Ficlet: Breathe over the Isle
Another ar_drabbles challenge piece.
Title: Breathe over the Isle
Author: bibliodragon
Rating: Gen
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 300
The breeze blows through the poplar and cypress trees as I make my way across the land. The place is deceptively desolate, but I know of the life that is hidden here, from the hawks that ride the winds above to their prey scurrying through the undergrowth, and smile at the irony.
The dog chases one of them, a streak of black and white hair blundering through the undergrowth. I call him back with a whistle and he trots to my side, tongue lolling with canine happiness. Leaning on my stick I survey the land below.
Here the river runs slow and wide, more a lake, with water clear as glass. The little cabin is almost hidden in the landscape, easy to miss, if I did not know it was there. Smoke curls from the chimney diffusing into clear blue sky, the garden modest but well tended, small paths picked out amongst beds of white daffodils and herbs, firewood neatly stacked against the wall.
She is holding the axe awkwardly as he watches, lifting the head up before dropping it down to the ground as he says something. She scowls but there is no force behind it, and as she attempts again her swing is marred by her shoulders shaking with laughter. The axe makes it half way down the log before sticking.
Pulling it free while she bends with laughter, he then stands behind her and pulls her against him, his hands travelling down her arms to cover her grip. He whispers something in her ear, something about stance as she shifts her feet. Together they swing the axe slowly, once, twice; the third time the movement is swift and the thunk of metal against wood echoes of the hillside.
I continue on, an intruder on my own land.
Title: Breathe over the Isle
Author: bibliodragon
Rating: Gen
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 300
The breeze blows through the poplar and cypress trees as I make my way across the land. The place is deceptively desolate, but I know of the life that is hidden here, from the hawks that ride the winds above to their prey scurrying through the undergrowth, and smile at the irony.
The dog chases one of them, a streak of black and white hair blundering through the undergrowth. I call him back with a whistle and he trots to my side, tongue lolling with canine happiness. Leaning on my stick I survey the land below.
Here the river runs slow and wide, more a lake, with water clear as glass. The little cabin is almost hidden in the landscape, easy to miss, if I did not know it was there. Smoke curls from the chimney diffusing into clear blue sky, the garden modest but well tended, small paths picked out amongst beds of white daffodils and herbs, firewood neatly stacked against the wall.
She is holding the axe awkwardly as he watches, lifting the head up before dropping it down to the ground as he says something. She scowls but there is no force behind it, and as she attempts again her swing is marred by her shoulders shaking with laughter. The axe makes it half way down the log before sticking.
Pulling it free while she bends with laughter, he then stands behind her and pulls her against him, his hands travelling down her arms to cover her grip. He whispers something in her ear, something about stance as she shifts her feet. Together they swing the axe slowly, once, twice; the third time the movement is swift and the thunk of metal against wood echoes of the hillside.
I continue on, an intruder on my own land.