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regndoftThe sudden realisation that I had a whole bunch of drabbles I'd failed to post.
So a while back, a three-sentence ficathon started running on DW (that is still running until the 7th of April here) which I found to be quite a useful source ofprocrastination inspiration. I think there's something to be said about stepping out of one's comfort zone in a while, and dabbling in fandoms I've never written for before as well as limiting myself to three sentences was rather fun. It brings out new things and makes you more aware of your limitations as a writer.
(I can never tell if my prose is good or just purple, for one. And I vastly prefer quiet, introspective pieces - which is a problem - but I already knew that.)
I filled mostly mythology prompts. My uni studies are showing.
Ask/Embla; Soul they had not, sense they had not,/Heat nor motion, nor goodly hue
Some of their memories are buried deeper than the mind, or any gift the gods have bestowed upon them; the sun and the wind are carved into their very bones as if they were still covered in bark. But now they are smooth and soft, in need of hearth and shelter to survive, yet they fear the flames they huddle in front of at night as much as they revere them.
Their children are as tough as birch twigs, and it feels like home to bury their hands in the black earth.
Apollo/Daphne, flee and I will follow
Apollo’s pursuit is as swift and unrelenting as his arrows.
Over blades of grass, sun-warmed stone and sharp pebbles she runs, and he follows her through grove as well as creek; his heart burns clear and devastating as he shouts his love for her, begging her to stop, warning her that there is no place she can go where he will not follow.
When the canopy falls across her once fair face he finds that he was wrong.
Greek mythology, Manto & Tiresias, are you my mother?
“Do I know you?”
The stranger smiles (and yes, he should be a stranger, because if he was unknown to her yet dined at their wedding table, her husband should not have asked her if she recognised him) and asks if she may grace even a blind man with her beauty on this happiest of days.
Afterwards she thinks she should have known, second sight or not, the moment he placed such familiar hands upon her face.
Classics, Sappho/Anaktoria, love put on as armor
One battle lost will not necessarily cost you an entire war. This she knows is true (even if it is not for women to know) and life goes on; she finds new lips to kiss, unfurls her tongue to sing new songs and plucks the strings of the lyre until her fingers ache more than her heart.
Sometimes she will remember another whose praises she’d sung, and the loss will weigh as heavy on her as polished bronze.
Greek mythology, Apollo/Daphne, I want to bathe you in the light of day/and just watch you as the rays tangle up around your face and body
The sun rises slowly over the mountain top, painting her leaves a virginal green when they shift just so in the morning breeze.
Such a long time has passed now, and yet there is still place for grief in his chest where that fateful arrow struck; it’s not a just punishment for the mockery he’d made of his own kind, but at least he’d done something to deserve it.
He places the laurel on his head and thinks of all the things he would say if she still had ears to hear him with.
Ancient History, Artemisia II of Caria, devotion
She knows she will not live to see the white walls raised.
Death tastes like the soil he won’t rest in, like the ashes that sink to the bottom of her cup every day; she should pour the wine over the ground, mark a temporary grave to keep his spirit on the Stygian shore, but it seems futile to prevent a meeting she knows will take place (if not in this life then the next).
She lifts the cup like it’s a duty, as if it is that potent brew and not the grief that eats her heart away.
So a while back, a three-sentence ficathon started running on DW (that is still running until the 7th of April here) which I found to be quite a useful source of
(I can never tell if my prose is good or just purple, for one. And I vastly prefer quiet, introspective pieces - which is a problem - but I already knew that.)
I filled mostly mythology prompts. My uni studies are showing.
Ask/Embla; Soul they had not, sense they had not,/Heat nor motion, nor goodly hue
Some of their memories are buried deeper than the mind, or any gift the gods have bestowed upon them; the sun and the wind are carved into their very bones as if they were still covered in bark. But now they are smooth and soft, in need of hearth and shelter to survive, yet they fear the flames they huddle in front of at night as much as they revere them.
Their children are as tough as birch twigs, and it feels like home to bury their hands in the black earth.
Apollo/Daphne, flee and I will follow
Apollo’s pursuit is as swift and unrelenting as his arrows.
Over blades of grass, sun-warmed stone and sharp pebbles she runs, and he follows her through grove as well as creek; his heart burns clear and devastating as he shouts his love for her, begging her to stop, warning her that there is no place she can go where he will not follow.
When the canopy falls across her once fair face he finds that he was wrong.
Greek mythology, Manto & Tiresias, are you my mother?
“Do I know you?”
The stranger smiles (and yes, he should be a stranger, because if he was unknown to her yet dined at their wedding table, her husband should not have asked her if she recognised him) and asks if she may grace even a blind man with her beauty on this happiest of days.
Afterwards she thinks she should have known, second sight or not, the moment he placed such familiar hands upon her face.
Classics, Sappho/Anaktoria, love put on as armor
One battle lost will not necessarily cost you an entire war. This she knows is true (even if it is not for women to know) and life goes on; she finds new lips to kiss, unfurls her tongue to sing new songs and plucks the strings of the lyre until her fingers ache more than her heart.
Sometimes she will remember another whose praises she’d sung, and the loss will weigh as heavy on her as polished bronze.
Greek mythology, Apollo/Daphne, I want to bathe you in the light of day/and just watch you as the rays tangle up around your face and body
The sun rises slowly over the mountain top, painting her leaves a virginal green when they shift just so in the morning breeze.
Such a long time has passed now, and yet there is still place for grief in his chest where that fateful arrow struck; it’s not a just punishment for the mockery he’d made of his own kind, but at least he’d done something to deserve it.
He places the laurel on his head and thinks of all the things he would say if she still had ears to hear him with.
Ancient History, Artemisia II of Caria, devotion
She knows she will not live to see the white walls raised.
Death tastes like the soil he won’t rest in, like the ashes that sink to the bottom of her cup every day; she should pour the wine over the ground, mark a temporary grave to keep his spirit on the Stygian shore, but it seems futile to prevent a meeting she knows will take place (if not in this life then the next).
She lifts the cup like it’s a duty, as if it is that potent brew and not the grief that eats her heart away.
