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Candles as Warmth
Jul. 8th, 2006 07:06 pmUserinfo Interests Flash fiction, #3 of 150.
( Candles as Warmth )
This one's an actual drabble. Precisely 100 words. BOOYAH!
( Candles as Warmth )
This one's an actual drabble. Precisely 100 words. BOOYAH!
Jul. 8th, 2006
Here's the second half of my flash fiction challenge for today: the at-least-100 words of original writing. Today's is from the untitled novel, which I'm tempted to title "Blue", just so I have something by which to refer it. I didn't end up writing my original stuff yesterday, due to Circumstances, so the fact that both day 1 and day 3 are twice the length of the minimum requirement will just have to do.
Below is what I've written today, with fake LJ-cuts to link you to my writing journal where the "full" version shall be kept.
( Fake LJ-cut to first part )
father’s house, with his father’s butler and his father’s dead animals on the wall. Surrounded by generations of Triskels – and he’d sundered his ties to his family so thoroughly that he couldn’t help but think of them as his father’s ancestors. And there was the enormous portrait of his father over the fireplace – showing the elder Triskel looking heroically across a battlefield done in sombre blue-greys. That was recent. It hadn’t been there when Tristram had still been living in the house.
Tristram had to admit that he thought so little of his father that – no, there was no point in trying to put a spin on it. Tristram knew the old bastard, and he suspected that his father had done it deliberately, had known somehow that he wasn’t going to come back from this last campaign, and had ensured that some large representation of himself would be there to … keep an eye on him. Keep him in check. Make sure that he lives up to the Triskel family name.
Dear god, thought Tristram. So much had been going on since his father’s death, but that fact hit him squarely between the eyes. He could no longer hide out as Tristram Archer. His father had, by his death, forced him back into the family fold.
( Fake LJ-cut to second part )
Below is what I've written today, with fake LJ-cuts to link you to my writing journal where the "full" version shall be kept.
( Fake LJ-cut to first part )
father’s house, with his father’s butler and his father’s dead animals on the wall. Surrounded by generations of Triskels – and he’d sundered his ties to his family so thoroughly that he couldn’t help but think of them as his father’s ancestors. And there was the enormous portrait of his father over the fireplace – showing the elder Triskel looking heroically across a battlefield done in sombre blue-greys. That was recent. It hadn’t been there when Tristram had still been living in the house.
Tristram had to admit that he thought so little of his father that – no, there was no point in trying to put a spin on it. Tristram knew the old bastard, and he suspected that his father had done it deliberately, had known somehow that he wasn’t going to come back from this last campaign, and had ensured that some large representation of himself would be there to … keep an eye on him. Keep him in check. Make sure that he lives up to the Triskel family name.
Dear god, thought Tristram. So much had been going on since his father’s death, but that fact hit him squarely between the eyes. He could no longer hide out as Tristram Archer. His father had, by his death, forced him back into the family fold.
( Fake LJ-cut to second part )