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impertinences) wrote2011-11-10 11:39 pm
impertinences) wrote2011-11-10 11:39 pm
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My first attempt at a modernized Persephone (Penelope) and Hades (Henry).
This is a very abstract "guideline" where much has been missed between sections. That's intentional. Maybe. I attempted to work on foreshadowing, along with subtle hints in dialogue or character interaction. It's an attempt that is 1162 words. Take that! It's also my combined writing efforts over the last three days, so that would explain the lack of updates.
I was going to say more, but I can't seem to remember the notes for my preface. Alas.
So ... aawaaay we go!
-
Henry knows her. Has known her.
She is taller now, lovelier than her mother, he thinks. More full of spirit. When she was four, she’d wrapped her fingers around his hand and asked to dance. Young and hopeful, and then she’d cried when her mother intervened. That woman was a constant pressure against her daughter, an immovable force. He was aware of it then, but they all were. He wasn’t one to intervene. Still isn’t.
Penelope does not reach for his hand this time. She smiles instead, moving aside her curtain-heavy hair, drinking too heartily from her wine glass. “You look … different.”
“I was going to say the same to you.”
Between the music, the arguments, the laughter, and the alcohol she stealthily stole from passing caterers, Penelope had needed a moment. The balcony was shadowed and the air cool, calming her flushed skin, and she had been contemplating whether or not it was late enough to convince her mother to leave when she noticed him, not lurking, but standing a few feet to her left. Needing his own escape, she had assumed.
“How much have you had to drink tonight?”
“I’m on my fifth glass.” She places a finger to her mouth, gesturing for secrecy. “Don’t tell my jailer.”
Henry grins, slow and easy-going. “What do you know about jail?”
Straightening her shoulders, Penelope has trouble focusing on the question. The shape of his lips forming words preoccupies her. She does not remember him being so tall or bright eyed. When she places her glass on the stone railing, it clinks like it’s about to crack. “… What could you teach me about it?”
-
Vegas.
“This … is the Underworld?”
He smiles, a smile that says he’s accustomed to the question. “We must change with the times, you know.”
It is a city on top of a city. A parallel glimmer of the real thing. Occasionally, she sees haunts from the living version. People, she assumes, who notice too much with their third eye. There’s an entire system to this world, and she thought death might have meant peace, once, a long time ago. Now, it’s a bustling hive. This, then, explains Henry’s need for a large desk and an even larger office.
He explains the areas, the roads, and the taxi system that acts as a ferry between the realms. Penelope expects it to be cold but it’s only a little damp, the air strangely thick, the colors muted.
There’s a castle of a casino where he stays, the entire top floor his own. Glass covers an entire wall, and she presses her palms to it, presses her forehead against it, and watches the scurrying of souls below. They’re so high up that she forgets who she is, for a moment. Forgets the weight of her mother and the expectations of adulthood.
She thinks this must be freeing. A world completely disconnected.
-
When Henry is called away, she wanders, looking ghostly herself. Her dress is not warm enough, her hair so long that she looks too innocent, but no one comments or even seems to see.
Achilles and Hector play against each other in poker. Both of them are giants. Glories from an eon past. Penelope looks small in comparison, slight, less heavy than their swords and spears.
“Who’s winning?”
Hector lifts his eyes from his cards, simultaneously throwing in a few chips. Across the table, Achilles’ jaw is stiff. “I am, for now. Achilles was giving me a run for my money for a while there though.”
The Grecian has very blue eyes, but he does not even look at her. He stares at Hector as though he’s already lost something, somewhere, but his voice is light enough. “The cards will turn with the tides. They always do.”
Hector laughs, and Penelope thinks she has missed a detail from their conversation, some important fact that eludes her. She feels on the outskirts again, like a decoration. “You don’t really win though, do you? I mean …” She opens her hands in a gesture. Time is endless here. Existence is infinite.
Achilles snorts. He is not altogether friendly, but she would not have expected him to be. “Someone always wins, child. Eventually.”
-
“What are you doing?” The notch of panic in Henry’s voice unsettles her.
Penelope’s mouth is red. Bloodied looking. She’s losing color already, except for her stained lips and her hands, cupping a pomegranate. She feels different – feels as though sensations are at once heightened but also curiously distant. The ruby seeds burn her throat and tast painfully vivid, a violent brightness on her tongue.
-
When everything falls apart, she was taught that you still have to figure out what to do next.
-
“You do enjoy it, don’t you? The job?” She sits on the edge of his desk, nearest his chair, while glancing at the paperwork scattered on top. So many names, so many souls. “Zachary always suggests that, in fact, you can’t say you don’t love it.”
Henry leans his head back. He finds it more difficult to speak of sentiment than obstacles. But he catches her hand and presses her cool fingers to his skin. “I wouldn’t leave it.”
Penelope kisses his shoulder.
-
There is another party.
After so many invitations, Penelope thinks the parties have never really stopped. Still, they attend. It would be impolite otherwise, and she wants to show them all something, prove that her child’s heart acted swiftly but was not misplaced.
She wears a black cashmere dress, the fabric whispering around her thighs, and pink heels. Her mother will hate it, and Henry teasingly tells her this, soft and hushed into her ear once they arrive.
Danessa does, but she hides her disdain by coveting Penelope’s presence. Except for these gatherings, her daughter has another four months of what Danessa considers to be servitude. But she watches Penelope watch Henry, while she doesn’t think the girl sees. She would like to believe that it was only the lingering remnants of childhood affection, an inappropriate attachment formed when Penelope was too young to know better, that caused her daughter to stray. She finds it hard to believe that she might be swayed by Henry’s storm eyes or the easy, comfortable way his hand comes to rest on the back of her neck, beneath her hair.
“A wife,” Danessa declares later, fueled by too much strawberry tasting champagne, “should be a help to her husband, not a distraction.” She keeps her gaze level, pointedly directed at her daughter.
Penelope smiles. Even in her heels, she has to roll forward to meet Henry’s ear. “And which I am?” She slides her palm up his chest, her fingers playing with the lining of his jacket, and turns her cheek into his shoulder.
Henry meets her turn, kissing her softly, taking refuge in the tender feel of her mouth. It’s the only answer he can give.
-
This is a very abstract "guideline" where much has been missed between sections. That's intentional. Maybe. I attempted to work on foreshadowing, along with subtle hints in dialogue or character interaction. It's an attempt that is 1162 words. Take that! It's also my combined writing efforts over the last three days, so that would explain the lack of updates.
I was going to say more, but I can't seem to remember the notes for my preface. Alas.
So ... aawaaay we go!
-
Henry knows her. Has known her.
She is taller now, lovelier than her mother, he thinks. More full of spirit. When she was four, she’d wrapped her fingers around his hand and asked to dance. Young and hopeful, and then she’d cried when her mother intervened. That woman was a constant pressure against her daughter, an immovable force. He was aware of it then, but they all were. He wasn’t one to intervene. Still isn’t.
Penelope does not reach for his hand this time. She smiles instead, moving aside her curtain-heavy hair, drinking too heartily from her wine glass. “You look … different.”
“I was going to say the same to you.”
Between the music, the arguments, the laughter, and the alcohol she stealthily stole from passing caterers, Penelope had needed a moment. The balcony was shadowed and the air cool, calming her flushed skin, and she had been contemplating whether or not it was late enough to convince her mother to leave when she noticed him, not lurking, but standing a few feet to her left. Needing his own escape, she had assumed.
“How much have you had to drink tonight?”
“I’m on my fifth glass.” She places a finger to her mouth, gesturing for secrecy. “Don’t tell my jailer.”
Henry grins, slow and easy-going. “What do you know about jail?”
Straightening her shoulders, Penelope has trouble focusing on the question. The shape of his lips forming words preoccupies her. She does not remember him being so tall or bright eyed. When she places her glass on the stone railing, it clinks like it’s about to crack. “… What could you teach me about it?”
-
Vegas.
“This … is the Underworld?”
He smiles, a smile that says he’s accustomed to the question. “We must change with the times, you know.”
It is a city on top of a city. A parallel glimmer of the real thing. Occasionally, she sees haunts from the living version. People, she assumes, who notice too much with their third eye. There’s an entire system to this world, and she thought death might have meant peace, once, a long time ago. Now, it’s a bustling hive. This, then, explains Henry’s need for a large desk and an even larger office.
He explains the areas, the roads, and the taxi system that acts as a ferry between the realms. Penelope expects it to be cold but it’s only a little damp, the air strangely thick, the colors muted.
There’s a castle of a casino where he stays, the entire top floor his own. Glass covers an entire wall, and she presses her palms to it, presses her forehead against it, and watches the scurrying of souls below. They’re so high up that she forgets who she is, for a moment. Forgets the weight of her mother and the expectations of adulthood.
She thinks this must be freeing. A world completely disconnected.
-
When Henry is called away, she wanders, looking ghostly herself. Her dress is not warm enough, her hair so long that she looks too innocent, but no one comments or even seems to see.
Achilles and Hector play against each other in poker. Both of them are giants. Glories from an eon past. Penelope looks small in comparison, slight, less heavy than their swords and spears.
“Who’s winning?”
Hector lifts his eyes from his cards, simultaneously throwing in a few chips. Across the table, Achilles’ jaw is stiff. “I am, for now. Achilles was giving me a run for my money for a while there though.”
The Grecian has very blue eyes, but he does not even look at her. He stares at Hector as though he’s already lost something, somewhere, but his voice is light enough. “The cards will turn with the tides. They always do.”
Hector laughs, and Penelope thinks she has missed a detail from their conversation, some important fact that eludes her. She feels on the outskirts again, like a decoration. “You don’t really win though, do you? I mean …” She opens her hands in a gesture. Time is endless here. Existence is infinite.
Achilles snorts. He is not altogether friendly, but she would not have expected him to be. “Someone always wins, child. Eventually.”
-
“What are you doing?” The notch of panic in Henry’s voice unsettles her.
Penelope’s mouth is red. Bloodied looking. She’s losing color already, except for her stained lips and her hands, cupping a pomegranate. She feels different – feels as though sensations are at once heightened but also curiously distant. The ruby seeds burn her throat and tast painfully vivid, a violent brightness on her tongue.
-
When everything falls apart, she was taught that you still have to figure out what to do next.
-
“You do enjoy it, don’t you? The job?” She sits on the edge of his desk, nearest his chair, while glancing at the paperwork scattered on top. So many names, so many souls. “Zachary always suggests that, in fact, you can’t say you don’t love it.”
Henry leans his head back. He finds it more difficult to speak of sentiment than obstacles. But he catches her hand and presses her cool fingers to his skin. “I wouldn’t leave it.”
Penelope kisses his shoulder.
-
There is another party.
After so many invitations, Penelope thinks the parties have never really stopped. Still, they attend. It would be impolite otherwise, and she wants to show them all something, prove that her child’s heart acted swiftly but was not misplaced.
She wears a black cashmere dress, the fabric whispering around her thighs, and pink heels. Her mother will hate it, and Henry teasingly tells her this, soft and hushed into her ear once they arrive.
Danessa does, but she hides her disdain by coveting Penelope’s presence. Except for these gatherings, her daughter has another four months of what Danessa considers to be servitude. But she watches Penelope watch Henry, while she doesn’t think the girl sees. She would like to believe that it was only the lingering remnants of childhood affection, an inappropriate attachment formed when Penelope was too young to know better, that caused her daughter to stray. She finds it hard to believe that she might be swayed by Henry’s storm eyes or the easy, comfortable way his hand comes to rest on the back of her neck, beneath her hair.
“A wife,” Danessa declares later, fueled by too much strawberry tasting champagne, “should be a help to her husband, not a distraction.” She keeps her gaze level, pointedly directed at her daughter.
Penelope smiles. Even in her heels, she has to roll forward to meet Henry’s ear. “And which I am?” She slides her palm up his chest, her fingers playing with the lining of his jacket, and turns her cheek into his shoulder.
Henry meets her turn, kissing her softly, taking refuge in the tender feel of her mouth. It’s the only answer he can give.
-
no subject
You did not butcher Henry. At all. (...Not that you really could since I know nothing about him, but still. You didn't!)
This whole this is fantastic and I actually really like the jumpiness to it. Although I'm hesitant to actually call it jumpy, because it's all pretty cohesive and not at all twitchy feeling to me. You did good, little lady!
The bit where Penelope ate the pomegranate seeds was especially lovely. Full of nice, juicy descriptions. Makes me want some, even if it would consign me to Hades. Although with a hunk like Henry as a husband that doesn't seem like such a bad gig.
Danessa seems like a total stick in the mud. I dislike her already.
Now write more about Penelope's crush on Henry! Do it do it do iiiiit! I demand it of you!