[Wild Roses] Jasmine
Title: a sunny afternoon, and a creek
’Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Jasmine
Prompt: 80C "balance"
Word Count: 238
Notes: The veggie requested a bit with Jasmine. This is experimental.
Sometime before the redheads are mad (which was written in '05 and shows it). After her war, though.
There's sun on my shoulders and a wind at my back, water around me and stone underneath me and everything's balanced on one of my feet.
Someone's laughing, on the shore, someone else wondering why I haven't slipped yet, wet shoes on wet stone in the middle of the area above the ford.
They've forgotten that my strength is water, and that I used to dance barefoot in the Court.
I reach out, spinning my hands half-around my body, pulling the current of the creek up, swirling in circles past my knees, my waist, my shoulders, sprinkling droplets on my hair and my upturned face, like tiny wet kisses from the sun.
The water is laughing with me, no deep sturdy running river this, not the sort to pace me when I run on gray wet mornings, old shoes splashing in the puddles and leaving ripples in our wake. No, this is a summer creek, delighted in sunshine and the small stones winter gave it to play music on, delighted to dance for me, with me, building patterns I can see with my eyes closed and smiling up at the sky.
It falls, suddenly colder, when I think that my friends would have laughed to see me, and I let it go, let the water splash into the bed of the creek and away, as I slip off the stones and wade my way back to the shore.
’Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Jasmine
Prompt: 80C "balance"
Word Count: 238
Notes: The veggie requested a bit with Jasmine. This is experimental.
Sometime before the redheads are mad (which was written in '05 and shows it). After her war, though.
There's sun on my shoulders and a wind at my back, water around me and stone underneath me and everything's balanced on one of my feet.
Someone's laughing, on the shore, someone else wondering why I haven't slipped yet, wet shoes on wet stone in the middle of the area above the ford.
They've forgotten that my strength is water, and that I used to dance barefoot in the Court.
I reach out, spinning my hands half-around my body, pulling the current of the creek up, swirling in circles past my knees, my waist, my shoulders, sprinkling droplets on my hair and my upturned face, like tiny wet kisses from the sun.
The water is laughing with me, no deep sturdy running river this, not the sort to pace me when I run on gray wet mornings, old shoes splashing in the puddles and leaving ripples in our wake. No, this is a summer creek, delighted in sunshine and the small stones winter gave it to play music on, delighted to dance for me, with me, building patterns I can see with my eyes closed and smiling up at the sky.
It falls, suddenly colder, when I think that my friends would have laughed to see me, and I let it go, let the water splash into the bed of the creek and away, as I slip off the stones and wade my way back to the shore.