There is no water left here.
Well, that’s not strictly true. There is the sea, but of course, it’s not drinkable.
The bottom of the reservoir is still shining with watery residue, but it’s more silt than anything else. A desperate few are laying rags down, hoping to soak up the final puddle, to squeeze a few cloudy drops into mugs for later.
Others are still hunting for fruit of any kind, hoping to find The One that is still succulent after all this time. But the entire world is brown.
Even the sea. Even the sea.
It’s been a very long time, and I’m trying to get back in the swing of things. What better way than to dive into the ocean of Friday Fictioneers, hosted by the lovely Rochelle? Do give her weekly fun a try – be inspired by the image she posts eery week to write 100 (ish) words on whatever comes to mind.
As for me, I will take a good nosey around at the other entries over the next few days – I’m so looking forward to it!
Cassandra was the heir-apparent to the empire. Everyone accepted that to be true, except Cassandra herself. All she wanted was to retire to her garret (as she fondly thought of her sumptuous apartments atop the North Tower), don her scribbling gown, and write as if her life depended on it. Which, in her mind, it did.
Every day on awakening, she stole a few solitary minutes to admire her ink-stained fingers, ponder what her protagonist would achieve today and know that no matter what she imagined, he would never quite attain it because of her damned looming responsibilities.
Her lady’s maid was full of it, vicarious excitement flushing her cheeks and adding fire to her normally dull, dark eyes. Cassandra however, couldn’t care less. No, that wasn’t quite right, she cared a great deal. Just not in the way that everyone else wanted.
This week, the lovely Linda has prompted us to write using either ‘a parent’ or ‘apparent’. I think it’s pretty apparent which choice I made!
Please head on over to Linda’s blog to find out what Stream of Consciousness Saturday is all about and of course, to enjoy the other entries, including Linda’s herself! Thank you, Linda, for the inspiration!
The weather lingers in these parts. The mountains tower over our village as it hunkers down, clinging to the foothills. In autumn, when the air is dank and the sodden leaves lie on the ground like dead fish stranded after high tide, mists loiter below the craggy peaks. If you are a Rare One like me, you venture out from the safety of the low-slung houses and meandering lanes, and haul yourself up by your fingertips to the granite summits. You pierce the mists like a bodkin through hessian and it is as if you have ascended to the heavens. If you stay below, you remain buried in the bowels of the earth. All light is stolen, all is shadow. But it is all you know, and so you stay.
Then, there are the Nights of Anger. Most hide their heads, mouse-dormant, most warn their children not to venture outside. For the white-hot shards that splinter the sky, the roaring air that shakes the centre of the earth as if it is but a child’s plaything, they do not leave our small world willingly. They are trapped by those dark peaks raised heavenwards, pointing to other-worldly forms of justice – they are subjecting us to the timpani of the gods and hell’s illumination to teach us all an unknowable lesson.
Some elders claim that long ago, a heinous crime tore the guts from the village. Others believe that the storms are a warning of devilry to come. All agree that something is foul in this valley, and that the village is the rotting carcass. The air is rancid butter, cloying and oily. I alone have stood above the clouds as the air borne battle rages. I have tasted the electricity, have felt the roiling air pummel my flesh. I alone know the truth of this land, and it is in my gift to rip it asunder. Nature’s storm clouds have nothing on me. Nothing.