Glass of Fancy » 2012 » September - Fashion, fiction, and life in the city.
They fled into the night, Dala laughing hysterically and Hasari gritting his teeth. He'd scraped his face in the rush to get out the window, and Dala had nearly been shot by a guard, but she kept laughing, laughing, as if they had never done anything so amusing. They could both have been killed, and for what?
The city streets flew by, dark and too familiar. Just the sight of them made him tired. "Stop. STOP!" He grabbed her arm roughly and dragged her into an alley.
"What do you mean? Of course we can!" There was a feverish shine on her face, a fretful energy that was afraid to rest.
"What do I mean? I mean it's only blind luck that we're not dead yet!" Her carefree nonchalance had stopped being convincing a long time ago. It had been real once, and he'd loved her for it. These days it had a manic edge, a desperation for the girl who'd existed before the Fall to still be there. It had taken him a long time to recognize: she couldn't stop. She would keep looking for trouble until it consumed her.
"We should go back." A rough village in the middle of nowhere, a life in hiding. It no longer seemed like the worst thing that could happen.
"And they were right." The words fell between them like lead. She was staring at him with a blank look on her face, like he was speaking a language she didn't understand. He looked away. "I'm going back." He didn't have to ask. She wasn't coming with him. He looked back at her face for a long moment, memorizing.
"Goodbye, Dala." He dropped the words over his shoulder and left her, standing in the alley and staring after him.
This is another story of the aftermath of The Fall. Thanks for reading!
"You're my wife, mother of my children. You can tell me. What did the Oracle say?" He clasped her hands earnestly.
Welcome to this weekend's Trifextra challenge at Trifecta Writing Challenge! This weekend's prompt asked for 33 words on something that was three different things at the same time. Thanks for reading!
Midnight. Kate crept down the hallway, candlestick in one hand and the other raised to shield the flickering flame. The stone floor was cold under her bare feet, but she was silent as a cat without the betraying shuffle of slippers. The distant rumble of voices sounded belowstairs. She slipped into the library. Safe!
Kate straightened and let her hand fall away from the light of the candle. The library smelled of old books and a faint hint of her father's snuff. Kate rather thought it was the Virgil that was so musty. Anything that ancient could hardly smell any other way. It was a man's space, with solid furniture and long velvet curtains in a color her father called claret and her mother crimson. Kate liked to think of them as scarlet, which made her mother, already nervous about Kate's dubious attitude toward propriety, throw her hands up in despair.
Kate started to search. She had her aunt to thank for bringing it into the house. Her parents had immediately banished it to the back of the library, but at least they hadn't consigned it to the fire. Finally. It seemed like everyone had read it but her, and Augusta Mainwaring had been a perfect pig about it.
There! She pulled out the slim volume and looked at the cover. Printed in thin gold letters was the scandalous name and the title: "THE CORSAIR." Kate grinned delightedly, tucked it into her dressing gown, and stole back to her room.
I am having so much fun with the prompts this week, I decided to go for a second round with a little splash of Regency for Write on Edge's Red Writing Hood prompt. (Also, all the new books on hand available for reviewing are Terry Pratchett and I thought I'd give you guys a break. I swear, a shipment of all new books from Barnes & Noble is on its way. And none of them are by Pratchett. Seriously.) This week, in honor of the board game Clue, they asked for up to 250 words including the words "candlestick," "scarlet," and "library." For those not familiar with the period, suffice it to say that Lord Byron's personal life was known to be scandalous by the standards of the time and rumored to be quite scandalous even by modern standards, and his works were considered not appropriate for Nice Young Ladies' eyes. Thanks for reading!
Cold beer, football, feet on the coffee table. Dan took a swig. Every weekend should be like this. They were even ahead. He turned up the volume a little. Callie wandered in with a yogurt in her hand and peered at the game.
"Ample? Ample?" She turned to look at him.
"How did you know?" They inspected the gruesome heap that was all that remained of their captor.
Some weekend fiction fun with Trifecta Writing Challenge's Trifextra prompt. This weekend calls for 33 words using the Rule of Three: writing principle that asserts that, in writing, groups of three have the most impact. Thanks for reading!
"You display a refreshingly total absence of guilt," the instructor remarked as they inspected the aftermath of Eila's graduate project. Three days later, the ruins still smoked, and a scent as of burning hair lingered in the air.
"I grew up here." She was looking out over the pitted field, not bothering to watch the instructor as he considered her work. Her grade had yet to be determined, but her graduation no longer seemed to be in question. The breeze stirring her hair was hot and acrid. She would probably have to throw away these clothes.
She paused at the edge of the deepest crater, shining with a thin layer of black glass. There were no signs remaining of what it had once been. She considered his first comment.