Butterflies
Here is something entirely new:
ORIGINAL FICTION.
So far, at least, it is. I'm thinking of associating it to a fandom later on, since no names are used.
I thought of asking you what you thought of it.
If you had to associate this story with a fandom, and more particularly, a pairing, what would it be? (It can very well be a crossover pairing. This is het fiction, after all.)
I wrote this for a class last semester. I believe I mentionned this story in a ranting post on how terribly busy my university life was.
It had to be between 200-300 words, which was quite a challenge for me.
This is also very different from what I usually write. I hope you enjoy and I'd be glad to read your comments on it, whether you liked it or not.
Title: Butterflies
Rating: PG
Genre: Romance
Word Count: 312
There was a box under the bed. A box no one knew about, except maybe for the cleaning lady, but she only cared about carpets and clean sheets, not about old dusty boxes under beds.
It was a very special box. It didn't hide money nor old hockey cards, it was a box full of memories. Of snowflakes lost in long raven hair, of deep blue eyes and a mysterious smile. Of beauty in its vaguest sense, found in the least expected place and moment.
“Can you feel the butterflies?” had been her words.
The young man had looked with puzzled eyes at her, at this strange and beautiful woman who was speaking of butterflies and smiling as if she had spoken of love. She looked like a woman in love, hazy and happy, mysterious and beautiful.
“Excuse me?” the young man had asked, frowning with confusion.
The woman had just smiled again and left, disappearing in the white winter scenery.
“The butterflies. Aren't they beautiful?” she had said on their second encounter.
The young man hadn't known what to reply, so he had smiled, and she had smiled back, and for a second, it had all seemed to make sense.
“Can you still feel the butterflies?” he could hear, every time he opened the box under the bed, whenever he was alone.
“Yes, honey, yes I can,” he replied. Then, he smiled and, for a second, it all seemed to make sense again, as if the time hadn't passed, as if he was young again and still fascinated by that strange and beautiful woman with snowflakes in her hair.
It all made sense as the ring in the box, the ring that was once worn by a living person, glowed in the thin rays of light that filtered through the curtains of their once shared bedroom.
ORIGINAL FICTION.
So far, at least, it is. I'm thinking of associating it to a fandom later on, since no names are used.
I thought of asking you what you thought of it.
If you had to associate this story with a fandom, and more particularly, a pairing, what would it be? (It can very well be a crossover pairing. This is het fiction, after all.)
I wrote this for a class last semester. I believe I mentionned this story in a ranting post on how terribly busy my university life was.
It had to be between 200-300 words, which was quite a challenge for me.
This is also very different from what I usually write. I hope you enjoy and I'd be glad to read your comments on it, whether you liked it or not.
Title: Butterflies
Rating: PG
Genre: Romance
Word Count: 312
There was a box under the bed. A box no one knew about, except maybe for the cleaning lady, but she only cared about carpets and clean sheets, not about old dusty boxes under beds.
It was a very special box. It didn't hide money nor old hockey cards, it was a box full of memories. Of snowflakes lost in long raven hair, of deep blue eyes and a mysterious smile. Of beauty in its vaguest sense, found in the least expected place and moment.
“Can you feel the butterflies?” had been her words.
The young man had looked with puzzled eyes at her, at this strange and beautiful woman who was speaking of butterflies and smiling as if she had spoken of love. She looked like a woman in love, hazy and happy, mysterious and beautiful.
“Excuse me?” the young man had asked, frowning with confusion.
The woman had just smiled again and left, disappearing in the white winter scenery.
“The butterflies. Aren't they beautiful?” she had said on their second encounter.
The young man hadn't known what to reply, so he had smiled, and she had smiled back, and for a second, it had all seemed to make sense.
“Can you still feel the butterflies?” he could hear, every time he opened the box under the bed, whenever he was alone.
“Yes, honey, yes I can,” he replied. Then, he smiled and, for a second, it all seemed to make sense again, as if the time hadn't passed, as if he was young again and still fascinated by that strange and beautiful woman with snowflakes in her hair.
It all made sense as the ring in the box, the ring that was once worn by a living person, glowed in the thin rays of light that filtered through the curtains of their once shared bedroom.