Chocolate & Kiwi-Strawberry & Red Hot Cinnamon & Whipped Cream.
Author: likelolwhat (tag please?)
Master Work: Sparksong (Which will get a page on my journal as soon as I get around to writing the stuff that matters and not all the little side/back stories I've got lined up)
Challenges/Toppings: Chocolate #4 (frustration), Kiwi-Strawberry #25 (chorus), Red Hot Cinnamon #2 (spark), Whipped Cream topping
Rating: G, but perhaps a trigger for fire-related childhood accidents (highlight)
Title: Heat
Summary: There are scars from that day.
Notes: No, I’m not good at titling. Lol.
“Uncle, it’s hot.” Zahra whined to the person closest to her, wrapping both hands around his meaty thumb and pulling with the strength of a child. Her parents were somewhere- somewhere else. Close, logic dictated, but she couldn’t tell any of the adults apart without craning her neck - they were all dressed the same, loose dresses and robes, with no variation to her child’s eyes. The fat ring on Uncle Amin’s right hand was a beacon in a sea of sameness.
“Hush, child,” said Amin, disentangling himself. He must have seen the look on her face, though, for a moment later his hand came back to rest on her head, stroking her hair through her shawl. “It’s always hot,” he murmured, staring into the pyre.
Zahra made a disapproving noise - young ladies do not growl - but decided there was nothing to be done. She could not very well disappear back into the house in the village, where relief was found from the desert. Her mother would have her hide.
Not that she knew what that meant, not really, but it was an effective threat in any case.
On the other side of the pyre, the fourteen wailing-women reached a crescendo-
Ah, father of the sands, ferry your child to the stars…
-and Zahra flinched as Uncle Amin began the counter-chorus with the other village men-
Oh, mother of the desert, bring your child to his rest…
-then the wind shifted, stirring up the fire. A spark leapt towards her.
Zahra screamed, clutching at her cheek and reeling back. Tears poured over from her eyes, and her screams became strangled as the salt touched the fresh burn. Even through her pain she realized clinging to the wound made it worse, so she pried her hands away. They fluttered, helplessly, wringing out her panic from a safer distance.
The chant broke off as first Amin, then the others on Zahra’s side of the pyre heard her cries. Family and neighbors swarmed, and for the moment the funeral was forgotten.
Master Work: Sparksong (Which will get a page on my journal as soon as I get around to writing the stuff that matters and not all the little side/back stories I've got lined up)
Challenges/Toppings: Chocolate #4 (frustration), Kiwi-Strawberry #25 (chorus), Red Hot Cinnamon #2 (spark), Whipped Cream topping
Rating: G, but perhaps a trigger for fire-related childhood accidents (highlight)
Title: Heat
Summary: There are scars from that day.
Notes: No, I’m not good at titling. Lol.
“Uncle, it’s hot.” Zahra whined to the person closest to her, wrapping both hands around his meaty thumb and pulling with the strength of a child. Her parents were somewhere- somewhere else. Close, logic dictated, but she couldn’t tell any of the adults apart without craning her neck - they were all dressed the same, loose dresses and robes, with no variation to her child’s eyes. The fat ring on Uncle Amin’s right hand was a beacon in a sea of sameness.
“Hush, child,” said Amin, disentangling himself. He must have seen the look on her face, though, for a moment later his hand came back to rest on her head, stroking her hair through her shawl. “It’s always hot,” he murmured, staring into the pyre.
Zahra made a disapproving noise - young ladies do not growl - but decided there was nothing to be done. She could not very well disappear back into the house in the village, where relief was found from the desert. Her mother would have her hide.
Not that she knew what that meant, not really, but it was an effective threat in any case.
On the other side of the pyre, the fourteen wailing-women reached a crescendo-
Ah, father of the sands, ferry your child to the stars…
-and Zahra flinched as Uncle Amin began the counter-chorus with the other village men-
Oh, mother of the desert, bring your child to his rest…
-then the wind shifted, stirring up the fire. A spark leapt towards her.
Zahra screamed, clutching at her cheek and reeling back. Tears poured over from her eyes, and her screams became strangled as the salt touched the fresh burn. Even through her pain she realized clinging to the wound made it worse, so she pried her hands away. They fluttered, helplessly, wringing out her panic from a safer distance.
The chant broke off as first Amin, then the others on Zahra’s side of the pyre heard her cries. Family and neighbors swarmed, and for the moment the funeral was forgotten.