jolantru: (phoenix)
It was the smell of steeped leaves that got my attention.
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jolantru: (me)
Ten fat sausages, sizzling on the pan,
One went pop, another went bang!

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jolantru: (sing to the dawn)
My mother's gift was a cedar chest. Intricately carved, with scenery from the homeland at the sides. The craftsman had etched my name, my personal name, on the lid: Peony, in the old script. Touching it brought back memories. Memories of my mother's own cedar chest.

The chest was tucked away in a corner of her bedroom. A solid presence, with its own secrets. My mother opened it one day and I peered inside, seeing her wedding gown still cling-wrapped, her wedding shoes, old jewelery faded ivory in color and a handful of mothballs. What caught my attention was the white fur pelt. My hand trembled when I stroked it.
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jolantru: (sing to the dawn)
Inspired by this:


She heard them even before she saw the familiar shadow - so huge! - on the fields. It was the soft rustling of large leathery wings and the whistling of fur on an aerodynamic body. She left her spinning and ran towards the Quetz now making a graceful landing, wings spread wide to provide balance.
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jolantru: (Default)
I started writing flash fiction on Fridays (Twitter hashtag - fridayflash). It is a discipline of sorts, honing my writing.

In descending order...

Dragon Rider.


Falling Leaves.



jolantru: (Default)

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