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Jun. 7th, 2007 10:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nonionayA writing exercise we (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
csinman andkaerfel did today. We had three objects (A basket of needlework flowers, a dead bee on a rose petal, and a wierd wooden lotus from the seventies that looks like an orange juicer.) We each wrote for fifteen minutes about the objects, then passed it and built on the next person's story.
This is the one that came from my original bit.
If you are Keffy, you should click this link. Everyone else too, if you don't mind bees and zombies and proof that Chelsea is the most messed up member of our group.
Every bee he collected brought him closer to reunion with his dead wife. He dared not use any beasts of higher intellect, though he would need fewer. But the bees were just like Lara – lively, industrious, but with a sharp sting if disturbed.
He laid the latest dead bee-- found on a lilac bush after a thunderstorm – on the wooden lotus he carved on All Hallows Eve. Beside it was the woolen basket of flowers Lara wove in her final week on earth. The bee was glossy black with only the tiniest highlight of pale yellow fuzz. Unmoving, it looked like a little toy. Like something Lara would have made for their children if they'd had any.
Every bee brought her closer. His hands trembled with joy as he adjusted the bee just so. He said a prayer to Ialdaboth and waved his hands between the flowers and the bee. The tiniest bit of Lara left the wool and plastic basket and entered the bee.
It wasn't much, but he had five hundred bees already humming with Lara's life in a glass cider jug. {SAN's part} Every night, he clasped the jug against his chest when he stepped out of the shower, and for long minutes he felt their warmth against his skin, but the vibration was so intense he feared they would harm one another, or worse, push the ventilated lid loose.
Jamaal celebrated his three thousandth bee with a stiff shot. After wiping his mouth on one of the cloth napkins, a wedding gift from Lara's mother, he set about fixing the dining room for Lara's return.
Aromatic candles (she always loved vanilla), two place settings (both empty for now), and a long-stemmed rose in an elegant glass vase. Blood red, because he couldn't find coral. The ritual would take hours, so Jamaal dressed warmly. It would be the cold dead of night before Lara stepped once more into his arms.
Longer, if he didn't start now. Jamaal went down the dank cellar stair and set out the implements of her return. The jugs of bees. A trowel. Some dirt from her grave. Red wine, twine, gunpowder, scissors, and a flowing silk robe that still smelled like Lara after she'd been sweating in Jamaal's embrace.
Last of all, a clock. It was now 11:58.
{CHELSEA's bit}
He sprinkled the grave dirt into the bee jar. He anointed his forehead with the wine. He took off his own clothes and put on Lara's silk robe, then swallowed the gunpowder. He cut a length of twine and lowered it into the bee jar.
He uttered the one magic word he needed to make it happen: “prestochango” and everything went crazy. The bees flowed from the jar, crawling up the twine like mad. They flew into Jamaal's open mouth, stuffing him so full, he thought his body would bust open. Their legs and fuzzy bodies tickled his tongue. Their buzzing filled his head, shaking his skull, until his thoughts disappeared.
His thought were gone. Jamaal was gone, and Lara was left in his place.
Lara stretched her arms – they were heavier than she remembered – and took in a deep breath. “It's good to be-- Oh my.” She made the mistake of looking down and, well, not recognizing herself, since she wasn't in her own body. Her old silk robe hung open, revealing everything.
“I'd know Jamaal anywhere,” she sobbed, recognizing her husband's body. Even her voice sounded like his now, made with his vocal chords. “Oh, Jamaal!” she sobbed.
She stumbled and cut her foot on a pair of discarded scissors. She leaned down to inspect the wound. She'd never realized Jamaal's foot smelled so... good. Like a turkey on Thanksgiving, or a ham on Christmas, she couldn't resist the yumminess. She stuck out her tongue, just to taste. She must have looked ridiculous – a man wearing nothing but an open silk robe, bent over and trying to lick his own toes.
A drop of the blood touched her tongue. It tasted faintly of honey and mostly like the salty tang of BLOOD. Her own blood stirred, and she realized she was starving. Being dead had been hard work, apparantly. She licked the rest of the blood off her toe, then took a little nibble. Just a small one, to taste. Then a bigger one, because it was wonderful.
Lara pulled herself away from her own foot – Jamaal's foot, but she supposed it was hers now. His gift to her. She wouldn't survive by eating her own body. She had to find someone else's.
csinman andkaerfel did today. We had three objects (A basket of needlework flowers, a dead bee on a rose petal, and a wierd wooden lotus from the seventies that looks like an orange juicer.) We each wrote for fifteen minutes about the objects, then passed it and built on the next person's story. This is the one that came from my original bit.
If you are Keffy, you should click this link. Everyone else too, if you don't mind bees and zombies and proof that Chelsea is the most messed up member of our group.
Every bee he collected brought him closer to reunion with his dead wife. He dared not use any beasts of higher intellect, though he would need fewer. But the bees were just like Lara – lively, industrious, but with a sharp sting if disturbed.
He laid the latest dead bee-- found on a lilac bush after a thunderstorm – on the wooden lotus he carved on All Hallows Eve. Beside it was the woolen basket of flowers Lara wove in her final week on earth. The bee was glossy black with only the tiniest highlight of pale yellow fuzz. Unmoving, it looked like a little toy. Like something Lara would have made for their children if they'd had any.
Every bee brought her closer. His hands trembled with joy as he adjusted the bee just so. He said a prayer to Ialdaboth and waved his hands between the flowers and the bee. The tiniest bit of Lara left the wool and plastic basket and entered the bee.
It wasn't much, but he had five hundred bees already humming with Lara's life in a glass cider jug. {SAN's part} Every night, he clasped the jug against his chest when he stepped out of the shower, and for long minutes he felt their warmth against his skin, but the vibration was so intense he feared they would harm one another, or worse, push the ventilated lid loose.
Jamaal celebrated his three thousandth bee with a stiff shot. After wiping his mouth on one of the cloth napkins, a wedding gift from Lara's mother, he set about fixing the dining room for Lara's return.
Aromatic candles (she always loved vanilla), two place settings (both empty for now), and a long-stemmed rose in an elegant glass vase. Blood red, because he couldn't find coral. The ritual would take hours, so Jamaal dressed warmly. It would be the cold dead of night before Lara stepped once more into his arms.
Longer, if he didn't start now. Jamaal went down the dank cellar stair and set out the implements of her return. The jugs of bees. A trowel. Some dirt from her grave. Red wine, twine, gunpowder, scissors, and a flowing silk robe that still smelled like Lara after she'd been sweating in Jamaal's embrace.
Last of all, a clock. It was now 11:58.
{CHELSEA's bit}
He sprinkled the grave dirt into the bee jar. He anointed his forehead with the wine. He took off his own clothes and put on Lara's silk robe, then swallowed the gunpowder. He cut a length of twine and lowered it into the bee jar.
He uttered the one magic word he needed to make it happen: “prestochango” and everything went crazy. The bees flowed from the jar, crawling up the twine like mad. They flew into Jamaal's open mouth, stuffing him so full, he thought his body would bust open. Their legs and fuzzy bodies tickled his tongue. Their buzzing filled his head, shaking his skull, until his thoughts disappeared.
His thought were gone. Jamaal was gone, and Lara was left in his place.
Lara stretched her arms – they were heavier than she remembered – and took in a deep breath. “It's good to be-- Oh my.” She made the mistake of looking down and, well, not recognizing herself, since she wasn't in her own body. Her old silk robe hung open, revealing everything.
“I'd know Jamaal anywhere,” she sobbed, recognizing her husband's body. Even her voice sounded like his now, made with his vocal chords. “Oh, Jamaal!” she sobbed.
She stumbled and cut her foot on a pair of discarded scissors. She leaned down to inspect the wound. She'd never realized Jamaal's foot smelled so... good. Like a turkey on Thanksgiving, or a ham on Christmas, she couldn't resist the yumminess. She stuck out her tongue, just to taste. She must have looked ridiculous – a man wearing nothing but an open silk robe, bent over and trying to lick his own toes.
A drop of the blood touched her tongue. It tasted faintly of honey and mostly like the salty tang of BLOOD. Her own blood stirred, and she realized she was starving. Being dead had been hard work, apparantly. She licked the rest of the blood off her toe, then took a little nibble. Just a small one, to taste. Then a bigger one, because it was wonderful.
Lara pulled herself away from her own foot – Jamaal's foot, but she supposed it was hers now. His gift to her. She wouldn't survive by eating her own body. She had to find someone else's.
