impertinences: (warm in my heart)
2012-06-28 05:06 pm

(no subject)

Thank you, Seventh Sanctum Symbolitron, for an interesting, quick prompt.

“The love story where the main character moods map to creatures of Greek mythology.”

Bonus points for the readers that can deduce which creatures correlate with the two main characters, especially given my disjointed style. I only halfway followed the prompt – I don’t think you can call this a love story.

-



Hadley wears her hair long and free, chestnut colored, and severely straight. The style matches her plain mouth, the nude lipstick she favors making her lips seem thinner than they are. When she smiles, her teeth are too white, too like a predator. She has the slender, stalk-like figure of a bird, the tallest of her siblings, and she has to fold her legs under her to sit comfortably in strict-backed wooden chairs. Her mother used to say she was fond of perches, but Hadley rarely laughed. She was not a humorous girl, and she did not grow into a humorous woman.
She is, however, persistent.


“You can stumble across all types of things if you’re patient enough to keep returning.” Hadley tells her youngest sister over the phone, filing her nails into the Ukrainian pointed style. They are long and fierce looking, a detail that contradicts her small fingers and delicate wrists.
“So, what’s his name?” Her sister’s voice comes through muffled, and Hadley can hear the distinct squawking of her blue-and-yellow macaw in the background.
“Mason.”
“The butcher?”
“That’s the one.” Hadley does not sound particularly enthusiastic, but she smiles to herself. The women in her family have always been private, conveying no more information than absolutely necessary, and she is no different. Sometimes, even the little bit she did offer had to be wrenched from her.
“Bring him to dinner.” Her sister suggests, the hint of cruelty in her voice as soft and subtle as hope.



Dinner is on a Tuesday evening when the weather is full of sharp winds. Hadley’s two sisters help set the table until there is barely space left on their mother’s expensive tablecloth. As is their habit, her parents serve too much: grilled costini spread with hummus, wild mushroom sformato, caprese salad, lobster agnolotti with truffled honey, and caramel custard tart with sugar-poached lemon. Mason eats everything. He eats so much that he barely speaks, the sound of his silverware scraping his plate as constant as Hadley’s bemusement.
He is much larger than the previous men she has brought home. Iron-willed and broad shouldered, built like the battle men of olden times, but swift on his feet and particularly cunning around the eyes. When she touches his knee beneath the table, he looks at her as though he would devour her too.
“Do all butchers posses such healthy appetites?” Hadley’s mother asks from her spot next to her husband, attempting politeness despite her harsh tone.
“I was taught that you shouldn’t leave anything behind.” Mason says, taking a hearty drink from his glass of water. His voice is so loud that it startles everyone but the brunette beside him.
“He sounds like a trumpet.” Annette, the youngest sister, criticizes between small bites of her tart. As though prompted by her distaste, the birds in the house start cawing, rattling the bars of their cages with their talons and scraping their beaks.



Mason is not a hurtful man, Hadley realizes. He is often quiet and sometimes elusive. There is not much truth to the rumors she hears around town, the gossip of housewives, coworkers, and unreliable children. Nobody is sure where exactly he was born and when she asks him his ethnicity, he says he’s a little of everything. Even his last name is ambiguous. The worst thing she has ever heard is how his insults can be poisonously harsh, but the mailwoman who said so had also, once, said that Hadley purposely punished all of the men in her life.
Everyone has secrets, she decides, and moves in with him a month later.
impertinences: (a crimson future)
2011-11-12 09:53 pm

(no subject)

My stepmother has switched all of the house-freshener scents to holiday smells. Our coffee creamers are even holiday flavored. As a result, I felt like writing some various fluffy holiday moment with a few characters. Except Henry and Penelope's is just fluff, but we'll assume it's set during the winter.

I'm too lazy for a cut.


-



After the leaves change, the temperature drops dramatically.

Addison covers her neck in warm scarves, red berry-colored for the season. Each night Mischa has to unwrap her like a present till the stretch of her pale throat shows, the life vein sweetly taunting. She asks if she tastes like gingerbread and powdered sugar, peppermint mocha, or eggnog.

She asks him for a fire while winding candy-canes into the branches of an oversized tree. It barely fits in her apartment. When he searches for matches and kindling, Addison stares as though disappointed. “You can’t just make one?”

“… I am making one.”

“No, with your mind, I meant.”

Mischa’s voice breaks. “Where do you get these ideas from?”

“Anne Rice. True Blood.”

“Mortal fancy.” He teases while almost getting chimney soot all over the palms of his white hands. “You probably think I sparkle too.”


-


Emere taps her foot against the floor. One hand dramatically on her hip and the other holding a martini, she stares at the stove.

“You have to turn it on. Preheat it.” Brando explains from his vantage point at the counter. Maine sits next to him, and she keeps hitting his ankle with her cold toes. She smells a little like pot and vodka and warm sugar cookies.

“Yes, thank you for the obvious statement.” Her hair has gotten too long, her brother notices. It falls far down her shoulders, scraping the middle of her spine. It’s almost as dark as the turtleneck she’s wearing, and he can tell that it’s cashmere without touching it.

Maine lights a cigarette. “C’mon hot stuff. I’m a hungry, hungry hippo.” She almost snorts from her own amusement; Emere hears it and snicker-scoffs, accidently swishing vodka from her glass when she turns to face her two guests.

“… Did any of us actually bring food to cook in the stove?”

Brando rubs his forehead, but Emere thinks she sees him grin. The tightness of his shoulders could be silent laughter. Maine hums with thought then shakes her head. “Nope, no ma’am. Not enough room for a turkey in my purse.”

“Right. I have uppers in my fridge. We don’t cook those.”

After a moment, Brando scoots his chair back and reaches for his cell phone. “How’s Chinese sound?”


-


Katerina’s skin is frozen, but she turns her face up to the wild night sky. The deep blackness above that is dashing down snow. It gets caught in her thick hair, in the fur around her shoulders, melts against the fabric of her dress.

“You’re going to catch your death out here.” Cassius flips his collar up closer, suppressing the desire to shiver.

“Impossible. In Russia we would have been blanketed by snow already. Your American winters are as weak as your American blood.”

“With my blood being the exception, of course, darling.” He kisses her hair when he steps close, and she laughs, curling against his arm and sharing the heavy weight of her fur.


-


Penelope curls deeper into the warmth of the bed. It’s feather soft now that she made Henry change the mattress.

It’s hard to see much more than a tangle of blonde hair. The blankets are less of a problem, but three Great Danes have sprawled themselves around her, breathing loud and forming a visual blockade.

Henry rubs his jaw. He needs to shave. It’s not much of a concern at the moment though since he’s more focused on trying to reclaim his side of the bed. He whistles softly, snaps his fingers. One of the dogs lifts its head and wags its whip-strong tail. The other two glance but look at him unconcernedly.

He sighs. Those dogs used to really be something, a monument to his patience and dedication, as loyal and ready to serve as any hellhound could be. Until Penelope spoiled them with treats and too many afternoon naps. His wife. Ever the unexpected interruption of his structured life.


-
impertinences: (at your expense)
2011-11-10 11:39 pm
Entry tags:

(no subject)

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!


... )
impertinences: (I can't claim innocence)
2011-10-26 05:12 pm

(no subject)

I meant to post this yesterday, but Dreamwidth was taking so long to load (probably due to my fickle internet connection) that I got impatient. Technically, I still wrote though!

Working more on the Hydra.

-

There is much you do not comprehend.

The sounds startle you. The rush of so many tongues, and your own voice a sibilant spread of water tones, no longer the multiple, threatening roar of fanged mouths. You shape gurgling words in your mouth, but they taste and sound empty.

Before, you had been a threatening force. A creature of imposing dimensions. Now, you are miniscule in comparison to so many surrounding objects. Even if you had been as you were, the height of mere buildings astonish you now. Their tops threaten to touch Olympus, and you wonder why Zeus is untroubled by the looming intrusions. He toppled the Titans for less, and you remember them as being similarly colossal.

If you knew how to cry, you might. Your body is unfit for this new age. Attacked by the elements, easily bruised and battered. You break your nails testing your strength against a pane of glass and do not understand. You recall being unleashed, but the purpose, the reason, fails you. For what? For this limited, undesirable form?

A sense of relief overcomes when you realize your speed remains. That your running steps still sound like thunder. You can climb effortlessly, the rope of muscles in your arms the same. You can stay beneath water for hours, only a mild restraint, and one that the geography of a steel city barely allows.

Zeus’ son, the slayer of beasts, the infallible demi-god, cages you once more. Places you between conventional walls and speaks to you in the old, familiar words - the Greek and Latin that you understand but cannot repeat. He teaches you language, as though he were stealing fire for your salvation. Another puzzle.

He finds that the smell of cooked meats nauseates you, so you eat raw fish wrapped in seaweed and rice. You are hungry constantly.

When another hero arrives, you stare angrily and stand taught. You remember the feel of a tail slicing the air behind you, how easy it could be to wrap talons around a muscled neck. Now, they only gaze at you, a hint of bemusement and thin pity. They bring you to a woman you both recognize and yet cannot place, but you dip your eyes naturally, your timeless soul whispering to the length of her hair.

In the dark of the night, you stir defensively. You wake, unable to forget the monotony of guarding.
impertinences: (words you spoke)
2011-10-23 04:25 pm

(no subject)

I don’t much feel like writing today, and it doesn’t help that I’m at work. I keep getting distracted. But – I am trying to muster on. With the Hydra. Or my bizarre, makes-no-sense modernized version of her. With references to Hercules, because I can.


-

This new body is long but useless. The dips and curves and stretch of skin you must learn like a newborn. Your fingers end in nails that will never be sharp enough. When you touch your tongue to your teeth, they are blunt, not suited for the shred and tear of victory. You are solitary, a condition that frightens you. Inside of you, you think there are many bodies still, many necks straining for freedom. The roar and cry of something bestial, the lashing strength of a serpentine melody. The pain bursts inside of your head until you’re forced to cradle it, the light making you wince, sounds causing you to mourn for the lack of dark, watery depths.

Hunger makes you search. This body cannot hunt, and the monetary system confuses you. You steal, and then there’s a man in your way again. The same man as before, solid and full of glory. You have trouble seeing him this time though, keeping your two limited eyes focused between his footwork and the muscles of his arms. Those arms that held the strength to cage you – once. Made you a guardian of a passageway where the cries of the damned troubled your ears. Stole the venom of your spirit to use for his battles.

You wonder what he can steal now and the scars on your long throat burn with remembrance.