Newsprint
by Queen Anne
Common disclaimer applies. For use, please email. This is just a plain little novella, with short chapters, but it's something nonetheless. For the people who have been begging me to write, and for Luce, whose stories (or lack thereof) always drive me crazy with jealous inspiration.
"I didn't think it would come to this," she told him, looking up from her perch on a neatly stacked pile of coats. Twirling light brown hair around a slender finger, she gazed softly at him from her seat as he searched for his on a nearby rack.
"Didn't think it would come to what?" he asked over one smooth shoulder. Even his shoulders said "I'm a smart ass rebellious rich boy, don't mess with me." She sighed.
"I don't know. But I feel like something's happening and I'm not quite sure what it is." It was an unusual feeling, that sense that something was going one and yet she wasn't ever quite sure if it was a feeling at all, or maybe just-life.
"Do you know what I think?"
"No, tell." Her chin balanced on her hand, and she held her head up to look at the back of his blonde, unruly hair.
"Life knows what's supposed to happen. And you know what's supposed to happen, you either just don't see it or you don't want to. And that, my dear," he threw back at her, a little mockery underlying in his lilting tone, "is why you feel like that. Common nature of man, or something like that."
She pondered that for a moment, rolled it around in her mind, played with it, toying with it, contemplating it as if it was an orb of thought that had just dropped into her hands, ponderous and heavy and feather light and wistful at the same time. Christmas music, something turned tastefully into a waltz, came from the ballroom, reminding her why she was here, why she was with him, why they weren't at school but on vacation instead.
"Why are you looking for your coat again?" she asked abruptly, dropping the ball and letting it roll to the back corner of her mind. It was too heavy to play with now.
"We're leaving," he told her. "It's about time we did." His hand fell onto the shoulder of a black wool coat, one that matched the midnight black of his tuxedo perfectly, and he pulled it off the hanger and onto his back in one smooth motion, neglecting the care and keeping of such an expensive coat.
"I'd ask why you come to these, if you hate them, but I know," she told him softly as he handed her her coat, which had been hanging next to his. The delicate crème wool clashed with his so extremely, the silk lining smoothing against her skin left bare by the inadequacies that came with wearing a formal dress.
"You're biting your nails again, Rory," he said abruptly as they pushed through the doors that led to the cool night air.
"I don't know why it bothers you so much. They are, after all, my nails," she told him pointedly. He didn't look at her, walked ahead of her out to the lawn. Finally he stopped, and she caught up to him, stopping right against his shoulder as if he was protecting her from something in the darkness in front of them. And as they walked toward the darkness of the manicured lawns the light from the ballroom splayed onto their retreating backs, his arm was around her, and against the crème there was a line of solid black.
by Queen Anne
Common disclaimer applies. For use, please email. This is just a plain little novella, with short chapters, but it's something nonetheless. For the people who have been begging me to write, and for Luce, whose stories (or lack thereof) always drive me crazy with jealous inspiration.
"I didn't think it would come to this," she told him, looking up from her perch on a neatly stacked pile of coats. Twirling light brown hair around a slender finger, she gazed softly at him from her seat as he searched for his on a nearby rack.
"Didn't think it would come to what?" he asked over one smooth shoulder. Even his shoulders said "I'm a smart ass rebellious rich boy, don't mess with me." She sighed.
"I don't know. But I feel like something's happening and I'm not quite sure what it is." It was an unusual feeling, that sense that something was going one and yet she wasn't ever quite sure if it was a feeling at all, or maybe just-life.
"Do you know what I think?"
"No, tell." Her chin balanced on her hand, and she held her head up to look at the back of his blonde, unruly hair.
"Life knows what's supposed to happen. And you know what's supposed to happen, you either just don't see it or you don't want to. And that, my dear," he threw back at her, a little mockery underlying in his lilting tone, "is why you feel like that. Common nature of man, or something like that."
She pondered that for a moment, rolled it around in her mind, played with it, toying with it, contemplating it as if it was an orb of thought that had just dropped into her hands, ponderous and heavy and feather light and wistful at the same time. Christmas music, something turned tastefully into a waltz, came from the ballroom, reminding her why she was here, why she was with him, why they weren't at school but on vacation instead.
"Why are you looking for your coat again?" she asked abruptly, dropping the ball and letting it roll to the back corner of her mind. It was too heavy to play with now.
"We're leaving," he told her. "It's about time we did." His hand fell onto the shoulder of a black wool coat, one that matched the midnight black of his tuxedo perfectly, and he pulled it off the hanger and onto his back in one smooth motion, neglecting the care and keeping of such an expensive coat.
"I'd ask why you come to these, if you hate them, but I know," she told him softly as he handed her her coat, which had been hanging next to his. The delicate crème wool clashed with his so extremely, the silk lining smoothing against her skin left bare by the inadequacies that came with wearing a formal dress.
"You're biting your nails again, Rory," he said abruptly as they pushed through the doors that led to the cool night air.
"I don't know why it bothers you so much. They are, after all, my nails," she told him pointedly. He didn't look at her, walked ahead of her out to the lawn. Finally he stopped, and she caught up to him, stopping right against his shoulder as if he was protecting her from something in the darkness in front of them. And as they walked toward the darkness of the manicured lawns the light from the ballroom splayed onto their retreating backs, his arm was around her, and against the crème there was a line of solid black.
