A tumble into the dark. That’s what it felt like. Not knowing, not knowing which decision to make.
Not being able to decide what would be best for all involved.
He stood up and walked to the window, looked down through the glass at the street. People walking past, not knowing that the world had just unraveled. Aratur turned because the quirking at the back of his neck would not stop.
The body lay in the bed, but somehow it was just as dangerous as it had been in life. Perhaps even more so.
Pairs of scissors and pairs of paintbrushes, locked together with string and resin, were scattered about the room.
Susun looked around and smiled, faintly, as she looked at the room and the area.
“This,” she said, shaking her head, “Is ridiculous. Do you see what you’ve done, Sharal?”
Sharal looked idly around, though it did not seem as if he could see what he was looking at, and he shrugged. “It’s alright.” he said, “Anything else?”
“You haven’t eaten.”
Strung up on a tree was a haunch of pig.
SIlas looked at it, then looked around.
It wasn’t really the haunch of a pig… a bit smaller, but just enough to take him as far as he needed to go.
Silas bent down.
He picked up a sharp rock, then, with it in one hand, climbed up the tree and cut the haunch down.
Once it was down, he stuffed it up his shirt and began to run.
He ran a long while, not really consciously, until his calves hurt and he could no longer breathe properly.
Then he ran some more.
The edge of her sleeve just covered her wrist, protecting the delicate skin at the base of her palm from eyes.
He watched the place anyway, hoping the sleeve would slip up, and he’d be able to see the fine network of veins that branched inward and outward in amazing patterns.
The porcelain skin seemed to glow in the light, but she never looked at him, and the white sleeve never moved.
Sometimes, he wondered if it would ever move. It seemed fixed in place to her skin as if by pins.
The map, I’d decided, was going to be 2000 pixels high by 4000 pixels wide.
It describes the world, which has no name, and has a nice character in that the sea is currently black and the continents are mostly red.
I have ocean currents and wind currents mostly figured out… all I need are the monsoon sections, but I don’t quite understand how to PLACE a monsoon location, because no one seems to know either.
But neither am I going to plop it down in the middle of the ocean, because that’s lazy.
Wrath sometimes envelopped her when she thought of her marriage.
Now, she shrugged it off and laughed, “My husband?” she asked, grinning at her comrade, “He’s somewhere, off in the west, drinking, carousing… making in general, a fool of himself. his father said that.”
“What do you say?”
“he’s off in the west, drinking, carousing… making a fool of himself.”
He friend rubbed her shoulder.
Ægata smiled softly. “But such a fool!”
No one could say that he’d fleed.
Though, if he stayed to consider it a bit longer, he had fled from his wife and her eyes and the way she wanted to know where he was every moment of the day. He had no idea why he’d married her, except that it had seemed the thing to do.
Now, miles and miles away, away from her sharp gaze, he felt as if she could still see him. Could still decide that the parties he was indulging in were not fior those of his ilk.
She was probably at home this moment, indulging in snobby parties.
The body had decomposed enough to make the bones stand out on its face… the skull peered at her, grinning eerily.
But it had not decomposed enough to take away the gut-wrenching smell of decaying flesh.
Ægata looked at it, a long moment, then passed on, head held high, as she walked, becaus ethere was nothing she could do about the tattered clothing hanging from the child’s frame, because there was nothing she could say to its mother, because there was nothing she could tell the father to do, nothing she could do except walk on.
He sat her down in a chair in front of his, then sat back and steepled his fingers, watching her quietly as she tried to find the words.
“Deep breath.” he ordered, as she opened and then closed her mouth.
“Now, tell me what it is.”
“No need to be afraid.” he said, “I’m not going to hurt you, nor, if that’s what you’re thinking of, am I going to get angry.”
Her eyes met his.
Fools, all of them. They sometimes went off to drink, coming back with stinking headaches. Adum was not a fool, and so when he went to drink, he drank sparingly…. unless he was feeling like a fool, in which case he drank everyone else under the table and then downed even more alcohol, just to make sure he’d have a headache so bad he’d swear never to drink ever again.
It could become addictive, drinking. Ægata had not contacted him in years.
Undetected, she creeped through the night streets, guided only by the light of the moon. Went straight up to the door and knocked, long and loud, looking round to make sure no one came up to her in the night and asked her where she was going.
He opened the door, frowned, said, “what do you want? who are you?”
“I… I wish to talk to Mr. Jumison.” she said, hesitating.
“Come in, then.”
Alarming… that was the word she was looking for.
It was rather alarming to be staring at one’s sister-in-law and one’s brother kissing as if he was going to war in a few minutes.
Not that Lija wanted to be stuck in a broom closet at this particular moment, staring at Susun and Jerej as they kissed. In fact, she’d rather be anywhere BUT here.
But… leaving the broom closet at this particular time would advertise the fact that she’d been in there for a reason… and as that reason was not flattering to her reputation, she didn’t wish to advertise it.
She was everywhere.
In his head, in his heart, in his mind’s eye.
He could see her, sometimes, walking through the room, looking at the pictures of herself… turning round to point something wrong out.
When she did, he’d take the picture from the wall, from among the paintings in the montage, and fix the mistake. If it was unfixable (sometimes it was), he’d paint over the picture entirely… scrape the paint off the canvas and start again.
Splashes of paint dotted the walls, but mostly it was filled with pictures. Paintings of a red headed woman, smiling, frowning, thinking, laughing, walking, talking… doing anything and everything. She sat in the sunlight, she stood in the shade, she gesticulated with one hand or ate an apple.
She was everywhere, all over the room… behind doors and underneath tables.
She was everything, on the ceiling and on the floor.
Most of my onewords are about my characters from my Saga work.
“You are a crazy woman!”
“I am not crazy! I went to your club. You weren’t there.” she began ticking the places off on her fingers and he merely glared at her, arms clrossed over his chest, as she tried to prove his nonexistant infidelity to him, “I went to your other clubs, too. Not there. I went to every club where any of your friends meet. I went to the park. I went to the bakery where you sometimes stop. I even went to the flower shop you frequented while we were engaged. Not there. At all.”
She pulled her shawl harder around herself and stepped around a puddle in the middle of the stret, hoping that she wouldn’t splash her bare legs with too much mud.
She looked right and left as she crossed the street, then tried to find the sign that would lead her to the place where Adrian Jamison lived.
At least, perhaps, he’d give her some money to stay at an inn while she tried to take in sewing in order to augment her minuscule earnings.
She knocked at his door.
He looked over at Charles and frowned. Charles was looking fixedly at one spot, biting his lower lip as if he didn’t quite know here he was.
Edward, at the other end of the room, was pushing a train with a certain fixedness of mind. Almost the same fixedness of mind that Charles was showing, only that Edward knew exactly what he wanted.
Arthur, at the other end, was reading a book, slowly turning pages.
The two leaned against each other’s shoulders, smiling somewhat wistfully as they looked in front of them at the children playing together.
“Did you veer think,” said Susan, “that we’d be so lucky?”
“Sometimes.” said Lydia, “Before Francis Whitting.”
Susan’s lip curled, and she looked at her eldest, Henry, as he played in the sand, “Well, thank goodness for Francis Whitting, at any rate.”
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