[Wild Roses] after the wars
Title: dried to dust and dreams
'Verse/characters: Wild Roses [Last One Standing]; Aodh
Prompt: 47D "dirt"
Word Count: 152
Notes: dormouse_in_tea gave me a line of poetry as a spark.
It was like the spices permeated everything, dust and air and stone and skin alike, sweet hot smells dried to faint echoes in abandoned corners. Inescapable. He'd found a long-abandoned layer of the city, mostly built of baked mudbrick and crumbling from lack of care, slept through a long warm afternoon and woken to find himself embraced by the remains of spices, stirred up like dust to shimmer in his nose, behind his eyes.
The city was changing his scent, too, enough that when he washed his face in the cold clear water of the harbour he found himself startled. He was bumming cigarettes more often than making his own, though he'd have claimed it was in an effort to conserve his own supply.
He'd had two choices, really. Learn to like it, or leave, and he wasn't quite ready to go home, yet.
His skin didn't taste of cordite.
Not yet.
'Verse/characters: Wild Roses [Last One Standing]; Aodh
Prompt: 47D "dirt"
Word Count: 152
Notes: dormouse_in_tea gave me a line of poetry as a spark.
It was like the spices permeated everything, dust and air and stone and skin alike, sweet hot smells dried to faint echoes in abandoned corners. Inescapable. He'd found a long-abandoned layer of the city, mostly built of baked mudbrick and crumbling from lack of care, slept through a long warm afternoon and woken to find himself embraced by the remains of spices, stirred up like dust to shimmer in his nose, behind his eyes.
The city was changing his scent, too, enough that when he washed his face in the cold clear water of the harbour he found himself startled. He was bumming cigarettes more often than making his own, though he'd have claimed it was in an effort to conserve his own supply.
He'd had two choices, really. Learn to like it, or leave, and he wasn't quite ready to go home, yet.
His skin didn't taste of cordite.
Not yet.