ficlets100 - number seven.

[rawri]

001. Guilt
002. New
003.Solitude
004. Content
005. Tale

006. Distort
007. Luxury
008. Listen
009. Party
010. Scent

011. Storm
012. Lessons
013.Apology
014. Relief
015. Breeze

016.Fading
017. Passion
018. Stay
019.Rain
020. Within

021.Dread
022.Revenge
023.Time
024.Perfect
025.Eyes

026.Bloom
027.Beginning
028. Bath
029. Object
030. Lost

031.Pride
032. Death
033

Comments

toward the terra -> ⌈99.⌋ Smile.

[rawri]

Loosely related to this.

They came to her when her child was a mere five, came with smiles and reassurances and in the middle of the night. She woke him with a shaking of the shoulder, smiling her own smile when he grumbled sleepily at her and yawned on the way out of the bedroom.

They knelt next to her child, took his small, delicate chin in between their gloved hands, smiled and reassured and promised all was well. She led him back to bed, placated him with warm milk and a cookie, tucked him in with a smile of her own.

She went to her child’s room with a smile and a call, a bid for breakfast in the light of the morning, having been reassured and promised to. She went to his room to find a teddy bear in the corner, a soccer ball on the shelf above the bed, sheets and pillows

air gear -> ⌈o9.⌋ Party.

[rawri]

“There’s this-this, thing, you see.”

“A thing.”

“Yes. A thing. A big thing. I mean, it’s not- it’s not really big, but it’s… big enough to be - big. You know?”

“No.”

“Y-you should. Because. It’s the thing I wanted to talk to you about.”

“This big thing?”

“Yeah.” His glass was sparkling, sparkling cider on a cold summer’s day (wait), and he swirled it once to watch the light dance. He had to push his cap up to see it clearly, but doing that also made him see the guy next to him (with stupid-looking white hair and that even stupider-looking outfit), so he pushed it back down. “That thing.”

“What is it?”

“A thing.” He paused, thought on that, decided thinking made things too fuzzy, and drank more of his drink. Because that was what it was for. Drinking. “I-well. You know how you guys… You guys merged with sss-- Sleipnir

toward the terra -> ⌈20.⌋ Within.

[rawri]

“Grandpa! Grandpa!”

He was hardly at chest height, but he was old enough to enter the Room without permission. Jomy had never had problems with it, before - had always greeted him with a small, small smile (none of the others got smiles) and he would hop up on the bed and they would talk. He wasn’t allowed to actually lay in the bed, but that was okay, because he was allowed in. Welcomed in.

The stiff red-caped shoulders were turned away from him this time, and for a brief moment, Tony’s face lost its exuberance and fell, fell, fell.

But then he realized what was going on, and balled his fists, eyes narrowing.

“Grandpa. I want to talk with Grandpa.”

The shoulders didn’t move. Tony growled in his own mind - loud enough that the other had to be able to hear him, unless he purposely wasn’t, and that made him feel even angrier. This had happened before. Always when Tony just wanted to talk. This-- relic was keeping him from Jomy, stopping Jomy from being able to give out little smiles and finally break his sad, sad gaze to laugh

.hack// -> ⌈42.⌋ Trouble.

[rawri]

The house at the very end of 15th Street, with its green shutters and molting wood paneling, was very rarely ever visited. The mother of the household was an eccentric - she mostly stayed indoors, doing who-knew-what, and never stopped by the parlor at noon to trade stories like all the other ladies; the father was seen between the times of five and six, morning and night, a silent, ghostly fellow who walked with a limp and didn’t know his Packers from his Patriots.

There was no garden in the front of the house at the very end of 15th street. There wasn’t a basketball hoop in the driveway, there wasn’t a car parked haphazardly in the garage. As far as the neighborhood knew, the strange couple had two children- one was an alright boy, a normal boy with a bright smile and curious, slowly-aging eyes. He liked to play soccer, he wanted to dye his hair blue, and his favorite game was Cowboys and Indians, where he always painted triangles on his cheeks and chased the girls around, laughing. He said his name was Kite

[rawri]

The father continued to appear from five to six, mornings and nights. The mother was seen grocery shopping, or buying necessities from the pharmacy. One of the boys was always around. This not-normal Kite began to hiss and snarl like an irritant mutt at people who walked too close to the house, stopped attending elementary and sat on the stoop of the wooden building all day long. He wore ragged clothing, dyed his hair blue and painted triangles on his face; when other children played soccer, he’d sometimes stand up from his stoop and watch them from the sidewalk (an act that would often scare the children away). Parents ignored him. The bartender, the old woman, the manager and the student ignored him

.hack// -> ⌈61.⌋ Dessert

[rawri]

loosely related to this.“Kite!” Was the call, the demand, the whine - an eye blinked, body turned over, crouched; the bush covering him rustled and then parted, and a near-identical-yet-utterly-not face nearly slammed into his, the end syllable of “Kiii-te!” cut off.

He blinked.

“There you are,” groaned the face in front of him, and suddenly warm hands were grabbing his cold shoulders, pulling him out of the bush. The other boy wasn’t careful about him getting scratched by the branches, and he appreciated it. “Didn’t you hear mom calling?”

He blinked again.

“… Fine.” Said the boy with a frown and a bit of a pout, as though this wasn’t a normal coincidence (he had enough sense to know that it was), sitting back on his hands as he resumed his crouch next to him. “Didn’t you hear me calling