Chatterbox: Mythology

Saturday, December 14, 2013

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Perhaps it's because I'm something of a non-conformist that every time Chatterbox comes around I don't want to rattle the given topic around with the characters I'm currently working on. Or perhaps it's something else. Either way, instead of tossing Scarlett, Damien, and Florence into a mythological conversation, this time I'm playing the strings of two very tentative new characters with ostentatious personalities. Meet Starlyte and Ryker.
"Somebody close that window before I die of frostbite!" The crumbling white frame banged shut, and a muss-haired Ryker floped back onto the couch, slapping his book on the table.
"You are particular, Miss Windsor." She didn't seem to mind this, but petted the soft heather duck-fluff of her stole with mock disconsolance.
"Read me a book, Ryker, I'm dreadfully restless." He'd been told she was difficult, but hadn't imagined her being demanding.
"What book, madame?"
"Oh, that one looks well enough for a day like today." She pointed an unspoiled finger at the previously-discarded book with some interest.
"It's mythology, you wouldn't like it." 
"Why don't you try me? I do so love fairy tales."
A cloud of irritation shaded his browline. 
"They're not fairy tales. They're myths."
"There's a difference?" She wasn't trying to be particularly nagging; Ryker felt his skin prickle like gooseflesh nonetheless.
"Of course there's a difference!"
"Oh, and what is it?" She'd given him the hurdle now, and though he mumbled out some discombobulated nonsense Starlyte waited with practiced indifference until he surrendered with an upflinging of his hands.
"There isn't a difference, see?" Her eyes twinkled with the jocund flare of supremacy.
"There is."
An idea occured to him, a brilliant idea, worthy of even Hermes' aproval. 
"As you wish, madame." He plucked the book from the table, flipped to a haphazard page and began to read, adding his own annotation as to the differences between this and fairy tales. At the end, he clapped the book together with a told-you-so smirk, and awaited her response with the posture of a gentleman at the finish of a fencing match, waiting for the defeated opponent to pick up his discarded sword from the far end of the field in a march of shame.
But the match it seems, had been a phony, and his opponent's broadening smile portrayed her long-shot win. 
"Splendid, Ryker, brilliant. Read me another!" Starlyte wiggled more comfortably in her pink brocade chair like a cat on her throne and Ryker chuckled, wagging his head. Miss Windsor was something, a Cheshire in the throne room, with attendants scrambling after her blooming footprints. And she was puring satisfactorily.

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