Little death: a self-imposed #writing #challenge

[I attempted to use some of my favourite words and phrases, taken from my journal. I’ve listed them at the end of this post. They are words I am fascinated by and that I like the sound of. This is the unedited result. These characters and this dynamic just sort of… happened. Apologies in advance!]

He stared at her, the girl with the striking blue eyes and soft, flaxen hair. Her dirt-patched face was almost lucent in its pallor, like the scales of a fish reflecting sunlight. Her inner warmth compensated for her frigid exterior as, giggling, she bounced and spun in countless circles, arms swishing wildly and gracefully through the air. It was like she was dancing to music playing in her head. For someone who shared more similarities with a corpse than a living, breathing, being, she was certainly lively. And very happy. Not torpid or lethargic at all, actually. He found it rather disturbing. Then again, what did he know about such ethereal creatures?

“What are you doing?” he asked, stressing each word separately.

She smiled, languidly turning and turning, looking dead chuffed as she ignored him. Maybe she didn’t speak the same language. Ignorance is bliss, he reflected.

“Nothing fazes you, does it?” he continued, deeply unimpressed. He sounded like a stern elder, though, on the surface, they probably looked around the same age. Leaning against the gargantuan root of the tree, he folded his arms and rolled his eyes.

Another giggle in response.

She was just too happy. So pleased and content it seemed almost macabre to him. And she was wasting his time. Ironic, really, that a creature like her – with death hugging her like a second skin – was so keen to throw away these precious minutes.

“Have you no shame? No compunction… no chagrin?” He made the transition into his native French easily. That’s what comes of ‘fine’ breeding… an impertinent attitude, false manners, and more languages and words than one brain has use for. Not to mention the sincere lack of fealty towards anything untraditional.  He wrinkled his nose at her as if offended by a fetid aroma emanating from her girlish frame.

“Will you desist?!” he finally exploded. “Enough of this dallying!”

His raised voice caught her attention, shaking her tranquility, like a war drum calling out across a silent night. A dark expression clouded her features as she stopped moving. Finally, they were getting somewhere!

Just when he thought he’d made progress, she chose to cling to the gnarled root instead. Like a peculiarly shaped barnacle.

This is madness, he concluded with a shake of his head. I’m trying to reason with fire fodder. Witch, elf, nymph, zombie, spectre… Whatever she is, and whatever trouble she’s got herself into, I don’t care. I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.

[Prompt words in no particular order: flaxen, gargantuan, lucent, dallying, barnacle, faze, chuffed, fodder, chagrin, fealty, corpse, drum(s), fetid, second skin, madness, torpid/torpor]

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