starry nights, wheat fields, yellow houses, this
Tournesols. Yuuko muses. Holic drabble written for 31_days, Sept. 1 ~ don't think your life didn't matter.
The woman's eyes are green, her stomach is swollen, and she has the kind of face that should always be smiling - a beautiful tripwire of a smile, the kind that runs high on tension, that gleams brightest when fired with desperation.
She isn't smiling now.
"There must be a way to change it," the woman says, hands resting on the swell of her belly. She looks like any other pregnant woman, except for the dark smoke that twists itself into unspeakable shapes around her.
"There is," Yuuko says, agreeably. Today she wears black velvet with silky, fiery-headed sunflowers draped across her front and pinned up in her hair. She likes... the courage of such flowers, their futility, their vibrancy - it was something the Dutchman used to like ramble about, glassy-eyed over the fourth or fifth drink, bargaining over the prices of her newest yellows. "It can be changed, transformed if you liked; it can even be turned inside out. But it cannot be lifted."
"I know that," the woman says, paying the price without a tremor.
The woman is almost out the door when Yuuko thinks, Clow. Clow, he could be completely content to sit still for hours under a snow drift of cherry and peach blossoms. He made stupid moony faces over the slender stalks of pinks, fussed like a nurse maid over his wall climbing wisteria. He catalogued his garden carefully, inking in every name, saying in his very good all-wise-and-powerful-but-still-rather-benevolent-mage voice, Names hold power. They are the anchor to one's existence. He could've just said that he loved flowers, and left out the lecture.
It's this thought of Clow that makes Yuuko call out, at the last moment, "Have you decided on a name?"
The woman's eyes linger on Yuuko's dress and hair. Her smile is gallant, like sunflowers struggling in November rain, and it makes Yuuko yearn for for a tall bottle of absinthe.
"I was thinking Himawari," the woman says.
~ finis.
With apologies to Van Gogh. This drabble was born out of weird musings, i.e. Why is Sakura blessed with good luck herself, when Himawari is cursed to bring bad luck to others? Whenever bothersome questions like this arise in holic, the answer is inevitably supplied by a deus ex machina Yuuko.
P.S. to well_ladeedah, I am working on that sister fic to Precipitation, which has the nifty mash up title of Condensation (Thought I'd Never Call). It's eating my brain. With ketchup. XD
The woman's eyes are green, her stomach is swollen, and she has the kind of face that should always be smiling - a beautiful tripwire of a smile, the kind that runs high on tension, that gleams brightest when fired with desperation.
She isn't smiling now.
"There must be a way to change it," the woman says, hands resting on the swell of her belly. She looks like any other pregnant woman, except for the dark smoke that twists itself into unspeakable shapes around her.
"There is," Yuuko says, agreeably. Today she wears black velvet with silky, fiery-headed sunflowers draped across her front and pinned up in her hair. She likes... the courage of such flowers, their futility, their vibrancy - it was something the Dutchman used to like ramble about, glassy-eyed over the fourth or fifth drink, bargaining over the prices of her newest yellows. "It can be changed, transformed if you liked; it can even be turned inside out. But it cannot be lifted."
"I know that," the woman says, paying the price without a tremor.
The woman is almost out the door when Yuuko thinks, Clow. Clow, he could be completely content to sit still for hours under a snow drift of cherry and peach blossoms. He made stupid moony faces over the slender stalks of pinks, fussed like a nurse maid over his wall climbing wisteria. He catalogued his garden carefully, inking in every name, saying in his very good all-wise-and-powerful-but-still-rather-benevolent-mage voice, Names hold power. They are the anchor to one's existence. He could've just said that he loved flowers, and left out the lecture.
It's this thought of Clow that makes Yuuko call out, at the last moment, "Have you decided on a name?"
The woman's eyes linger on Yuuko's dress and hair. Her smile is gallant, like sunflowers struggling in November rain, and it makes Yuuko yearn for for a tall bottle of absinthe.
"I was thinking Himawari," the woman says.
~ finis.
With apologies to Van Gogh. This drabble was born out of weird musings, i.e. Why is Sakura blessed with good luck herself, when Himawari is cursed to bring bad luck to others? Whenever bothersome questions like this arise in holic, the answer is inevitably supplied by a deus ex machina Yuuko.
P.S. to well_ladeedah, I am working on that sister fic to Precipitation, which has the nifty mash up title of Condensation (Thought I'd Never Call). It's eating my brain. With ketchup. XD