the androgynous keeper of plushfrogs (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
crossfortune) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
rainbowfic2015-03-24 05:55 pm
crossfortune) wrote in rainbowfic2015-03-24 05:55 pm
Entry tags:
will i reach for you;
Name: Mischa
Story: N/A: one-shot (probably)
Colors: white opal (wish on a shooting star), dove grey (Numb with shock, we can only stand and watch as they fall away from us, gradually getting smaller... ), octarine (Just because it's not nice doesn't mean it's not miraculous.)
Supplies and Styles: fingerpainting
Word Count: 136
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None needed
Summary: On the first day of winter, we buried my sister, and I look for her still.
Notes: I have no idea what I was doing with this. Also so close yet so far from a miniature.
On the first day of winter, we buried my sister, white flakes drifting down from the gray sky, and I look for her still. Poor little Rosemary, I hear them say, when they think I can’t hear, think I’m just the little gray ghost-girl that they imagine me to be, lost in her grief, chasing ghosts, and I don’t say a word.
When the coffin was closed, they didn’t see what I did- the thing that looked like my sister dissolving into nothing more than the driest of fallen leaves and regrets, like something out of a dream, except that I didn’t wake up: my sister is out there somewhere, and I don’t care where I’ll have to go, what I’ll have to do, to bring her home.
Story: N/A: one-shot (probably)
Colors: white opal (wish on a shooting star), dove grey (Numb with shock, we can only stand and watch as they fall away from us, gradually getting smaller... ), octarine (Just because it's not nice doesn't mean it's not miraculous.)
Supplies and Styles: fingerpainting
Word Count: 136
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None needed
Summary: On the first day of winter, we buried my sister, and I look for her still.
Notes: I have no idea what I was doing with this. Also so close yet so far from a miniature.
On the first day of winter, we buried my sister, white flakes drifting down from the gray sky, and I look for her still. Poor little Rosemary, I hear them say, when they think I can’t hear, think I’m just the little gray ghost-girl that they imagine me to be, lost in her grief, chasing ghosts, and I don’t say a word.
When the coffin was closed, they didn’t see what I did- the thing that looked like my sister dissolving into nothing more than the driest of fallen leaves and regrets, like something out of a dream, except that I didn’t wake up: my sister is out there somewhere, and I don’t care where I’ll have to go, what I’ll have to do, to bring her home.