Quick Fic Amnesty
1. Prompt: Fashion Statement.
It wasn’t enough just to make a statement. Anyone could make statements. That asswipe Stinson could make a statement. As long as you put in a couple of French words and referred to the degradation of life in modern times the magazines would praise you to Paris and back. Dejan paced around the room and wished he could run his hands through his hair but it would disarrange the artistically profound unbrushed look it had taken him so long to create.
No, this needed more. Dejan swore and tossed all the black-and-whites into the nearest bin. He had copies of course, carefully kept in his files. He wanted to create the next revolution in fashion. He wanted his name murmured in posh accents in London and Milan and Paris. Not New York of course, New York was passé now. All of America was passé.
He raised his head as the models stepped in, some six or seven; tall and skinny, some dark and some pale. His eyes went half-lidded and he stilled. The models rearranged themselves in his mind to shadows and half shadows and the most contemptuous of them stood in the middle, curly brown hair let free and brown skin highlighted by the artificially harsh light over her head. His mind stripped away what was extraneous, flowery hats and pretty (pretty, the still conscious part of his mind spat out in disgust) jewelry gone.
The straight, angular black and white and grey clothing remained and sashes of bright color hurled almost randomly over them.
2. Prompt: Enough
The Twelfth Dancing Princess:
And so she dances the night away. Her sisters have gone now that the spell is broken. The prince who discovered them dancing every night has taken her eldest sister away to his own kingdom with their Father’s blessing, fierce and beautiful Clarimond whom she will see no more and she dances her grief away.
The garden of diamonds is left behind, never to be seen again, she dances in joy because it hurt her eyes with its cold, sharp perfection. She twirls around so that her skirt rises around her and the squirrels in her garden come under them and then jump away surprised when the skirt comes down and they are left in darkness and it seems to her that they dance with her so she dances in play.
Princes come and ask for her hand and she dances around them, fleet-footed invitations to catch her until they cry, enough.
Her old nurse comes and weeps at her torn shoes and her callused feet and begs her to bathe them and pleads, enough.
Her sisters come, impatient Cacilie to her room and clever Frieda with her pets and stubborn Gerde to her garden and quiet, watchful Athala at odd times and all the rest but Clarimond and say, each in their own tone, enough.
Then her Father sees her dance in Court and commands in terrible tones, enough.
Still she dances because they don’t know, cannot see that it will never be enough, that her heart overflows and so she dances the days away.
3. Prompt: Purple Stain
“Won’t work,” Zoputa drawled out, from her place leaning against the doorframe.
Chipo ignored her and focused on the purple liquid in her glass bowl. She tried again, and again. She could feel herself becoming exhausted.
“It won’t work. You’re an innie, not an outie.” Zoputa said, frustration bleeding through into her voice now. Chipo was sure that any moment now she would force Chipo out and slather Chipo’s hands with one of her own concoctions. Probably pebbly mud and bark, those worked best for Zoputa.
She closed her eyes and tried again and once more, the power flowed from every part of her to her fingers like the damned innie she was; instead of flowing from the elements she had gathered. Her eyes blinded with the power she lashed out with those cursed hands and heard the soft clinking of breaking glass. She felt arms surround her and knew it was Dele come home at last who murmured that it was alright, everything was alright.
Chipo remembered every time someone had looked at her in disgust for having magic but not the holy magic that would have connected her with the Lady. She couldn’t forget. Her eyes opened, the blur of power was gone and she could see the purple staining their worn rug.
Her eyes blurred again, but not with power.
It wasn’t enough just to make a statement. Anyone could make statements. That asswipe Stinson could make a statement. As long as you put in a couple of French words and referred to the degradation of life in modern times the magazines would praise you to Paris and back. Dejan paced around the room and wished he could run his hands through his hair but it would disarrange the artistically profound unbrushed look it had taken him so long to create.
No, this needed more. Dejan swore and tossed all the black-and-whites into the nearest bin. He had copies of course, carefully kept in his files. He wanted to create the next revolution in fashion. He wanted his name murmured in posh accents in London and Milan and Paris. Not New York of course, New York was passé now. All of America was passé.
He raised his head as the models stepped in, some six or seven; tall and skinny, some dark and some pale. His eyes went half-lidded and he stilled. The models rearranged themselves in his mind to shadows and half shadows and the most contemptuous of them stood in the middle, curly brown hair let free and brown skin highlighted by the artificially harsh light over her head. His mind stripped away what was extraneous, flowery hats and pretty (pretty, the still conscious part of his mind spat out in disgust) jewelry gone.
The straight, angular black and white and grey clothing remained and sashes of bright color hurled almost randomly over them.
2. Prompt: Enough
The Twelfth Dancing Princess:
And so she dances the night away. Her sisters have gone now that the spell is broken. The prince who discovered them dancing every night has taken her eldest sister away to his own kingdom with their Father’s blessing, fierce and beautiful Clarimond whom she will see no more and she dances her grief away.
The garden of diamonds is left behind, never to be seen again, she dances in joy because it hurt her eyes with its cold, sharp perfection. She twirls around so that her skirt rises around her and the squirrels in her garden come under them and then jump away surprised when the skirt comes down and they are left in darkness and it seems to her that they dance with her so she dances in play.
Princes come and ask for her hand and she dances around them, fleet-footed invitations to catch her until they cry, enough.
Her old nurse comes and weeps at her torn shoes and her callused feet and begs her to bathe them and pleads, enough.
Her sisters come, impatient Cacilie to her room and clever Frieda with her pets and stubborn Gerde to her garden and quiet, watchful Athala at odd times and all the rest but Clarimond and say, each in their own tone, enough.
Then her Father sees her dance in Court and commands in terrible tones, enough.
Still she dances because they don’t know, cannot see that it will never be enough, that her heart overflows and so she dances the days away.
3. Prompt: Purple Stain
“Won’t work,” Zoputa drawled out, from her place leaning against the doorframe.
Chipo ignored her and focused on the purple liquid in her glass bowl. She tried again, and again. She could feel herself becoming exhausted.
“It won’t work. You’re an innie, not an outie.” Zoputa said, frustration bleeding through into her voice now. Chipo was sure that any moment now she would force Chipo out and slather Chipo’s hands with one of her own concoctions. Probably pebbly mud and bark, those worked best for Zoputa.
She closed her eyes and tried again and once more, the power flowed from every part of her to her fingers like the damned innie she was; instead of flowing from the elements she had gathered. Her eyes blinded with the power she lashed out with those cursed hands and heard the soft clinking of breaking glass. She felt arms surround her and knew it was Dele come home at last who murmured that it was alright, everything was alright.
Chipo remembered every time someone had looked at her in disgust for having magic but not the holy magic that would have connected her with the Lady. She couldn’t forget. Her eyes opened, the blur of power was gone and she could see the purple staining their worn rug.
Her eyes blurred again, but not with power.