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31_days2005-08-23 11:53 pm
serena-b.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2005-08-23 11:53 pm
[August 23] [Original Fiction] Scattered Memories
Title: Scattered Memories
Day/Theme: August 23: Rose of memory, rose of forgetfulness
Series: Original Fiction
Rating: PG13
One night I glimpse the past in the face of an angel. He’s standing outside a café, a smile curling up one side of his full mouth as he nods to the girl standing before him. The last time I had seen that smile was over five hundred years ago.
In an intimate gesture he lifts her hand up to his lips and lays a kiss on the inside of her palm. My own palm tingles with memories and the smell of roses assaults my senses.
We are standing in a garden at twilight, the magic hour. We had been meeting there for the past fortnight, discussing the latest verse and watching the stars rise. In a grand gesture he cavalierly plucks a rose, puncturing his thumb in the process. A drop of deep crimson appears at the wound. Before he can react, I take his hand in my own and lift it to my lips; a quick swipe of my tongue is all it takes. Suddenly it’s pounding in my ears; the thirst, the need for more. Before I can think of nothing else I lay a final kiss on his palm and begin to move away, but then he reaches for me, pulling me into an embrace. His mouth moves over mine, hesitantly at first and then with greater passion. As his hands unfasten my lace collar he moves his lips to my neck and over my shoulder bringing his own precious pulse ever closer to my mouth. And just like that I am lost.
When I awaken to myself I am kneeling on the ground holding his lifeless body. Blood red tears stream down my pale face appearing black in the moonlight.
That night I had taken the rose, kept it until it withered and the petals turned hard and brown. Some time later, when its fragility had finally caused it to break apart and crumble, I scattered its dust to the winds.
Day/Theme: August 23: Rose of memory, rose of forgetfulness
Series: Original Fiction
Rating: PG13
One night I glimpse the past in the face of an angel. He’s standing outside a café, a smile curling up one side of his full mouth as he nods to the girl standing before him. The last time I had seen that smile was over five hundred years ago.
In an intimate gesture he lifts her hand up to his lips and lays a kiss on the inside of her palm. My own palm tingles with memories and the smell of roses assaults my senses.
We are standing in a garden at twilight, the magic hour. We had been meeting there for the past fortnight, discussing the latest verse and watching the stars rise. In a grand gesture he cavalierly plucks a rose, puncturing his thumb in the process. A drop of deep crimson appears at the wound. Before he can react, I take his hand in my own and lift it to my lips; a quick swipe of my tongue is all it takes. Suddenly it’s pounding in my ears; the thirst, the need for more. Before I can think of nothing else I lay a final kiss on his palm and begin to move away, but then he reaches for me, pulling me into an embrace. His mouth moves over mine, hesitantly at first and then with greater passion. As his hands unfasten my lace collar he moves his lips to my neck and over my shoulder bringing his own precious pulse ever closer to my mouth. And just like that I am lost.
When I awaken to myself I am kneeling on the ground holding his lifeless body. Blood red tears stream down my pale face appearing black in the moonlight.
That night I had taken the rose, kept it until it withered and the petals turned hard and brown. Some time later, when its fragility had finally caused it to break apart and crumble, I scattered its dust to the winds.