Fic: Fire, Spark and Cinder (gen, PG13)
so. in honor of Bitch Day, i present to you bitchy!ginny :P
disclaimer: jk rowling owns the name "ginny" when used in conjunction with "tom marvolo riddle". that's about it.
warning: weird fairy tales may rot your brain.
a/n: this is what happens when you write poems and then decide no one reads your poems and thus you are doomed to write prose :P
the first line of each paragraph corresponds to a line of my poem.
-Fire, Spark and Cinder-
The fall comes suddenly to these parts. One moment, everything is green and hopeful, verdant as his eyes used to be, even though everyone knew the end was near, and the nights had gotten cold, and summer became grey like memory. And then the world turns to red and gold, the water evaporating, leaving everything to bleed itself dry. She hadn't remembered to watch, and the color dripped, swift as rain, not having waited for her to blink. It seems like yesterday when they were all laughing and playing hide-and-seek by the huge oak trees, and when tomorrow, tomorrow she was going to tell him, and tomorrow it would matter.
Stripping layers, shifting orders, summer floats down to the ground like a feather-light princess tumbling into her downy bed for a nice long sleep. And she's dancing past midnight among the pumpkins and never sees the Ball. She is poor but she has her own kingdom, after all. When she was very little, her mother told her she was the Pumpkin Princess, and one day her prince would come and work his magic, and the pumpkins would reveal themselves to be carriages worked in gold and bronze. Her brothers would take the carriage and saddle up some horses, because they might be poor but some traditions should still be kept, and off they'd go, driving her to the Ball, where he would be waiting for her, waiting as long as it took. And she would know, immediately, that it was Him, as soon as she saw him, and of course he would know her also. She would know him by the summer in his eyes, lightning and storm and thunder. No one told her she'd change her mind, and that he would, too. No one told her summer storm-clouds seek their own lightning.
Even as her own colors weave and crumple, losing dye, she loiters by the roadside. She can't go forward, and she most certainly can't go back, though she wants to. Back to cinders, back to waiting, back to hoping, back to not knowing. She is happy, dancing like this, in her secondhand old clothes, patched up and altered from her brothers, streaked and dotted with her own embroidered efforts. Daffodils and cherries and lemons and violets at her hems and between her breasts. These pumpkins aren't about to take her anywhere, they are what they are, though she could point a wand at them and make them sparkle and poof! There could be carriages.
Fire, spark and cinder, flaming like fall upon her head. She'd never thought of her hair as a treasure, because it, like everything else about her life, had to be shared. She had thought her Prince would be all her own, but of course she was wrong. Nothing was her own except this twilight magic, that no one was here to see. She's never needed help, really, she could do this herself. She could point and whisper, swish and flick, and her crinkly dusty dress would sparkle and shimmer and shine. Her hair would flow like silk down her back, held up by multicolor stars, and her smile would dazzle everyone who saw it. They would notice her, if she tried. They wouldn't be able to bear taking their eyes off her.
Something whispers in her ear, rustling, hissing, that he's near, and soon, soon, he'll be nearer still. He sounds like just another leaf upon the wind, tumbling into oblivion. She knows this voice. She no longer questions if it is only her imagination, or if he's her evil faery godfather. Everyone has a role, especially Ginny. She listens to the voice that tells her she could be a Princess yet, she just has to use her imagination. He could show her how. But she's worried, and it's getting late, much too late. The sun has set, and October nights are cold when you are barefoot, even if you try to keep on dancing, though she can't, since her toes are almost frozen by now.
The graveyard season has made her fear. There is a tombstone nearby, and she could just make out the letters by moonlight. Her feet tread softly on the dry grass, and she tries not to hold her breath. She doesn't know what she wants to see, or what she'll do if she sees the wrong thing. She imagines it, jumping out at her, burning silver letters carved into blackest stone. `Here lies Tom Marvolo Riddle, DOB - unknown, died Halloween night of the year 1998'. Goosepimples running up her arms and she steps closer, and there they are, strangely near each other, the princes of Light and Dark.
Prince or no, the Boy who Lived can't be dead, not yet, not before she made it to the Ball. Not in her fairytale. She doesn't notice her own shivers as she drops down on her knees on the other grave, the one with scattered dry flowers and the inescapable magic scent of blooming roses that makes her faint, makes her want to just lie down and sleep. He's not there, not really there at all. She knows he is where he's supposed to be, at the Prince's Manor, sitting alone beneath all the bright lights, waiting for her. She has to go on, because he's waiting for her, and no one else would do. Somewhere, it's still the strike of midnight, and somewhere, she's still dancing barefoot, and somewhere, Ginny whispers the words to unlock time.
~~
disclaimer: jk rowling owns the name "ginny" when used in conjunction with "tom marvolo riddle". that's about it.
warning: weird fairy tales may rot your brain.
a/n: this is what happens when you write poems and then decide no one reads your poems and thus you are doomed to write prose :P
the first line of each paragraph corresponds to a line of my poem.
-Fire, Spark and Cinder-
The fall comes suddenly to these parts. One moment, everything is green and hopeful, verdant as his eyes used to be, even though everyone knew the end was near, and the nights had gotten cold, and summer became grey like memory. And then the world turns to red and gold, the water evaporating, leaving everything to bleed itself dry. She hadn't remembered to watch, and the color dripped, swift as rain, not having waited for her to blink. It seems like yesterday when they were all laughing and playing hide-and-seek by the huge oak trees, and when tomorrow, tomorrow she was going to tell him, and tomorrow it would matter.
Stripping layers, shifting orders, summer floats down to the ground like a feather-light princess tumbling into her downy bed for a nice long sleep. And she's dancing past midnight among the pumpkins and never sees the Ball. She is poor but she has her own kingdom, after all. When she was very little, her mother told her she was the Pumpkin Princess, and one day her prince would come and work his magic, and the pumpkins would reveal themselves to be carriages worked in gold and bronze. Her brothers would take the carriage and saddle up some horses, because they might be poor but some traditions should still be kept, and off they'd go, driving her to the Ball, where he would be waiting for her, waiting as long as it took. And she would know, immediately, that it was Him, as soon as she saw him, and of course he would know her also. She would know him by the summer in his eyes, lightning and storm and thunder. No one told her she'd change her mind, and that he would, too. No one told her summer storm-clouds seek their own lightning.
Even as her own colors weave and crumple, losing dye, she loiters by the roadside. She can't go forward, and she most certainly can't go back, though she wants to. Back to cinders, back to waiting, back to hoping, back to not knowing. She is happy, dancing like this, in her secondhand old clothes, patched up and altered from her brothers, streaked and dotted with her own embroidered efforts. Daffodils and cherries and lemons and violets at her hems and between her breasts. These pumpkins aren't about to take her anywhere, they are what they are, though she could point a wand at them and make them sparkle and poof! There could be carriages.
Fire, spark and cinder, flaming like fall upon her head. She'd never thought of her hair as a treasure, because it, like everything else about her life, had to be shared. She had thought her Prince would be all her own, but of course she was wrong. Nothing was her own except this twilight magic, that no one was here to see. She's never needed help, really, she could do this herself. She could point and whisper, swish and flick, and her crinkly dusty dress would sparkle and shimmer and shine. Her hair would flow like silk down her back, held up by multicolor stars, and her smile would dazzle everyone who saw it. They would notice her, if she tried. They wouldn't be able to bear taking their eyes off her.
Something whispers in her ear, rustling, hissing, that he's near, and soon, soon, he'll be nearer still. He sounds like just another leaf upon the wind, tumbling into oblivion. She knows this voice. She no longer questions if it is only her imagination, or if he's her evil faery godfather. Everyone has a role, especially Ginny. She listens to the voice that tells her she could be a Princess yet, she just has to use her imagination. He could show her how. But she's worried, and it's getting late, much too late. The sun has set, and October nights are cold when you are barefoot, even if you try to keep on dancing, though she can't, since her toes are almost frozen by now.
The graveyard season has made her fear. There is a tombstone nearby, and she could just make out the letters by moonlight. Her feet tread softly on the dry grass, and she tries not to hold her breath. She doesn't know what she wants to see, or what she'll do if she sees the wrong thing. She imagines it, jumping out at her, burning silver letters carved into blackest stone. `Here lies Tom Marvolo Riddle, DOB - unknown, died Halloween night of the year 1998'. Goosepimples running up her arms and she steps closer, and there they are, strangely near each other, the princes of Light and Dark.
Prince or no, the Boy who Lived can't be dead, not yet, not before she made it to the Ball. Not in her fairytale. She doesn't notice her own shivers as she drops down on her knees on the other grave, the one with scattered dry flowers and the inescapable magic scent of blooming roses that makes her faint, makes her want to just lie down and sleep. He's not there, not really there at all. She knows he is where he's supposed to be, at the Prince's Manor, sitting alone beneath all the bright lights, waiting for her. She has to go on, because he's waiting for her, and no one else would do. Somewhere, it's still the strike of midnight, and somewhere, she's still dancing barefoot, and somewhere, Ginny whispers the words to unlock time.
~~