Bridget's Flame Oct '10 #1 & Origfic Bingo
Monday, October 4th, 2010 11:27 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
covenmouseTitle: Martyrs, you mean
Prompt (Bridget's Flame): Hero
Prompt (OrigFic Bingo): Accidents
Word Count: 740
Verse: Tick,Tock (You don't need to read the others to understand it, though.)
Warnings: horrific traffic accident with glossed over carnage. IDK if that's enough to trigger anyone... Also, this is quite unedited. I may go back and edit a little later this evening. XD I'm just putting it up now or I'll forget later.
Characters: Lindsey (unnamed in this)
She stared down at the flaming wreck spewed across HWY 9 and wondered how it had gotten there.
There had been no crash that she'd heard, no squealing of tires, no honking of horns--just two cars and a truck lying about in a freshly made rubbish heap with a trail of flames eating its way up one side. As though they'd always been there.
Other vehicles were parked nearby.
The nearest of them sported dented hoods or sides where one or two of the wrecked cars had slammed into them before passing on to greater glory. Their drivers milled nervously about, several feet behind their cars. With a growing line of traffic stretched out on either side of the highway and no way to safely pass the wreckage, their vehicles and they themselves were easily in line of the greater damage to come.
One of the witnesses began to shoo them all to safety in the throng of persons who had left their vehicles to gap as flashing lights and sirens approached on the horizon.
Her head tilted in puzzled scrutiny, she watched as a fire crew desperately attempted to combat the flames and police officers waded into the crowds to keep an order already unnervingly present. The flames grew brighter and with a flash of light the smell of searing flesh exploded into the morning air.
"Well, I don't think that ambulance is going to be of any use. Do you?"
The man standing to her left was entirely nondescript. There was a strangeness to his face which she found she had no word for, save that there was no word for it, and something about his impersonal ghost of a smile made her frown. It was as if he were discussing the weather.
Though she knew that she should be upset, the woman turned her eyes back to the fire and sighed. "No, I don't believe it will."
"If it makes you feel any better," he continued after a moment, "the fire mattered little to them. It was the impact that did it."
"How do you know that?" When he did not answer, she turned to see that he had extended one leather gloved hand to her. It was white, as was his entire outfit, she noted and felt a little less alarmed.
"Take my hand, Sarah."
"Sarah," she repeated with a frown, "That isn't my name."
"What is your name?" he asked.
When she couldn't answer, he waggled the fingers of his outstretched hand. With utmost care, she extended her hand for his and looked down one last time at the carnage below. "They're supposed to be heroes," she muttered.
"There are many kinds of heroes," the man lectured softly. His hand enclosed around hers and he gave a gentle tug to lead her away from the accident. The rooftop they were standing on did not look at all familiar, Sarah thought, and she could not remember having climbed up to it. The man opened the door to the stairwell and lead her into the darkness beyond.
"Those who risk their lives for others are heroes," he continued as they descended the steps. Each step echoed like a death knell and Sarah drew herself close to him. "Those who die for others are heroes."
"Martyrs, you mean."
"Not necessarily."
The stairwell opened onto a porch in the countryside. Sarah looked behind them and found that the stairs they'd descended had gone, replaced with shady woodland and sprawling farms. "I don't understand."
"You aren't meant to," he assured her and opened the front door without knocking.
There was a woman in the kitchen who hummed along with a static-laden old radio. She did not look up as they entered, and a squeeze of the man's hand stopped Sarah from saying anything. Sarah looked up at him instead, at his uncaring smile, and he let go of her hand.
He pulled his gloves from his hands and deposited them upon the table. Then he touched her, palms to her cheeks, and kissed her forehead. Sarah's world went black.
Nine months later, she watched brightly painted animals spin a circle above her head as her mother and grandmother cooed baby language over her crib. She gurgled and grinned up at them, baby arms flailing.
"Did you decide on her name?" The elder of the women asked as she picked the baby up.
"Yes," said her mother, "We're going to call her Sarah."
Prompt (Bridget's Flame): Hero
Prompt (OrigFic Bingo): Accidents
Word Count: 740
Verse: Tick,Tock (You don't need to read the others to understand it, though.)
Warnings: horrific traffic accident with glossed over carnage. IDK if that's enough to trigger anyone... Also, this is quite unedited. I may go back and edit a little later this evening. XD I'm just putting it up now or I'll forget later.
Characters: Lindsey (unnamed in this)
She stared down at the flaming wreck spewed across HWY 9 and wondered how it had gotten there.
There had been no crash that she'd heard, no squealing of tires, no honking of horns--just two cars and a truck lying about in a freshly made rubbish heap with a trail of flames eating its way up one side. As though they'd always been there.
Other vehicles were parked nearby.
The nearest of them sported dented hoods or sides where one or two of the wrecked cars had slammed into them before passing on to greater glory. Their drivers milled nervously about, several feet behind their cars. With a growing line of traffic stretched out on either side of the highway and no way to safely pass the wreckage, their vehicles and they themselves were easily in line of the greater damage to come.
One of the witnesses began to shoo them all to safety in the throng of persons who had left their vehicles to gap as flashing lights and sirens approached on the horizon.
Her head tilted in puzzled scrutiny, she watched as a fire crew desperately attempted to combat the flames and police officers waded into the crowds to keep an order already unnervingly present. The flames grew brighter and with a flash of light the smell of searing flesh exploded into the morning air.
"Well, I don't think that ambulance is going to be of any use. Do you?"
The man standing to her left was entirely nondescript. There was a strangeness to his face which she found she had no word for, save that there was no word for it, and something about his impersonal ghost of a smile made her frown. It was as if he were discussing the weather.
Though she knew that she should be upset, the woman turned her eyes back to the fire and sighed. "No, I don't believe it will."
"If it makes you feel any better," he continued after a moment, "the fire mattered little to them. It was the impact that did it."
"How do you know that?" When he did not answer, she turned to see that he had extended one leather gloved hand to her. It was white, as was his entire outfit, she noted and felt a little less alarmed.
"Take my hand, Sarah."
"Sarah," she repeated with a frown, "That isn't my name."
"What is your name?" he asked.
When she couldn't answer, he waggled the fingers of his outstretched hand. With utmost care, she extended her hand for his and looked down one last time at the carnage below. "They're supposed to be heroes," she muttered.
"There are many kinds of heroes," the man lectured softly. His hand enclosed around hers and he gave a gentle tug to lead her away from the accident. The rooftop they were standing on did not look at all familiar, Sarah thought, and she could not remember having climbed up to it. The man opened the door to the stairwell and lead her into the darkness beyond.
"Those who risk their lives for others are heroes," he continued as they descended the steps. Each step echoed like a death knell and Sarah drew herself close to him. "Those who die for others are heroes."
"Martyrs, you mean."
"Not necessarily."
The stairwell opened onto a porch in the countryside. Sarah looked behind them and found that the stairs they'd descended had gone, replaced with shady woodland and sprawling farms. "I don't understand."
"You aren't meant to," he assured her and opened the front door without knocking.
There was a woman in the kitchen who hummed along with a static-laden old radio. She did not look up as they entered, and a squeeze of the man's hand stopped Sarah from saying anything. Sarah looked up at him instead, at his uncaring smile, and he let go of her hand.
He pulled his gloves from his hands and deposited them upon the table. Then he touched her, palms to her cheeks, and kissed her forehead. Sarah's world went black.
Nine months later, she watched brightly painted animals spin a circle above her head as her mother and grandmother cooed baby language over her crib. She gurgled and grinned up at them, baby arms flailing.
"Did you decide on her name?" The elder of the women asked as she picked the baby up.
"Yes," said her mother, "We're going to call her Sarah."
