![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
rhiana-fayette.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
tamingthemuseTitle: Just Once
Fandom: Original Fiction
Prompt: #130- Administer
Warnings: None
Rating: K+
Wordcount: 927
Summary: An opening chapter for a series of fairy-tale-esque short stories.
If it wasn't for this limp, I would have been there sooner. As it was, my older brother Dennis had to call me seven times before I emerged at the top of the stairs. I know it was seven because every time I grew more irritated. It took me thirty-two slouching, trudging steps to make it to the top of the landing. I know it was thirty-two because I counted. If he didn't calm down and cut me some slack, I was going to administer the verbal lashing of a lifetime.
I leaned heavily on the cane of willow wood Papa had carved for me-- the curves of the fairy at the top pressed hard into my hand, propping me up. My breathing heaved like our Shetland sheep dog Barry after a long, hard game of fetch. Dennis (although he was only three years older than me) believed himself to be the fatherly parental type, and was tapping his foot with his characteristic impatience.
"Tallie! Tallie, let's go!" he shouted, scrunching up his nose. Freckles spotted the top of it, and I was reminded of the black spots bananas got when they were just a little past ripe. "Mum's going to tell us a story!"
His whiny words kicked all sour thoughts out of my head. I scrambled down the stairs, carelessly lifting my lame right leg out of the way so it wouldn't drag behind me. It was a difficult affair, considering I still held the special cane in my left hand, but by doing an odd shimmying dance and leaning on the banister so hard it moaned, I managed to arrive in the massive entryway. I was just about to lean on the double front doors to catch my breath when Dennis grabbed me by the flannel pajama sleeve and dragged me down the hallway, past the parlor, and into the living room. I stubbed my good toe in an attempt to keep up and my naughty nine-year-old mouth muffled a curse.
"Don't tug at your sister like that," Mum said as Dennis threw open door. "She'll get here in her own good time."
"She takes too long."
With this Denis relinquished his grip on me and I stumbled, crashing into the door. I savored the heat that sunk into my palms and shoulder as if I held a boiling mug of cocoa in my hands. The thick carved door had absorbed all the raging heat from the fireplace in the wall opposite. Mum gave a sigh as Dennis sat at her feet, and she sipped at a small goblet of deep red wine, black in the flame's silhouette. The room was dark and shadowy, but not in a scary way-- more like it was comfy and lived in. Papa was engulfed in an overstuffed chair facing the fireplace with his thin, trousered legs resting on the puffy ottoman to let us know he was present.
"Sit, Tallie, sit!" Dennis urged. My twisted leg was killing me, aching and sore, and it didn't help that the big toe on my other leg was now pulsing. You'd think all this should have put me in a horrid mood, but there was still a sleepy smile lounging on my face. The cozy atmosphere of our living room was intoxicating, sure; but Mum's stories were a special once-in-a-blue-moon treat. It was better than cake before dinner, better than running barefoot through the summer fields, better than splashing through McFadden's creek; but it was as rare as a four-leaf clover, staying up past bedtime, or missing a day of school to go strawberry picking. Dennis's urgency was understandable.
Mum only ever told a story once. Just once. After that it was up to those who listened to remember and retell it. Mum had never said as much, but we couldn't very well let the stories hang in the air to wither and die. Dennis and I had taken to this task of remembering with a sense of responsibility and duty. Sometimes at night I could hear him in the room next door murmuring away, reciting and reciting and reciting as many lines as he could retrieve from his memory stores. I would flinch every time he unknowingly left out or added in a line.
I never told anyone, but the nights after Mum told a story, I would un-tuck myself from bed with the tale fresh in my mind and sit up late at my desk scribbling it down, word for word. Dennis didn't write very well, and since I was cooped up in the house all day long while he was at school, I turned to books and paper and pencil for amusement. Not even Mum knew I could read and write; she noticed the volumes missing from the bookshelf and wondered out loud who could be shuffling them around,which would make a secret grin slide over my full lips.
Already my hand itched to transcribe tonight's tale. I plopped down in haphazard disarray next to my mother's elegant upholstered chair, stretching out my legs in front of me so I wouldn't get any odd cramps.
Mum waited for me to adjust myself properly, taking another delicate sip of her wine. Her shoulder twitched-- a peculiar rolling movement particular to her-- and this was our signal that the story was to begin. Dennis leaned forward in rapt attention and I shut my eyes, attempting to ignore the interfering static of the fire and concentrate on her words and the images they conjured.
She began as she always did: "There once was a land that was, but is no longer..."
Fandom: Original Fiction
Prompt: #130- Administer
Warnings: None
Rating: K+
Wordcount: 927
Summary: An opening chapter for a series of fairy-tale-esque short stories.
"'Tallie! Tallie, let's go!' he shouted, scrunching up his nose. Freckles spotted the top of it, and I was reminded of the black spots bananas got when they were just a little past ripe. 'Mum's going to tell us a story!'"
If it wasn't for this limp, I would have been there sooner. As it was, my older brother Dennis had to call me seven times before I emerged at the top of the stairs. I know it was seven because every time I grew more irritated. It took me thirty-two slouching, trudging steps to make it to the top of the landing. I know it was thirty-two because I counted. If he didn't calm down and cut me some slack, I was going to administer the verbal lashing of a lifetime.
I leaned heavily on the cane of willow wood Papa had carved for me-- the curves of the fairy at the top pressed hard into my hand, propping me up. My breathing heaved like our Shetland sheep dog Barry after a long, hard game of fetch. Dennis (although he was only three years older than me) believed himself to be the fatherly parental type, and was tapping his foot with his characteristic impatience.
"Tallie! Tallie, let's go!" he shouted, scrunching up his nose. Freckles spotted the top of it, and I was reminded of the black spots bananas got when they were just a little past ripe. "Mum's going to tell us a story!"
His whiny words kicked all sour thoughts out of my head. I scrambled down the stairs, carelessly lifting my lame right leg out of the way so it wouldn't drag behind me. It was a difficult affair, considering I still held the special cane in my left hand, but by doing an odd shimmying dance and leaning on the banister so hard it moaned, I managed to arrive in the massive entryway. I was just about to lean on the double front doors to catch my breath when Dennis grabbed me by the flannel pajama sleeve and dragged me down the hallway, past the parlor, and into the living room. I stubbed my good toe in an attempt to keep up and my naughty nine-year-old mouth muffled a curse.
"Don't tug at your sister like that," Mum said as Dennis threw open door. "She'll get here in her own good time."
"She takes too long."
With this Denis relinquished his grip on me and I stumbled, crashing into the door. I savored the heat that sunk into my palms and shoulder as if I held a boiling mug of cocoa in my hands. The thick carved door had absorbed all the raging heat from the fireplace in the wall opposite. Mum gave a sigh as Dennis sat at her feet, and she sipped at a small goblet of deep red wine, black in the flame's silhouette. The room was dark and shadowy, but not in a scary way-- more like it was comfy and lived in. Papa was engulfed in an overstuffed chair facing the fireplace with his thin, trousered legs resting on the puffy ottoman to let us know he was present.
"Sit, Tallie, sit!" Dennis urged. My twisted leg was killing me, aching and sore, and it didn't help that the big toe on my other leg was now pulsing. You'd think all this should have put me in a horrid mood, but there was still a sleepy smile lounging on my face. The cozy atmosphere of our living room was intoxicating, sure; but Mum's stories were a special once-in-a-blue-moon treat. It was better than cake before dinner, better than running barefoot through the summer fields, better than splashing through McFadden's creek; but it was as rare as a four-leaf clover, staying up past bedtime, or missing a day of school to go strawberry picking. Dennis's urgency was understandable.
Mum only ever told a story once. Just once. After that it was up to those who listened to remember and retell it. Mum had never said as much, but we couldn't very well let the stories hang in the air to wither and die. Dennis and I had taken to this task of remembering with a sense of responsibility and duty. Sometimes at night I could hear him in the room next door murmuring away, reciting and reciting and reciting as many lines as he could retrieve from his memory stores. I would flinch every time he unknowingly left out or added in a line.
I never told anyone, but the nights after Mum told a story, I would un-tuck myself from bed with the tale fresh in my mind and sit up late at my desk scribbling it down, word for word. Dennis didn't write very well, and since I was cooped up in the house all day long while he was at school, I turned to books and paper and pencil for amusement. Not even Mum knew I could read and write; she noticed the volumes missing from the bookshelf and wondered out loud who could be shuffling them around,which would make a secret grin slide over my full lips.
Already my hand itched to transcribe tonight's tale. I plopped down in haphazard disarray next to my mother's elegant upholstered chair, stretching out my legs in front of me so I wouldn't get any odd cramps.
Mum waited for me to adjust myself properly, taking another delicate sip of her wine. Her shoulder twitched-- a peculiar rolling movement particular to her-- and this was our signal that the story was to begin. Dennis leaned forward in rapt attention and I shut my eyes, attempting to ignore the interfering static of the fire and concentrate on her words and the images they conjured.
She began as she always did: "There once was a land that was, but is no longer..."
