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31_days2007-04-12 07:17 am
bane-6.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2007-04-12 07:17 am
April 12: Red Riding Hood. “Halls of Autumn”.
Title: Halls of Autumn
Day/Theme: April 12: A beautiful day
Series: Little Red Riding Hood
Character/Pairing: Red
Rating: PG
The forest was a cathedral. Sunlight glowed through red and gold leaves like stained glass and cast shadows the color of fire and marigolds. Even the leaves already fallen and crunching under her feet were lit up. The smell of dry, rust leaves mixed with the cold damp of the earth under them. The autumn sunshine didn’t reach that far.
The path she walked had been the path to her Grandmother’s when she was a child. Now it was her way home. It skips a generation, the townspeople said. Her grandmother was the same, always more at home with the trees and animals as her neighbors. That much was true of the granddaughter as well.
It worried her mother, and had left her in a cool standoff with the woodcutter. He didn’t think she had any business in the woods after what had happened, and had often said so. You can’t fight fate, the townspeople said. By the time her Grandmother had died, he had been too old to be any real threat, and had to settle for giving her an empty glare when their paths crossed. It didn’t happen often.
She looked up as she went, and her hood fell back on her shoulders. The sky was blinding blue through the gaps in the leaves. With the hood gone, the wind could seep through her hair. The warm/cold/dead/so alive smell of autumn pulled her lips up in a rare smile.
Her cape and hood was made out of wolf skin now. THE wolf skin. She had kept it very carefully so it would last. Her mother had thought it was morbid. Her daughter had barely escaped from inside the animal once, after all. There was no need to wrap herself in it’s skin all over again. Her father had thought he understood and declared it a trophy. He had allowed her to make and wear it anyway.
He hadn’t really understood. She had tried to tell them that night what had happened, but they hadn’t listened. She had been covered in blood and crying and trying to pull the skin from the woodcutter’s scarred hands. And her Grandmother had never spoken again.
The wind spoke though. The trees knew. The whole forest understood. So she turned to it, walking halls made of live oaks and sunbeams, listening to winds and wolf voices, blending into the red and brown and gold until she was lost from sight.
Day/Theme: April 12: A beautiful day
Series: Little Red Riding Hood
Character/Pairing: Red
Rating: PG
The forest was a cathedral. Sunlight glowed through red and gold leaves like stained glass and cast shadows the color of fire and marigolds. Even the leaves already fallen and crunching under her feet were lit up. The smell of dry, rust leaves mixed with the cold damp of the earth under them. The autumn sunshine didn’t reach that far.
The path she walked had been the path to her Grandmother’s when she was a child. Now it was her way home. It skips a generation, the townspeople said. Her grandmother was the same, always more at home with the trees and animals as her neighbors. That much was true of the granddaughter as well.
It worried her mother, and had left her in a cool standoff with the woodcutter. He didn’t think she had any business in the woods after what had happened, and had often said so. You can’t fight fate, the townspeople said. By the time her Grandmother had died, he had been too old to be any real threat, and had to settle for giving her an empty glare when their paths crossed. It didn’t happen often.
She looked up as she went, and her hood fell back on her shoulders. The sky was blinding blue through the gaps in the leaves. With the hood gone, the wind could seep through her hair. The warm/cold/dead/so alive smell of autumn pulled her lips up in a rare smile.
Her cape and hood was made out of wolf skin now. THE wolf skin. She had kept it very carefully so it would last. Her mother had thought it was morbid. Her daughter had barely escaped from inside the animal once, after all. There was no need to wrap herself in it’s skin all over again. Her father had thought he understood and declared it a trophy. He had allowed her to make and wear it anyway.
He hadn’t really understood. She had tried to tell them that night what had happened, but they hadn’t listened. She had been covered in blood and crying and trying to pull the skin from the woodcutter’s scarred hands. And her Grandmother had never spoken again.
The wind spoke though. The trees knew. The whole forest understood. So she turned to it, walking halls made of live oaks and sunbeams, listening to winds and wolf voices, blending into the red and brown and gold until she was lost from sight.