Jewelry Flash Fictions
Jun. 21st, 2019 09:23 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lydy`So, Elise sometimes requests flash fiction for pieces of jewelry of hers. I've participated twice. I didn't win, either time, but I'm actually rather fond of both pieces, and so I thought I'd post them here.
Moon in a Rocking Chair
It was not that she was tired. Luna swung round the earth with effortless grace, the gift of history and gravity. She loved the dance of waxing and waning, the exciting dip of an eclipse. The howl of wolves and the stories of madness didn't reach her, high and serene above clouds and air, breathing in stars. But for all that she was younger than stars, younger than dirt, there were days when she felt her age. There were days when she shed her celestial visage, donned an old sweater and comfy slippers, and became a woman with a bit of knitting, finding comfort in rocking to and fro. She loved the movement of the chair, predictable and regular, so like her own orbit. She loved the simple mechanics of knitting, creating order from knots. People came to her, when she sat on the porch, pretending to be an old woman, and told her stories. She listened, but didn't understand. Luna understood light and motion, not speech and need. It didn't matter. They were tied together by the rhythms of light and gravity, and in ways that had no words, they comforted each other. When Luna felt young enough, she would leave her rocking chair. She would gently set aside her knitting, shed her sweater, and shake her night-dark hair. She would resume her shining visage, and return to her dance of history and gravity. Luna did not miss her story-tellers when she returned to the heavens. Luna was always, and forever, self-sufficient. The lonely people who came to her when she sat knitting did miss her, but when they looked into the night and saw the moon, rocking gently around the world, they were strangely comforted. Luna is lovely in the night, and sometimes that is enough.
You Had One Job
Cecily had never liked dinosaurs. So, of course, Danny gave her a velociraptor for Valentine's Day. They were newly available, small and cute, very fast, but guaranteed to not eat your cat or your baby. The year before, he'd given her an interactive album by an artist she didn't like, and had been disappointed that she hadn't gotten through all the alternative tracks and created her own mash-up. For her birthday, he'd given her a fancy walking stick with lots of assistive technology good for long hikes in the woods, a thing she never did and never had any desire to do. Christmas had been...what had it been? Fancy soaps in scents that she was allergic to? No, that had been her mom. Oh, right, a fancy watch which went with none of her clothing, was heavy on her wrist, and told the time in seven languages. She never wore it.
“Rawrr,” went the little feathered monster, as it raced across the room, and flung itself into the curtains. She disentangled it. “Rawrr,” it cooed, as she absently scratched its head. It didn't like the Purina kibble especially designed for dinosaurs, so she got out a cold rotisserie chicken from the fridge. “Rawr,” it said, as it devoured the chicken, bones and all.
April 1st, she sprained her ankle. The ice was unseasonable, and slick. Danny sent her a sympathy card, with a note, “So sorry we won't be able to go bicycling like we planned. I will miss you.” Her mother sent groceries. Frozen dinners she didn't like, but at least she didn't have to go to the store for a week. A friend from work dropped by with Purina kibble and a couple of chickens.
June, on the phone, “Cecily? I'm so sorry. I know you wanted to go to the premier, but something's come up.” She sighed, and told Danny it was fine. They could see the movie another day. He couldn't commit to which day, but he was sure there would be a day. She was sure that there wouldn't be. The unnamed monster hopped up on the table, where it wasn't supposed to be, and rubbed its beak against her head. “Rawr.”
Later that day, a mutual friend posted a picture on Facebook of Danny in his boat on Lake Minnetonka, the sunset a glory of gold and magenta. So that is what had come up. The feathered biped settled down next to her, rested its head on her laptop. “Rawrr.”
For her birthday, Danny bought her tickets for a play written by a friend of his, someone whom she disliked, and whose work she had read and found distasteful. Danny insisted that it was “different when you see it performed.”
Two days before her birthday, Cecily took the tickets, put them in an envelope, and mailed them to Danny. She changed her Facebook status to single. She sat at the kitchen table and cried, while her velociraptor crooned. She decided she liked dinosaurs, after all.
Moon in a Rocking Chair
It was not that she was tired. Luna swung round the earth with effortless grace, the gift of history and gravity. She loved the dance of waxing and waning, the exciting dip of an eclipse. The howl of wolves and the stories of madness didn't reach her, high and serene above clouds and air, breathing in stars. But for all that she was younger than stars, younger than dirt, there were days when she felt her age. There were days when she shed her celestial visage, donned an old sweater and comfy slippers, and became a woman with a bit of knitting, finding comfort in rocking to and fro. She loved the movement of the chair, predictable and regular, so like her own orbit. She loved the simple mechanics of knitting, creating order from knots. People came to her, when she sat on the porch, pretending to be an old woman, and told her stories. She listened, but didn't understand. Luna understood light and motion, not speech and need. It didn't matter. They were tied together by the rhythms of light and gravity, and in ways that had no words, they comforted each other. When Luna felt young enough, she would leave her rocking chair. She would gently set aside her knitting, shed her sweater, and shake her night-dark hair. She would resume her shining visage, and return to her dance of history and gravity. Luna did not miss her story-tellers when she returned to the heavens. Luna was always, and forever, self-sufficient. The lonely people who came to her when she sat knitting did miss her, but when they looked into the night and saw the moon, rocking gently around the world, they were strangely comforted. Luna is lovely in the night, and sometimes that is enough.
You Had One Job
Cecily had never liked dinosaurs. So, of course, Danny gave her a velociraptor for Valentine's Day. They were newly available, small and cute, very fast, but guaranteed to not eat your cat or your baby. The year before, he'd given her an interactive album by an artist she didn't like, and had been disappointed that she hadn't gotten through all the alternative tracks and created her own mash-up. For her birthday, he'd given her a fancy walking stick with lots of assistive technology good for long hikes in the woods, a thing she never did and never had any desire to do. Christmas had been...what had it been? Fancy soaps in scents that she was allergic to? No, that had been her mom. Oh, right, a fancy watch which went with none of her clothing, was heavy on her wrist, and told the time in seven languages. She never wore it.
“Rawrr,” went the little feathered monster, as it raced across the room, and flung itself into the curtains. She disentangled it. “Rawrr,” it cooed, as she absently scratched its head. It didn't like the Purina kibble especially designed for dinosaurs, so she got out a cold rotisserie chicken from the fridge. “Rawr,” it said, as it devoured the chicken, bones and all.
April 1st, she sprained her ankle. The ice was unseasonable, and slick. Danny sent her a sympathy card, with a note, “So sorry we won't be able to go bicycling like we planned. I will miss you.” Her mother sent groceries. Frozen dinners she didn't like, but at least she didn't have to go to the store for a week. A friend from work dropped by with Purina kibble and a couple of chickens.
June, on the phone, “Cecily? I'm so sorry. I know you wanted to go to the premier, but something's come up.” She sighed, and told Danny it was fine. They could see the movie another day. He couldn't commit to which day, but he was sure there would be a day. She was sure that there wouldn't be. The unnamed monster hopped up on the table, where it wasn't supposed to be, and rubbed its beak against her head. “Rawr.”
Later that day, a mutual friend posted a picture on Facebook of Danny in his boat on Lake Minnetonka, the sunset a glory of gold and magenta. So that is what had come up. The feathered biped settled down next to her, rested its head on her laptop. “Rawrr.”
For her birthday, Danny bought her tickets for a play written by a friend of his, someone whom she disliked, and whose work she had read and found distasteful. Danny insisted that it was “different when you see it performed.”
Two days before her birthday, Cecily took the tickets, put them in an envelope, and mailed them to Danny. She changed her Facebook status to single. She sat at the kitchen table and cried, while her velociraptor crooned. She decided she liked dinosaurs, after all.
no subject
Date: 2019-06-21 02:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-06-21 02:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-06-21 08:54 pm (UTC)P.
no subject
Date: 2019-06-24 04:07 am (UTC)I was picturing the dinosaur as three feet tall at most -- small enough not to knock the table over when he hops up on it. That's asking a bit much of him to eat a human.