I'm voting for the theme developing and expecting that tomorrow will prompt us with "A sexualised shrub" and the day after will be "A protuberant parasite" :)
A roaring river She returned to her house with the bounty of blackberries and spent the evening talking to the green-eyed stranger, who had seemingly walked for nearly two months before finally succumbing to hunger and exhaustion. The next few days he continued to recuperate in her house and she grew more accustomed to him; meanwhile it seemed oddly as though someone were helping her forage as she found on several occasions small bounties like the blackberries -- never so close that she could discern for certain help, but never so far that she worried she might have missed them. Each contributed to the meager contents of her cellar, until a week later she went down there with two sacks of mushrooms and looked around and realised that winter might be survivable after all. The green-eyed man left the next day and she wondered if she would miss him. Two months later, when she was sure that she was pregnant and icy winds battered the land but refused to blow the smoke and ashes away without bringing more in their place, he returned leading a couple of lean pigs behind him and knocked on her door. They looked at each other for long minutes before she stood aside and invited him in. Their first child was named Danya and was a sweet, blonde-haired child with bright green eyes like her father. Two years later and a brother was born, whom they called Theophract who was mischievous and impish and a trial to his sister when she looked after him while their parents laboured to derive life from a blasted land under skies of grey. Both children were curious and eager to learn, and though their parents attempted to teach them what they could, the question "Why?" was never far from Danya's lips, and "How?" would quickly follow from Theo until one or other parent had to instruct them to shut up. On Danya's seventh birthday her mother was standing outside, her hands pressed to the small of her back and her head tilted back, stretching out sore muscles and wishing for a sliver of blue sky, like those she scarcely remembered from her own childhood, when a flash of olive green caught her eye and she turned her head quickly. Memories of the blackberries came rushing back, and though there was nothing there where she thought she'd seen it, no sign of movement and no disturbance of the earth and skinny, struggling plants, she remembered a promise made seven years ago and knew, with a sinking feeling in her stomach, that she had one year left before the promise would be called in.
Despair seized her in its black embrace and pulled her close, overwhelming her senses and her thoughts, and she picked up her foraging bag, pulled her tattered cloak about her and started walking. Tears blurred her vision and she half-walked, half-stumbled, trying not to sob for the projected loss of her daughter. The road beneath her seemed to twist and turn erratically and grass poked through the old black tarmac, tearing it apart into a mosaic of fragments that mimicked her emotions. She walked until the wind stopped blowing, and then she found herself beside a roaring river strengthened from its usual melancholy self by snow-melt from the distant hills. She sat on the bank, shivering as the wind chilled her, and gazed at the white-capped waves on the water and listened to the torrent hiss and roar. After a few minutes the noise of the river changed and she strained her ears, trying to discern what had altered. For a moment it was too hard to tell, and then it seemed as though the river was speaking to her.
"Promises made must be promises kept, And sorrow will turn to joy, Set the girl free to find her own way, And that will empower the boy."
She looked up, wondering who could have said that and why they were imitating the river, but there was no-one nearby, or even in the distance. All around her was the empty, ashy countryside, barren trees and scrubby, yellowed grass. No animals moved, no birds flew, and no person broke the cold, silent horizon. She returned her gaze to the river and started: on the bank mere metres from where she sat, were eight silver-skinned fish still flopping a little as though thrown from the waters in front of her. Almost without thought she gathered them up and packed them into her foraging bag, and then she set off back home, moving almost as mechanically as when she'd come out to the river.
And one year later when the goblin showed up on her doorstep still clutching his rusty knife and grinning from ear to ear, she called Danya to the door and let the goblin take her away.
Greg - truly a shame I am only now seeing these suggestions... truly.
Man, this did not disappoint as a continuation from your previous entry. The world building is so strong here. I am fully invested and cannot wait for more.
3 comments:
I'm voting for the theme developing and expecting that tomorrow will prompt us with "A sexualised shrub" and the day after will be "A protuberant parasite" :)
A roaring river
She returned to her house with the bounty of blackberries and spent the evening talking to the green-eyed stranger, who had seemingly walked for nearly two months before finally succumbing to hunger and exhaustion. The next few days he continued to recuperate in her house and she grew more accustomed to him; meanwhile it seemed oddly as though someone were helping her forage as she found on several occasions small bounties like the blackberries -- never so close that she could discern for certain help, but never so far that she worried she might have missed them. Each contributed to the meager contents of her cellar, until a week later she went down there with two sacks of mushrooms and looked around and realised that winter might be survivable after all.
The green-eyed man left the next day and she wondered if she would miss him. Two months later, when she was sure that she was pregnant and icy winds battered the land but refused to blow the smoke and ashes away without bringing more in their place, he returned leading a couple of lean pigs behind him and knocked on her door. They looked at each other for long minutes before she stood aside and invited him in.
Their first child was named Danya and was a sweet, blonde-haired child with bright green eyes like her father. Two years later and a brother was born, whom they called Theophract who was mischievous and impish and a trial to his sister when she looked after him while their parents laboured to derive life from a blasted land under skies of grey. Both children were curious and eager to learn, and though their parents attempted to teach them what they could, the question "Why?" was never far from Danya's lips, and "How?" would quickly follow from Theo until one or other parent had to instruct them to shut up.
On Danya's seventh birthday her mother was standing outside, her hands pressed to the small of her back and her head tilted back, stretching out sore muscles and wishing for a sliver of blue sky, like those she scarcely remembered from her own childhood, when a flash of olive green caught her eye and she turned her head quickly. Memories of the blackberries came rushing back, and though there was nothing there where she thought she'd seen it, no sign of movement and no disturbance of the earth and skinny, struggling plants, she remembered a promise made seven years ago and knew, with a sinking feeling in her stomach, that she had one year left before the promise would be called in.
Despair seized her in its black embrace and pulled her close, overwhelming her senses and her thoughts, and she picked up her foraging bag, pulled her tattered cloak about her and started walking. Tears blurred her vision and she half-walked, half-stumbled, trying not to sob for the projected loss of her daughter. The road beneath her seemed to twist and turn erratically and grass poked through the old black tarmac, tearing it apart into a mosaic of fragments that mimicked her emotions. She walked until the wind stopped blowing, and then she found herself beside a roaring river strengthened from its usual melancholy self by snow-melt from the distant hills. She sat on the bank, shivering as the wind chilled her, and gazed at the white-capped waves on the water and listened to the torrent hiss and roar.
After a few minutes the noise of the river changed and she strained her ears, trying to discern what had altered. For a moment it was too hard to tell, and then it seemed as though the river was speaking to her.
"Promises made must be promises kept,
And sorrow will turn to joy,
Set the girl free to find her own way,
And that will empower the boy."
She looked up, wondering who could have said that and why they were imitating the river, but there was no-one nearby, or even in the distance. All around her was the empty, ashy countryside, barren trees and scrubby, yellowed grass. No animals moved, no birds flew, and no person broke the cold, silent horizon. She returned her gaze to the river and started: on the bank mere metres from where she sat, were eight silver-skinned fish still flopping a little as though thrown from the waters in front of her. Almost without thought she gathered them up and packed them into her foraging bag, and then she set off back home, moving almost as mechanically as when she'd come out to the river.
And one year later when the goblin showed up on her doorstep still clutching his rusty knife and grinning from ear to ear, she called Danya to the door and let the goblin take her away.
Greg - truly a shame I am only now seeing these suggestions... truly.
Man, this did not disappoint as a continuation from your previous entry. The world building is so strong here. I am fully invested and cannot wait for more.
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