were like satan’s pet black caterpillars.
They were wiry. They did not meet in the middle and they had sporadic shoots of grey through them.
They jumped and lanced at arguments. They wiggled and caroused when he was being quite serious. They were frightfully distracting. He used this to great effect during debate.
Just as one got a good solid argument underneath one, along came those jittering eyebrows seemingly intent on tying a knot between them. If they had the capability to grasp knitting needles, there would be a scarf all the way to the ground by the end of half an hour. One scarcely needs to imagine what an effect those giant bear-like hair-nests had on a person.
One of them would waggle furiously and just as one was wondering if such a feat was possible, the other part of one’s mind would put forth the notion that it must be possible as one had just seen it with one’s own eyes. This would also push one to wonder if maybe one could complete such a feat with one’s own meager amateur brows.
Around this time, one would notice an embarrassing silence in the room and realize that one had just been asked a question.
These eyebrows could not have been the mere eyebrows of a mortal. They must have been the result of a midnight tryst between mortal woman and a malign god generations back in his bloodline. A lower-level god with great charm, perhaps. A god of facial-hair swooping in and making Tom Selleck look like a twelve-year-old with peach fuzz.
A mohair pyjama wearing Adonis with locks that made Bigfoot look clean shaven. A Cousin It with muscles. A man that would make Yosemite Sam look down in cross-eyed shame at his own pathetic lip-warmer. A god who possessed sledgehammer eyebrows that could have taught Groucho Marx a whole new language.
A small percentage of this god’s power had been passed down through the generations to this man. This man who used his powers for evil and personal gain instead of the greater good.
He was the Dean of my school and I hated him. I hated how those thick bushy signposts thwarted my every attempt at intelligent discourse with him. I was a deer and those oncoming eyebrows made me stand stock still and gape with no thought in my mind other than,
“Wow. Check those eyebrows out.”
While my mouth stumbled through the underbrush of argument and tripped in the brambles.
I hated his eyebrows. I fumed at them in silence. They became my nemesis, almost completely disassociated with the Dean himself. Disembodied, they’d haunt me in my dreams.
tags
They were wiry. They did not meet in the middle and they had sporadic shoots of grey through them.
They jumped and lanced at arguments. They wiggled and caroused when he was being quite serious. They were frightfully distracting. He used this to great effect during debate.
Just as one got a good solid argument underneath one, along came those jittering eyebrows seemingly intent on tying a knot between them. If they had the capability to grasp knitting needles, there would be a scarf all the way to the ground by the end of half an hour. One scarcely needs to imagine what an effect those giant bear-like hair-nests had on a person.
One of them would waggle furiously and just as one was wondering if such a feat was possible, the other part of one’s mind would put forth the notion that it must be possible as one had just seen it with one’s own eyes. This would also push one to wonder if maybe one could complete such a feat with one’s own meager amateur brows.
Around this time, one would notice an embarrassing silence in the room and realize that one had just been asked a question.
These eyebrows could not have been the mere eyebrows of a mortal. They must have been the result of a midnight tryst between mortal woman and a malign god generations back in his bloodline. A lower-level god with great charm, perhaps. A god of facial-hair swooping in and making Tom Selleck look like a twelve-year-old with peach fuzz.
A mohair pyjama wearing Adonis with locks that made Bigfoot look clean shaven. A Cousin It with muscles. A man that would make Yosemite Sam look down in cross-eyed shame at his own pathetic lip-warmer. A god who possessed sledgehammer eyebrows that could have taught Groucho Marx a whole new language.
A small percentage of this god’s power had been passed down through the generations to this man. This man who used his powers for evil and personal gain instead of the greater good.
He was the Dean of my school and I hated him. I hated how those thick bushy signposts thwarted my every attempt at intelligent discourse with him. I was a deer and those oncoming eyebrows made me stand stock still and gape with no thought in my mind other than,
“Wow. Check those eyebrows out.”
While my mouth stumbled through the underbrush of argument and tripped in the brambles.
I hated his eyebrows. I fumed at them in silence. They became my nemesis, almost completely disassociated with the Dean himself. Disembodied, they’d haunt me in my dreams.
tags