writing meme reposts 1
From this post (locked).
('feathers, in that bright red/orange you see in fall'; Witches' Horses [Falcon's Feathers], midarc)
The first one Irina saw was tied to a golden thread and hung from a woman's neck, flipping back and forth with the breeze of people's passage. It had the sort of iridescence only real feathers had, dyed ones a little dulled no matter how talented the artist who made them, but she'd never seen a bird so brightly coloured in her life. Even in mirrors or stories.
The second feather--just as bright as the first--was tangled in a captain's dreadlocks, tacked firm between two heavy knots near the crest of his head. Only the tip really showed, as he was tall and walked taller.
The third, fourth, and seventh feathers were all but invisible, stitched to red-orange clothing in gold thread. The fifth was pinned to the lintel of a wooden threshold, as near impossible as the wood was. The sixth graced the brow of a noblewoman's mask, as a masquerade swirled past the quarter of the merchants. More, smaller, graced the woman's clothing, and when Irina checked the footage at home that night, thin sections of the coloured feathers had been pinned to the woman's eyelashes, giving her plain brown eyes the impression of framing, flaming wings.
The eighth was stitched to the bracelet her lover wore, when he passed her maskless in the masquerade and didn't seem to see her.
The ninth she accepted and pinned to the shoulder of her shift, when she entered Grafinya Yevgenia's service.
---
('chaos!twins'; Wild Roses, far-future)
"Come to steal horses again?"
"It's not stealing!" Griffin protested, pretending to lose focus on the cinch he was tightening, then grinning triumphantly as the horse breathed out and he pulled it truly taut.
"If we were stealing the horses," Mischa added, doing something complicated with a saddlebag and a piece of rope, "We'd have been shot for the offense long since."
---
('the shopkeeper and Phoebe. something to do with blue silk.'; Wild Roses, First Queen's Reign)
"Has anyone ever told you that that particular combination has passed 'vibrant' and arrived at 'vulgar'?"
The shopkeeper laughed, flicked her fingers at her visitor in a mocking gesture. "So says she who wears gold and gold and gold, so heavy that she may as well clank?"
"I at least do not put pink flowerbuds amidst yellow flowerbursts on a bright blue background." The Queen curled her lip to show her disdain, then dropped the act. "Tea, Alkir, before I'm forced to make it myself and terribly offend your oh-so-sensitive nose with the blacks."
The shopkeeper rattled her tongue at the Queen, then disappeared in a flash of bright silk.
---
('Phoebe, broken teacup'; Wild Roses, Second Queen's Reign) (other person is a youngish Ulysse)
"I'm so sorry--"
"Chussssh," she replied, lowering herself to the floor in a swirl of layered skirts, picking up the largest pieces of the broken cup and holding them together in her small hands.
He watched, slightly wide eyed, as piece by piece the cup reassembled, the lines of the shatter reproduced in crackle patterns on the smooth gray glaze.
The last, tiny piece from the rim she handed to him. "To remember that not all things are final."
---
('swirling colors that you see in a soap bubble in the sunlight'; Wild Roses, before the wars, Captain Niamh Manannan)
"Hoist the colours," the captain murmured beneath her breath, letting go the spell that pulled their still faraway prey into view, and flicking her hand to the side.
The sails high above her head flickered in response, translucent green and gold shimmering through pink and blue before settling on emerald green chased with gray and topaz.
Her ship lunged forward in response, the wishes of her crew speeding the wind already helping them along, and she leaned into it, predatory smile across her face.
---
('Aodh, winterfest, Andeliin, spiced whiskey and city snow'; Wild Roses, after the wars)
It was starting to snow again when he got onto the roof, half-empty bottle and a sturdy glass held protectively against his chest with one hand while he climbed the fire escape.
It was a tricky thing, finding a drift clean enough--even in winter, the city loved her summer dust--and packed tightly enough. But he managed it eventually, splashing a layer of sweet-spiced peppery whiskey atop a layer of snow, then packing on another layer, until he ran out of space and splashed the last of the whiskey on.
Fireworks burst level with the rooftop as he took his first bite, and he nearly spit it out laughing.
"I'd offer you a bite," he said as the fire escape's rusty bolt muttered about more weight put on it so soon, "but I do b'lieve t'Lodger'd disapprove of the sensation mix."
"I'm good," his lover replied, pulling out a bottle of his own and settling in the lee of the next building over. "They just broke out the new red's harvest."
He grinned, toasted his lover with the glass--his lover replied with the bottle--and waited for the next explosion.
---
('chalk on hands'; unknown)
One last swipe through the bin, one last dusting to spread the chalk around and shake off the excess, then moving, breathing as hand caught railing and body lifted to swing over and rebound off the concrete wall beyond.
Breath--nothing in the ears but the thud of the heart and the steady in-out of breathing in time with the moving, inhale on ascent and exhale on landing.
*
He'd sweated clear through the chalk on his hands by the time he finished the course and wandered back to the beginning, looking at the green-white prints of his hands on the outlined squares of the ornamental building.
"Do you have to announce your presence everytime you do something like this?"
He turned, grinning manically wide. "No-one's called me on it yet--so yes."
---
('a table top scarred from work tools.'; Witches' Horses [series-titled story] Ilya, near the beginning)
It was an old table, possibly as old as some of the engine pieces he'd replaced when he first arrived, scarred by others' soldering irons and knives, blooms of heat-coloured metal making not quite patterns and designs.
He'd yet to scar it himself, careful with his tools and his hands. He meant to keep it that way.
('feathers, in that bright red/orange you see in fall'; Witches' Horses [Falcon's Feathers], midarc)
The first one Irina saw was tied to a golden thread and hung from a woman's neck, flipping back and forth with the breeze of people's passage. It had the sort of iridescence only real feathers had, dyed ones a little dulled no matter how talented the artist who made them, but she'd never seen a bird so brightly coloured in her life. Even in mirrors or stories.
The second feather--just as bright as the first--was tangled in a captain's dreadlocks, tacked firm between two heavy knots near the crest of his head. Only the tip really showed, as he was tall and walked taller.
The third, fourth, and seventh feathers were all but invisible, stitched to red-orange clothing in gold thread. The fifth was pinned to the lintel of a wooden threshold, as near impossible as the wood was. The sixth graced the brow of a noblewoman's mask, as a masquerade swirled past the quarter of the merchants. More, smaller, graced the woman's clothing, and when Irina checked the footage at home that night, thin sections of the coloured feathers had been pinned to the woman's eyelashes, giving her plain brown eyes the impression of framing, flaming wings.
The eighth was stitched to the bracelet her lover wore, when he passed her maskless in the masquerade and didn't seem to see her.
The ninth she accepted and pinned to the shoulder of her shift, when she entered Grafinya Yevgenia's service.
---
('chaos!twins'; Wild Roses, far-future)
"Come to steal horses again?"
"It's not stealing!" Griffin protested, pretending to lose focus on the cinch he was tightening, then grinning triumphantly as the horse breathed out and he pulled it truly taut.
"If we were stealing the horses," Mischa added, doing something complicated with a saddlebag and a piece of rope, "We'd have been shot for the offense long since."
---
('the shopkeeper and Phoebe. something to do with blue silk.'; Wild Roses, First Queen's Reign)
"Has anyone ever told you that that particular combination has passed 'vibrant' and arrived at 'vulgar'?"
The shopkeeper laughed, flicked her fingers at her visitor in a mocking gesture. "So says she who wears gold and gold and gold, so heavy that she may as well clank?"
"I at least do not put pink flowerbuds amidst yellow flowerbursts on a bright blue background." The Queen curled her lip to show her disdain, then dropped the act. "Tea, Alkir, before I'm forced to make it myself and terribly offend your oh-so-sensitive nose with the blacks."
The shopkeeper rattled her tongue at the Queen, then disappeared in a flash of bright silk.
---
('Phoebe, broken teacup'; Wild Roses, Second Queen's Reign) (other person is a youngish Ulysse)
"I'm so sorry--"
"Chussssh," she replied, lowering herself to the floor in a swirl of layered skirts, picking up the largest pieces of the broken cup and holding them together in her small hands.
He watched, slightly wide eyed, as piece by piece the cup reassembled, the lines of the shatter reproduced in crackle patterns on the smooth gray glaze.
The last, tiny piece from the rim she handed to him. "To remember that not all things are final."
---
('swirling colors that you see in a soap bubble in the sunlight'; Wild Roses, before the wars, Captain Niamh Manannan)
"Hoist the colours," the captain murmured beneath her breath, letting go the spell that pulled their still faraway prey into view, and flicking her hand to the side.
The sails high above her head flickered in response, translucent green and gold shimmering through pink and blue before settling on emerald green chased with gray and topaz.
Her ship lunged forward in response, the wishes of her crew speeding the wind already helping them along, and she leaned into it, predatory smile across her face.
---
('Aodh, winterfest, Andeliin, spiced whiskey and city snow'; Wild Roses, after the wars)
It was starting to snow again when he got onto the roof, half-empty bottle and a sturdy glass held protectively against his chest with one hand while he climbed the fire escape.
It was a tricky thing, finding a drift clean enough--even in winter, the city loved her summer dust--and packed tightly enough. But he managed it eventually, splashing a layer of sweet-spiced peppery whiskey atop a layer of snow, then packing on another layer, until he ran out of space and splashed the last of the whiskey on.
Fireworks burst level with the rooftop as he took his first bite, and he nearly spit it out laughing.
"I'd offer you a bite," he said as the fire escape's rusty bolt muttered about more weight put on it so soon, "but I do b'lieve t'Lodger'd disapprove of the sensation mix."
"I'm good," his lover replied, pulling out a bottle of his own and settling in the lee of the next building over. "They just broke out the new red's harvest."
He grinned, toasted his lover with the glass--his lover replied with the bottle--and waited for the next explosion.
---
('chalk on hands'; unknown)
One last swipe through the bin, one last dusting to spread the chalk around and shake off the excess, then moving, breathing as hand caught railing and body lifted to swing over and rebound off the concrete wall beyond.
Breath--nothing in the ears but the thud of the heart and the steady in-out of breathing in time with the moving, inhale on ascent and exhale on landing.
*
He'd sweated clear through the chalk on his hands by the time he finished the course and wandered back to the beginning, looking at the green-white prints of his hands on the outlined squares of the ornamental building.
"Do you have to announce your presence everytime you do something like this?"
He turned, grinning manically wide. "No-one's called me on it yet--so yes."
---
('a table top scarred from work tools.'; Witches' Horses [series-titled story] Ilya, near the beginning)
It was an old table, possibly as old as some of the engine pieces he'd replaced when he first arrived, scarred by others' soldering irons and knives, blooms of heat-coloured metal making not quite patterns and designs.
He'd yet to scar it himself, careful with his tools and his hands. He meant to keep it that way.