4 ) Mealtimes
Dec. 25th, 2013 12:47 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
antiexistenceWritten: 12/25/2013
Title: Mealtimes
Author: Psyche
Words: 372
4 ) Secret city of people
Life is a series of falsehoods in hopes of gaining something real.
She eats breakfast on the porch overlooking the field, idly watching the corn stalks sway to the invisible breeze as she picks apart the strawberries from their stems. Her fingers flush bright and leave a sticky residue against her dress and mouth, but when asked by the boy with white hair, she only shakes her head. She knows she can accomplish the task with finesse, and she knows--
(the taste, the touch, the smell)
--it matters little in the confines of her sunlit world. And because it matters little is precisely why she eats strawberries in the morning.
Humming, she flicks away a stem from her lap.
-----
She spends lunch in her room, her delicate hands folding linen and fluffing pillows. Toys and books line neatly along their spaces on the wall, and it is a wonder how she makes the effort to keep things tidy when they will only scatter to every corner in the space of an hour. When the boy with black hair sighs behind his hand at the prospect, she only shakes with laughter. She knows she can take greater care in keeping order, and she knows--
(the time, the need, the effort)
--it matters little in the confines of her sunlit world. And because it matters little is precisely why she cleans her room at noon.
Smiling, she hands the boy a stuffed bunny.
-----
She abandons dinner to walk through the corn stalks, arms stretching on either side to reach surrounding life. Coarse leaves tickle her palms and knuckles, dirt clings to the soles of her lilac slippers, and she barely manages to remember the way back home.
(home)
Home reminds her of warmth, of loving parents and her unborn baby sister. She knows she can rely on the boy with red hair, and she knows she might break his heart. Something tells her that she probably won't leave, that she cannot escape from her sunlit world to the place more real than the confines that keep her.
And because she cannot escape is precisely why she thinks of home.
Quiet, she watches the sun as it sets behind the corn stalks, beyond the horizon. Watches as it draws the day of her world to a close.
Title: Mealtimes
Author: Psyche
Words: 372
4 ) Secret city of people
Life is a series of falsehoods in hopes of gaining something real.
She eats breakfast on the porch overlooking the field, idly watching the corn stalks sway to the invisible breeze as she picks apart the strawberries from their stems. Her fingers flush bright and leave a sticky residue against her dress and mouth, but when asked by the boy with white hair, she only shakes her head. She knows she can accomplish the task with finesse, and she knows--
(the taste, the touch, the smell)
--it matters little in the confines of her sunlit world. And because it matters little is precisely why she eats strawberries in the morning.
Humming, she flicks away a stem from her lap.
-----
She spends lunch in her room, her delicate hands folding linen and fluffing pillows. Toys and books line neatly along their spaces on the wall, and it is a wonder how she makes the effort to keep things tidy when they will only scatter to every corner in the space of an hour. When the boy with black hair sighs behind his hand at the prospect, she only shakes with laughter. She knows she can take greater care in keeping order, and she knows--
(the time, the need, the effort)
--it matters little in the confines of her sunlit world. And because it matters little is precisely why she cleans her room at noon.
Smiling, she hands the boy a stuffed bunny.
-----
She abandons dinner to walk through the corn stalks, arms stretching on either side to reach surrounding life. Coarse leaves tickle her palms and knuckles, dirt clings to the soles of her lilac slippers, and she barely manages to remember the way back home.
(home)
Home reminds her of warmth, of loving parents and her unborn baby sister. She knows she can rely on the boy with red hair, and she knows she might break his heart. Something tells her that she probably won't leave, that she cannot escape from her sunlit world to the place more real than the confines that keep her.
And because she cannot escape is precisely why she thinks of home.
Quiet, she watches the sun as it sets behind the corn stalks, beyond the horizon. Watches as it draws the day of her world to a close.
