Original #403.2 - Cypress Ghost.
Mar. 4th, 2007 10:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
runicloreThe object was to imitate haiku. Generally, this means trying to capture one moment, or a few, in its crisp clearness as you witness it. Their high point is usually imagery, so that was the exercise.
...........................
Snow lingered on the ground when the first plush blossom came to life on the branches of the plum tree outside. Against the dim grays of old winter it bled color and life into the miserable backdrop, at times bright enough that it seemed to bleed past the latticed screen through which the lady gazed, staining the wood dark. Hinoki and pine crowded behind the front hall, walling their compound in, even against the steel gray sky. Within, behind, just past the trail of her quilted robe, her futon lay abaondoned, still unfolded, and the quilts rumpled into a pile at the end.
The household was really quite lenient, Fujian said every morning. With a father at this rank, and such and such a holding in contested territory, the women of the house sleep until sunlight strikes their screens. Did the women at court lie abed instead of doing-- well, whatever it was they did? No. Would a rich farmer even, who wallowed at the bottom of the mountain of greatness, have his wife waste even one daylight hour? Of course not.
Yet Fujian did not enter that morning until the sunlight filtered through the lattice, forming its daily pattern on the floor. She folded the futon silently while Sara watched, then smoothed the quilt on top. Her face showed the careful smoothness of someone who bit their tongue.
Her eyes said, when they flicked up, you are not your mother.
Sara wished she could lie down again. The futon left with Fujian. The scent of charred cypress and the sulphurous stench of hair curling on the flames - that remained, lingering like a ghost wherever the servant went. It followed the familiar faces of the staff, calling to mind a cold winter night and the light of a pyre.
She pushed half-heartedly at the screen, and it did not budge. Her hands were too soft. It was latched from the outside with a wooden peg, but they didn't know that she knew that.
No, Sara was not her mother. She did not cry enough, nor scream. She had not felt cause to do either for such a very long time. Her father expected it; Fujian's severe gaze said something different, but she was not master of the house. She was ward, and warden, and in any case her hands were strong enough to lift a screen.
.........................
Not finished, not unfinished. There's more to the story, but it isn't suitable for expansion.
Sorry for the spam, guys. There was no point in waiting a day between each posting when it was all sitting right here.
Also: while I won't put anything up here that I plan to publish, I trust you all will not quote or use it without credit. It's not the greatest work, but it's still mine. Thanks.
...........................
Snow lingered on the ground when the first plush blossom came to life on the branches of the plum tree outside. Against the dim grays of old winter it bled color and life into the miserable backdrop, at times bright enough that it seemed to bleed past the latticed screen through which the lady gazed, staining the wood dark. Hinoki and pine crowded behind the front hall, walling their compound in, even against the steel gray sky. Within, behind, just past the trail of her quilted robe, her futon lay abaondoned, still unfolded, and the quilts rumpled into a pile at the end.
The household was really quite lenient, Fujian said every morning. With a father at this rank, and such and such a holding in contested territory, the women of the house sleep until sunlight strikes their screens. Did the women at court lie abed instead of doing-- well, whatever it was they did? No. Would a rich farmer even, who wallowed at the bottom of the mountain of greatness, have his wife waste even one daylight hour? Of course not.
Yet Fujian did not enter that morning until the sunlight filtered through the lattice, forming its daily pattern on the floor. She folded the futon silently while Sara watched, then smoothed the quilt on top. Her face showed the careful smoothness of someone who bit their tongue.
Her eyes said, when they flicked up, you are not your mother.
Sara wished she could lie down again. The futon left with Fujian. The scent of charred cypress and the sulphurous stench of hair curling on the flames - that remained, lingering like a ghost wherever the servant went. It followed the familiar faces of the staff, calling to mind a cold winter night and the light of a pyre.
She pushed half-heartedly at the screen, and it did not budge. Her hands were too soft. It was latched from the outside with a wooden peg, but they didn't know that she knew that.
No, Sara was not her mother. She did not cry enough, nor scream. She had not felt cause to do either for such a very long time. Her father expected it; Fujian's severe gaze said something different, but she was not master of the house. She was ward, and warden, and in any case her hands were strong enough to lift a screen.
.........................
Not finished, not unfinished. There's more to the story, but it isn't suitable for expansion.
Sorry for the spam, guys. There was no point in waiting a day between each posting when it was all sitting right here.
Also: while I won't put anything up here that I plan to publish, I trust you all will not quote or use it without credit. It's not the greatest work, but it's still mine. Thanks.