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Her Worn Wings

http://cghub.com/images/view/19377/

Wêh hunched on a three legged stool. She was stark naked waiting to moult. Her pale skin resisted reflections because it would slough in a few hours. Her nips, lips, and tip of her nose drew attention with their deep dull pink and pre-ecdysis swollen flesh. But her eyes and her dark cyan hair, which fell from one shoulder nearly to the floor, were both bright and glossy. I asked about her eyes.

“Öhm!?”

We’d been waiting and quiet awhile now, and I’d been doodling in my journal after making several notes and pointedly avoiding staring more than was scientifically necessary especially at her vulva which matched her lips in color and sheen—dammit. My unexpected query surprised her, but she quickly recovered and continued in a language we both understood, “My eyes? They don’t…uh, shed. You think they might?”

I chuckled. Her cultural preference for speaking in the present tense made for some funny conversations. “I thought they might. But was asking you since the didn’t look to be.”

170 words on day 710

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The Green Man

http://cghub.com/images/view/31678/

Miriam first met the Green Man less than a week out of her mother’s womb. Her father swaddled her in the same linen cloth he’d been brought in by his father. The flax for that linen had been grown, retted, scutched, and heckled by famous druidess [her name] when she was just a student. Now—old enough to be mated and a mother herself—she came to tell him she was the last. He would never again meet another decendent of Laux.

I was possible the Green Man already knew this. It was possible her grandfather or her father had known it and had been preparing the Green Man for the revelation for years. She didn’t think so.

Worse, she wouldn’t have time to prepare him properly before she left for Kek.

I’m forcing this and getting distracted by the research part, and I can feel a night of screwing around brewing.

151 words on day 708

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Dead Dragon; Dame

http://gorillaartfare.com/2011/02/burn-to-shine/

At first Jessica Matthews clung to the sword for fear the beast was not yet dead; she might lose her grip if it rose up again. The rest of the world filled her consideration in stages and her focus softened to allow for the things around her which weren’t a dragon. Her desperate grasp on the pommel was technically shoddy. Her knees were in the snow and cold. Sweat and snow-melt soaked her torn tights; each time she exhaled a chilly breeze ran between her body and the still-hot scales of the dragon. She didn’t worry it’s blood would stain her limited edition Schepacz t-shirt, but the thought of ruining her leather duster slapped her with dread. She stood.

A movie scene of boys drinking the blood of a newly killed deer.

A clear solution—tears she supposed—pooled in the corner of the dragon’s iridescent eye. The liquid appeared tinged with purple or may have only seemed that way because of the eye’s swimming hues. It was shot with a tendril of red blood which acted more like a crack through granite than one liquid in another. Jessica touched the surface with a single finger then dipped in two to get more of a taste. She expected the tears to be salty, but not sweet as well. And they were. [a little more here]

Finally removing her left hand from the pommel of her borrowed sword she wedged her fingers into the pocket of her denim cut-offs and pulled out a bottle of contact saline. She squeezed the bottle till it made several wispy wet-air noises and she was certain it was as empty as she could get it. She squeezed it and far shut as she could get it and dipped the tip into the dragon’s tears. She capped the bottle once it was full, stuffed it in her shorts, tugged the sword free, and walked away from her kill.

319 words on day 692