The Autumn Child (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sharpeningthebones) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
rainbowfic2013-08-27 06:19 am
sharpeningthebones) wrote in rainbowfic2013-08-27 06:19 am
Entry tags:
Quill Grey
Name: Mallory
Story: None
Colors: Quill Grey: Writing is my time machine, takes me to the precise time and place I belong. - Jeb Dickerson
Supplies: None
Rating: PG
Warnings: Death (not graphic)
Word count; 249
Notes: another one where I mixed up prompts but I think I am pleased with it, so that's nice.
Summary: A child thinks on the loss of their father.
He tangled himself in words, tied his bones together using ribbons written on by the children who needed him most. He bound himself to the pages and would not be taken away from them.
Even with hi dying breaths, he was telling a story, offering promises to live on, that he would be found in the tales he told his children and the people who were willing to listen to him.
I didn't know what that meant for a long time. years and years. I thought he was a crazy old man who loved stories way too much. It made sense, he was addled, lost to us y the end. He cared more for books and stories than his family.
But when I found the pages he wrote on his dying day, and I read them, I could feel his hands on my cheeks, I could feel his kiss on my forehead.
There was no revelation, nothing that made me understand myself better or realize that he was a brilliant man or anything like that. It was amazing though, how touching the words he wrote brought me back to him, pulled me into his lap and made me a child again.
I read them now and again, those pages he wrote. i read the last thins he would ever pend down and I remember him. I remember that man who love me, the man who loved words, the man who loved the sound of language and his child's name.
Story: None
Colors: Quill Grey: Writing is my time machine, takes me to the precise time and place I belong. - Jeb Dickerson
Supplies: None
Rating: PG
Warnings: Death (not graphic)
Word count; 249
Notes: another one where I mixed up prompts but I think I am pleased with it, so that's nice.
Summary: A child thinks on the loss of their father.
He tangled himself in words, tied his bones together using ribbons written on by the children who needed him most. He bound himself to the pages and would not be taken away from them.
Even with hi dying breaths, he was telling a story, offering promises to live on, that he would be found in the tales he told his children and the people who were willing to listen to him.
I didn't know what that meant for a long time. years and years. I thought he was a crazy old man who loved stories way too much. It made sense, he was addled, lost to us y the end. He cared more for books and stories than his family.
But when I found the pages he wrote on his dying day, and I read them, I could feel his hands on my cheeks, I could feel his kiss on my forehead.
There was no revelation, nothing that made me understand myself better or realize that he was a brilliant man or anything like that. It was amazing though, how touching the words he wrote brought me back to him, pulled me into his lap and made me a child again.
I read them now and again, those pages he wrote. i read the last thins he would ever pend down and I remember him. I remember that man who love me, the man who loved words, the man who loved the sound of language and his child's name.