(no subject)
Flavor of the Day - 06/17/09 - Gravid with Sprinkles
Story : knights
Rating : PG
Timeframe : 1260's
Word Count : 220
Word of the Day : Gravid - being with child; heavy with young or eggs; pregnant.
It was one of those words I had to use, though I din't go with either of the obvious choices.
She lingered by the buffet, floating on a cloud of emerald. Trails of silk spun from shoulders to ankles, gently folding over the swell of her middle, where her hands hovered and stroked. She spoke to friends who came and went, their faces slipping into a blur, unnoticed, while hers stood clear. The soft blush with which her cheeks glowed, the gentle part of her lips, the light in her eyes. Dalton sighed at her over the rim of his fifth glass of wine.
“Anyone ever tell you it is not nice to stare?” A hand clamped over his shoulder and Dalton turned, wine splashing in his grasp. Terrel sneered and gave the trapped shoulder a squeeze. “You know,” he said, just above a whisper, a quick glance over the crowd before he went on, “it takes a special kind of pathetic to bed a woman when she carries another man’s child.”
Dalton met his gaze a moment. He watched the flicker of anger and amusement that vied in the green. Then, with his own glance about the room, he tipped his glass his brother’s way. “What makes you so certain they’re all yours?”
Caught between rage and propriety, Terrel mouthed the air in silent fury. Glass to his lips, Dalton twisted his shoulder from his grasp and slipped away.
Story : knights
Rating : PG
Timeframe : 1260's
Word Count : 220
Word of the Day : Gravid - being with child; heavy with young or eggs; pregnant.
It was one of those words I had to use, though I din't go with either of the obvious choices.
She lingered by the buffet, floating on a cloud of emerald. Trails of silk spun from shoulders to ankles, gently folding over the swell of her middle, where her hands hovered and stroked. She spoke to friends who came and went, their faces slipping into a blur, unnoticed, while hers stood clear. The soft blush with which her cheeks glowed, the gentle part of her lips, the light in her eyes. Dalton sighed at her over the rim of his fifth glass of wine.
“Anyone ever tell you it is not nice to stare?” A hand clamped over his shoulder and Dalton turned, wine splashing in his grasp. Terrel sneered and gave the trapped shoulder a squeeze. “You know,” he said, just above a whisper, a quick glance over the crowd before he went on, “it takes a special kind of pathetic to bed a woman when she carries another man’s child.”
Dalton met his gaze a moment. He watched the flicker of anger and amusement that vied in the green. Then, with his own glance about the room, he tipped his glass his brother’s way. “What makes you so certain they’re all yours?”
Caught between rage and propriety, Terrel mouthed the air in silent fury. Glass to his lips, Dalton twisted his shoulder from his grasp and slipped away.