January Snippets

Monday, February 09, 2015

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A new month, a new batch of writing to share! There is admittedly less here than I would have liked; however, I've challenged myself to write a very simple 100 words a day for the month of February (thanks, Braden!), knowing that once I start, I'll continue for more than that quota. It is also getting difficult to share things without spoiling other things; but I have managed to pick a few nonetheless. So then: the snippets themselves!

"Morning. A crack against the sky: blue white, and maybe a little pink to follow – but not just yet. No, just now it was only blue, and pale, pale white. Men would drink their ale and women would have their gossip and life would go on in a moment, but there was this breath in between, a grey, foggy breath that allowed for something beautiful to be made before all of that. It was the space between the days." -PSITHURISM


"The funeral pyre shot blood orange flecks high into the night, wafting off until Adara could see them no longer.
Favian was by her side. No one else was there. With a quick, impulsive movement, she flung the dagger into the flames and stepped back, watching it fall. She didn’t know where it landed; it didn’t matter." -PSITHURISM


“How’s the fishing?”
 Someone must have told him. Adair nodded his assent, and a sort of crooked smile pulled back on the other’s face, revealing a discolored jumble of teeth.
“When can we talk?” The man’s hands were folded in front of him when he spoke, looking shriveled against Adair’s own.
“I know places.”  -PSITHURISM


In the corner, a desk was cluttered with papers – all heavily scribbled on – odd writing instruments, a little orange lamp, and Tarquin, slouching diplomatically in the rickety round-back chair, like a wolf by the fireside.  He motioned to the floor cushions, and Adair seated himself, removing his boots as he’d been learned to do.
“Sir,” he cleared his throat, fiddling nervously with his satchel-strap. In the dim orangey light, his fingers looked very dark and square. “You asked an update.”
“Yes. Tell me about the boys.” - PSITHURISM




"There was the pink, now, so gentle! so warm! and encroaching like soft wings on the horizon, fraying into the blue watercolour. It was there as it always had been, but this time Adara noticed it more – or perhaps it noticed her – and the pink flushed her cheeks, her breast, her shoulders. Sometimes beauty is not so much of a striking thing, or a captivating thing, or even a lovely thing to see: sometimes, it is only small – and most times, it is only felt." - PSITHURISM

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