BSG ficlet: Chasing Icarus (pg)
Title: Chasing Icarus
Rating: PG
Word count: 350
Beta: none
Focus: Kara "Starbuck" Thrace
Summary: like Icarus, chasing the sun and its circle of light, only to fall, slowly spiraling
Author's note: this was originally written for and posted to the first ficathon challenge at karathracelives and I only just today discovered that I'd never posted it here. *facepalm* Which means that some of you may have already read it, but that's okay. Right?
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deep breath and the tang of paint, the grit of sandpaper becomes the fine dust of plaster, drifting like snow
She dips the rounded knife into a blob of blue *
deep blue sky above a Caprican sunset as you fly up, up, up, up, up, up, higher than you've ever flown before, higher than the gods
* paint and reaches up to describe an arc *
like Icarus, chasing the sun and its circle of light, only to fall, slowly spiraling
* across the satin-smooth wall as her father's music swirls around her and through her. She's not even truly aware of her physical surroundings, only the recorded comfort of her father's fingers on the piano's keys and the *
scrape of metal across plaster, susurrus of brush across cymbal, swirl of red cloud in your mind's eye
* feel of the canvas she's made of the wall before her. A crescendo builds in the music and she takes a step back and then another. Lightning flashes outside the window behind her and rain spatters against the glass as thunder rumbles, rattling the window in its frame.
The wall of her apartment is gone, its place taken by an image *
bloom of yellow and red and blue mingles before your eyes, morphs into the space between life and death
* that haunts her dreams. She stares into the center as her fingers, suddenly nerveless, relax their grip on her brush and it drops, lands with sticky blue bristles on her bare foot. Bending to retrieve it, she stops, stares at the veins on the back of her paint-smeared hand. Like a bruise, the *
mandala
* swirling image on her wall rises on the back of her hand. Thunder crashes outside in time to the percussive beat of the music and she shivers.
"Frak this shit," she says to the back of her hand, to the paint drying on her wall. Standing, she wipes the paint from her hand with the tail of her shirt, grabs the paint-stained leather jacket from a hook at the base of the stairs.
Rating: PG
Word count: 350
Beta: none
Focus: Kara "Starbuck" Thrace
Summary: like Icarus, chasing the sun and its circle of light, only to fall, slowly spiraling
Author's note: this was originally written for and posted to the first ficathon challenge at karathracelives and I only just today discovered that I'd never posted it here. *facepalm* Which means that some of you may have already read it, but that's okay. Right?
----------------
deep breath and the tang of paint, the grit of sandpaper becomes the fine dust of plaster, drifting like snow
She dips the rounded knife into a blob of blue *
deep blue sky above a Caprican sunset as you fly up, up, up, up, up, up, higher than you've ever flown before, higher than the gods
* paint and reaches up to describe an arc *
like Icarus, chasing the sun and its circle of light, only to fall, slowly spiraling
* across the satin-smooth wall as her father's music swirls around her and through her. She's not even truly aware of her physical surroundings, only the recorded comfort of her father's fingers on the piano's keys and the *
scrape of metal across plaster, susurrus of brush across cymbal, swirl of red cloud in your mind's eye
* feel of the canvas she's made of the wall before her. A crescendo builds in the music and she takes a step back and then another. Lightning flashes outside the window behind her and rain spatters against the glass as thunder rumbles, rattling the window in its frame.
The wall of her apartment is gone, its place taken by an image *
bloom of yellow and red and blue mingles before your eyes, morphs into the space between life and death
* that haunts her dreams. She stares into the center as her fingers, suddenly nerveless, relax their grip on her brush and it drops, lands with sticky blue bristles on her bare foot. Bending to retrieve it, she stops, stares at the veins on the back of her paint-smeared hand. Like a bruise, the *
mandala
* swirling image on her wall rises on the back of her hand. Thunder crashes outside in time to the percussive beat of the music and she shivers.
"Frak this shit," she says to the back of her hand, to the paint drying on her wall. Standing, she wipes the paint from her hand with the tail of her shirt, grabs the paint-stained leather jacket from a hook at the base of the stairs.