zopyrus: roman woman with pearls (Default)
[personal profile] zopyrus
Title: Ultimatum
Challenge/Prompt: Cloud
Original Fiction
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: Mine.
Summary: Iris loses a friend.

Iris leaned over the cauldron, dipping her ladle into the cloudy broth, keeping her gaze carefully forward. She pictured his face: eyebrows drawn together, wide mouth drawn down. His hair, yellow as—

No. Forget his face. She stirred the broth, tried to picture nothing. Her mouth opened.

“I saw you,” she hissed. “You and her.”

Her voice was ugly, rasping. It was like hearing somebody else, but she couldn’t stop. “If you touch her again, I swear I’ll tell her husband.”

Xanthos was still standing behind her. She stared harder into the soup.

When she turned around he was gone.

Settlement

May. 20th, 2009 10:28 am
zopyrus: roman woman with pearls (roman lady)
[personal profile] zopyrus
Title: Settlement
Challenge/Prompt: Yesterday
Original Fiction
Rating: PG
Warnings: Mention of self-harm.
Disclaimer:  Plot and characters are mine.
Summary:  Hippothoe's marriage ends messily; she goes to live in her brother's house.

She hasn’t moved since yesterday, hasn’t made a sound since I brought her home. Her hair tangled, her dress askew, and the angry scratches she made, from throat to breast, red against the pale of her skin.

The house feels huge, and empty. Even the servants have caught her sadness, like another kind of plague, choking the sound from their throats.

When I sit down beside her, I can hear the rustle of cloth, raw and loud. I take her hand, but she flinches away.

I wish, desperately, that she would scream--that I could scream.

The silence gets louder.
zopyrus: roman woman with pearls (Default)
[personal profile] zopyrus
Title: To Say Never
Challenge/Prompt: Symbol
Original Fiction
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: my story
Summary: She's the only person he can't just tell a joke to.


Most of my friends were older than me, so they knew already. Or they were very young, like my nephew, and only wanted a tale before bed.

Hippothoe asked because nobody had explained it well enough. My brave sister, proud of me, but jealous too, wanted to know what it was like to fight in a war.

Poets use metaphors to say what can’t be said, and they don’t ever lose their words.  (But to say “never” is to make a thing happen.)  I stood before her, tongue-tied like a child, trying to tell her something more than a story.

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