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Week Three, Brigit's Flame, Just for Fun!
Oct. 18th, 2014 04:29 pmTitle: No Comfort
Author: Urb-banal
Prompt: Comfort Food
Warnings: it's pretty depressing
Word Count: 360
Authors Note: This is again a new add on to an old story of mine. Lady is between disasters. This is before Bill and his wives show up and take the farm but after Sage, her son, has gone missing, probably taken by the Wanderers to be a child soldier.
I will post it as Just for Fun because I think it is not original enough for the prompt. I'm having a lousy week health wise and don't know if I will get anything done for the main contest.
No Comfort
The winter after her son Sage was lost was not as cold as some but she was mostly impervious to the cold. The plodding progress of everyday, of waking to the chill and wanting it to become her, wanting it to grow crystalline and deep until she turned into a statue, unable to feel, met with the warmth that was a betrayal: her own beating heart.
Unable to take her own life she fashioned a sort of comprise for her body and the growing despondency of her mind. She would only do enough to stay alive, nothing more.
She made the fire in the stove and heated a bit of porridge once a day, that was all. She used no spice and no honey. She would swallow each spoonful dutifully, like a child not allowed to leave the table until it was gone.
Once, without thinking, she had added a bit of ground ginger and as the sweet sting of aroma hit her nostrils the little cabin was thrown into all the light and laughter she had known when Sage was home and Henry and Maggie were still alive. It had hit her like a punch. She had doubled over sobbing until her sobs had turned into screams. She had lifted the iron pot from the stove and tossed out into the snow. She had beaten her legs with her fists and fell into the briefest hope that Steven, her son's father, would wrap his arms around her and make her stop, stop, just stop. She could almost hear his voice telling her, the voice of a dead man, so she stopped.
She did the chores around the farm in much the same way, as if some harsh guardian were pushing her along but she took no pleasure in any of it. The animals were fed and their stalls were cleaned but her hands never ran over their backs in affection.
She didn't know how to be. She couldn't understand why this stick, this nub from a lost harvest still endured. If this was the end of the world, why wasn't it quiet? Why was there still this constant thump, thump, thump?
When would her heart finally stop and let her mind slip into peace?
Author: Urb-banal
Prompt: Comfort Food
Warnings: it's pretty depressing
Word Count: 360
Authors Note: This is again a new add on to an old story of mine. Lady is between disasters. This is before Bill and his wives show up and take the farm but after Sage, her son, has gone missing, probably taken by the Wanderers to be a child soldier.
I will post it as Just for Fun because I think it is not original enough for the prompt. I'm having a lousy week health wise and don't know if I will get anything done for the main contest.
No Comfort
The winter after her son Sage was lost was not as cold as some but she was mostly impervious to the cold. The plodding progress of everyday, of waking to the chill and wanting it to become her, wanting it to grow crystalline and deep until she turned into a statue, unable to feel, met with the warmth that was a betrayal: her own beating heart.
Unable to take her own life she fashioned a sort of comprise for her body and the growing despondency of her mind. She would only do enough to stay alive, nothing more.
She made the fire in the stove and heated a bit of porridge once a day, that was all. She used no spice and no honey. She would swallow each spoonful dutifully, like a child not allowed to leave the table until it was gone.
Once, without thinking, she had added a bit of ground ginger and as the sweet sting of aroma hit her nostrils the little cabin was thrown into all the light and laughter she had known when Sage was home and Henry and Maggie were still alive. It had hit her like a punch. She had doubled over sobbing until her sobs had turned into screams. She had lifted the iron pot from the stove and tossed out into the snow. She had beaten her legs with her fists and fell into the briefest hope that Steven, her son's father, would wrap his arms around her and make her stop, stop, just stop. She could almost hear his voice telling her, the voice of a dead man, so she stopped.
She did the chores around the farm in much the same way, as if some harsh guardian were pushing her along but she took no pleasure in any of it. The animals were fed and their stalls were cleaned but her hands never ran over their backs in affection.
She didn't know how to be. She couldn't understand why this stick, this nub from a lost harvest still endured. If this was the end of the world, why wasn't it quiet? Why was there still this constant thump, thump, thump?
When would her heart finally stop and let her mind slip into peace?
