bookblather (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bookblather) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
rainbowfic2021-05-31 06:33 pm
bookblather) wrote in rainbowfic2021-05-31 06:33 pm
Skylight 7, Color of the Day: Content
Author: Kat
Title: Content
Story: Shine Like It Does
Colors: Skylight 7 (Traffic noise), color of the day (remembrancer)
Supplies and Materials: Graffiti (Photography Month), photography, novelty beads (an elaborate room)
Word Count: 333
Rating: G
Summary: Charlotte's apartment in Atlanta is very different from her bedroom at home.
Warning: none.
Notes: ahahaha this has been a Month. I got promoted and turned 33 and dealt with a brand-new phobia and a kitchen problem that I won't describe for phobia reasons. I'll be around more from now on. I hope.
Charlotte's apartment in Atlanta is very different from her bedroom at home.
For one thing it's about the same size. And it's true that her bedroom is not small, but the apartment definitely is. Studio with a tiny kitchen, a tiny separate bathroom, her tiny bed tucked in a corner. A couple of bookcases, her electric piano, an acoustic guitar on a stand. She learned the piano as a child but her brother taught her to play the guitar, his hands over hers on bright summer afternoons.
At home, she sleeps in a big canopy bed, large enough for her and both her siblings to spread out. She woke up to the sun filtering through lace curtains and gauzy hangings, the smell of the ocean and the roar of the waves. And she loved it. Of course she did. It said home to her, the salt-taste on the back of her tongue and the pattern of the lace shadowed on her skin. But...
She paid for almost everything here, including the apartment itself. The bed, the battered dresser, the secondhand bookshelves- but the big purple pillow she uses to sit on the floor has been hers since childhood. Some of the jewelry in her polished oak box is real, inherited or presents from her parents. Miranda gave her the piano, Jack gave her the guitar. She likes having bits of her family around her. They love her. She never wants to give that up.
Still. This apartment is hers. It's not quite home yet, but she's made it her own, she's done it herself. She's earned it, in a way she's never earned anything before.
It's tiny. It always smells like the McDonalds downstairs. She can't stretch out in her bed-- she can't really stretch out at all. She wakes to people calling out to each other and the rattle of traffic along a potholed street, honking cars, the taste of diesel on the back of her tongue. It's hers.
Charlotte is content.
Title: Content
Story: Shine Like It Does
Colors: Skylight 7 (Traffic noise), color of the day (remembrancer)
Supplies and Materials: Graffiti (Photography Month), photography, novelty beads (an elaborate room)
Word Count: 333
Rating: G
Summary: Charlotte's apartment in Atlanta is very different from her bedroom at home.
Warning: none.
Notes: ahahaha this has been a Month. I got promoted and turned 33 and dealt with a brand-new phobia and a kitchen problem that I won't describe for phobia reasons. I'll be around more from now on. I hope.
Charlotte's apartment in Atlanta is very different from her bedroom at home.
For one thing it's about the same size. And it's true that her bedroom is not small, but the apartment definitely is. Studio with a tiny kitchen, a tiny separate bathroom, her tiny bed tucked in a corner. A couple of bookcases, her electric piano, an acoustic guitar on a stand. She learned the piano as a child but her brother taught her to play the guitar, his hands over hers on bright summer afternoons.
At home, she sleeps in a big canopy bed, large enough for her and both her siblings to spread out. She woke up to the sun filtering through lace curtains and gauzy hangings, the smell of the ocean and the roar of the waves. And she loved it. Of course she did. It said home to her, the salt-taste on the back of her tongue and the pattern of the lace shadowed on her skin. But...
She paid for almost everything here, including the apartment itself. The bed, the battered dresser, the secondhand bookshelves- but the big purple pillow she uses to sit on the floor has been hers since childhood. Some of the jewelry in her polished oak box is real, inherited or presents from her parents. Miranda gave her the piano, Jack gave her the guitar. She likes having bits of her family around her. They love her. She never wants to give that up.
Still. This apartment is hers. It's not quite home yet, but she's made it her own, she's done it herself. She's earned it, in a way she's never earned anything before.
It's tiny. It always smells like the McDonalds downstairs. She can't stretch out in her bed-- she can't really stretch out at all. She wakes to people calling out to each other and the rattle of traffic along a potholed street, honking cars, the taste of diesel on the back of her tongue. It's hers.
Charlotte is content.