daffodilbrill
The broom moves over the tile, a whisper in the darkness, when he hears the crack.
Jim looks up, startled, the broom held close to his chest, eyes roaming the dark basement. Nothing moves in those dark, forbidden shadows; nothing emerges from the night.
With a sigh, Jim returns to his duties--
unaware of the white fingers settling on his shoulder.
It starts as a leak. A hole in the dam.
Her hands hang by her sides as she looks at him, his open and earnest face, the words still ringing in her ears. Her flesh is glass, brittle, with the slightest weight against it enough to break the surface--
The first tear falls.
She collapses into his arms.
She looks at the box, the edges trimmed with lace and the smooth, heart-imprinted sides.
"Well of course," she says to herself, pushing her glasses to the bridge of her nose. "Uncle said their HAD to be a solution. So of course there must be one. He would not give me this otherwise."
Satisfied, she set to work.
In the darkness, she sat, and heard the roar of the crowd around her.
It was too late now. Too late to convince them that she was innocent. That she hadn't fired the arrow that killed the Prince's life.
Too late.
But still, she held her head high. And as she walked forth into the sunlight, she prayed that whatever came next--salvation or death--would be quick.
Executioner. Crowd. She squinted in the sunlight. Time to begin.
The enemy lines were a dark line against the horizon, jagged silhouettes and roars of loyalty to their nation.
The prince bit his lip, thinking of his father back home--the father sick and weary, the people who needed him.
He raised his sword, the silver glinting orange in dawn's light, and his army roared with one voice in turn.
Her mind reeled from the images she saw, etched forever in her mind. Her father, standing over her sister's body. A knife in his hand, dripping with blood, and the smooth, glassy look on his face as he looked into her eyes.
He took a step towards her, holding out a hand with a palm coated in blood, showing her her sister's--
She whirled on her heel and ran.
I imagine the way my mother raised me--strength with steel. There are parts of it I regret. There are parts of it I don't.
Why? Why did she stand there while father watched me dig a needle out of cow dung with both hands?
I'll never know. I'll never ask her. I'm never going back to the farm again. Ever.
Janice stands in the doorway and listens.
It's all so loud from where she stands. All body glitter and paint, and pounding bass she can feel through the floor. These people are beautiful; she is practically the wallpaper.
She hovers there until Edmond notices her, offering his hand and a smile, as the room dims and his eyes grow brighter.
I thought the other day of the lands of the Indians--sacred grounds that tourists muddle with filthy shoes and camera flashes, with tacky bright shirts and too-wide smiles.
I think of the natives, whose voice goes as a wind's whisper on the breeze. And sometimes, I wonder who was more civilized in the end, when we first came.
The land beneath her stood stacked neatly on either side of the grave.
She held a rose in her hand--a yellow thing, starting to wilt and curl at the edges. Her father's casket rested in front of her, nestled in that moist earth.
She opened her mouth. No words came out. Instead, she threw in her rose and the first handful of earth.
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