Well Aimed Chaos (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
whitemage) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
rainbowfic2013-08-10 01:15 am
whitemage) wrote in rainbowfic2013-08-10 01:15 am
The Purse
Name: Ardy
Piece/Story: The Purse
Colors: Bone 8 (Death Knell); Angel Cake 13 (pure); Fire Opal 15 (obsession)
Styles/Supplies: Graffiti (Midsummer Night’s Dream prompt)
Word Count: 580
Ratings/Warnings: PG - mentions dying, homicide, passive sexism; No standard warnings apply
Notes: This went quickly.
It had always been their greatest treasure, Cicily’s mother told her. The young lady held the jeweled bag with a solemnness befitting the occasion, listening to the gravely fantastic tales that detailed its history.
The lush emerald velvet keep her mesmerized. It had been in her family since the dawn of time. An old wizard had gifted it to Cicily’s maternal ancestor when she had spurned his offer of marriage, announcing the purse as a peace offering, that would give her family great fortune and good luck if properly handled, but bring them to ruin if not.
Cicily thought that sounded more like a curse and a little silly at that, but she was informed she was wrong. Her mother talked of wars being fought for the power it held, of family members murdered--only the eldest woman of each generation had a right to hold it, beginning on her 15th birthday.
Her great-grandmother Iris had nearly lost the bag once, and as it dropped, so did her father a thousand miles away. An unexpected heart attack, they said. Iris’s own mother Eunice had allowed the bag to be trampled by horses, and her 3 suitors all went mad on the same day.
“Keep it with care,” Her mother told her, eyes full of concern and enthralled wonder. “Keep it close, keep it safe, for the sake of our men and our lives.”
“What is the treasure?” Cicily whispered, her tone for once childlike over pragmatic. She imagined the wildest: an enchanted pedant, an eternally blooming rose, a bound spirit in service. Her imagination began to run away with her and she felt a sudden little burn to know.
Cicily’s mother grabbed her by the shoulders. “Fool girl, I can see into your heart! Would you destroy us all? For the sake of Heaven and Earth, keep this purse immaculate and intact. Cherish it in the hidden places of your heart, closed and knotted and locked away.”
The problem, of course, is that when one says a thing like that to a person like Cicily, it slowly twists from a dire warning to a firm admonishment to a plausible suggestion to clearly a challenge to do quite the opposite.
Cicily tried, really. She tried not to look at the purse, but having it hang from her hip just made it jostle when she walked, keeping it on her mind all the time.
She tried just not thinking about it, but that which one is not supposed to think about is always, by virtue of concentrating on not thinking of it, at the front of one’s mind.
For days, for weeks, she went on and on thinking about this purse and what magical treasure it held she was so bound to keep sacred and unspotted by exposing it to the world. Something that was able to kill grown men just by it being disturbed? Now that is an odd sort of power, and should be all rights be able to be harnessed for something more productive, right?
Telling herself this and many other rationalizations, Cicily finally could not bear it another minute. Daintily she opened the purse, forcing herself to draw it open upon its strings with the most tantalizing care and slowness. Biting her lip, she thought she would fairly burst before her trembling fingers could get a glimpse of the astonishing artifact beneath. Why, she was just tingling all over to see....
Absolutely nothing but an empty purse.
Piece/Story: The Purse
Colors: Bone 8 (Death Knell); Angel Cake 13 (pure); Fire Opal 15 (obsession)
Styles/Supplies: Graffiti (Midsummer Night’s Dream prompt)
Word Count: 580
Ratings/Warnings: PG - mentions dying, homicide, passive sexism; No standard warnings apply
Notes: This went quickly.
It had always been their greatest treasure, Cicily’s mother told her. The young lady held the jeweled bag with a solemnness befitting the occasion, listening to the gravely fantastic tales that detailed its history.
The lush emerald velvet keep her mesmerized. It had been in her family since the dawn of time. An old wizard had gifted it to Cicily’s maternal ancestor when she had spurned his offer of marriage, announcing the purse as a peace offering, that would give her family great fortune and good luck if properly handled, but bring them to ruin if not.
Cicily thought that sounded more like a curse and a little silly at that, but she was informed she was wrong. Her mother talked of wars being fought for the power it held, of family members murdered--only the eldest woman of each generation had a right to hold it, beginning on her 15th birthday.
Her great-grandmother Iris had nearly lost the bag once, and as it dropped, so did her father a thousand miles away. An unexpected heart attack, they said. Iris’s own mother Eunice had allowed the bag to be trampled by horses, and her 3 suitors all went mad on the same day.
“Keep it with care,” Her mother told her, eyes full of concern and enthralled wonder. “Keep it close, keep it safe, for the sake of our men and our lives.”
“What is the treasure?” Cicily whispered, her tone for once childlike over pragmatic. She imagined the wildest: an enchanted pedant, an eternally blooming rose, a bound spirit in service. Her imagination began to run away with her and she felt a sudden little burn to know.
Cicily’s mother grabbed her by the shoulders. “Fool girl, I can see into your heart! Would you destroy us all? For the sake of Heaven and Earth, keep this purse immaculate and intact. Cherish it in the hidden places of your heart, closed and knotted and locked away.”
The problem, of course, is that when one says a thing like that to a person like Cicily, it slowly twists from a dire warning to a firm admonishment to a plausible suggestion to clearly a challenge to do quite the opposite.
Cicily tried, really. She tried not to look at the purse, but having it hang from her hip just made it jostle when she walked, keeping it on her mind all the time.
She tried just not thinking about it, but that which one is not supposed to think about is always, by virtue of concentrating on not thinking of it, at the front of one’s mind.
For days, for weeks, she went on and on thinking about this purse and what magical treasure it held she was so bound to keep sacred and unspotted by exposing it to the world. Something that was able to kill grown men just by it being disturbed? Now that is an odd sort of power, and should be all rights be able to be harnessed for something more productive, right?
Telling herself this and many other rationalizations, Cicily finally could not bear it another minute. Daintily she opened the purse, forcing herself to draw it open upon its strings with the most tantalizing care and slowness. Biting her lip, she thought she would fairly burst before her trembling fingers could get a glimpse of the astonishing artifact beneath. Why, she was just tingling all over to see....
Absolutely nothing but an empty purse.
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It's really empty and I have language fails. =P
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Thanks! I don't know where this came from, but it wanted out.