Sometimes I like to write in French. It doesn’t happen ALL that often, but once in a while, I just feel really francophone. If I were to put up French writing, would any of you like to/be able to read that?
Without further ado:
She raked the bristles of her boars’-hair brush through her hair. Over and over, one hundred strokes following the root. One hundred against the root. One hundred following. One hundred against. The fire gleamed on its length as she flicked it out of the way, over one shoulder and the other. The wet strands dried slowly with her brushing, their colour lightening from their dull, dark colour to a fascinating, varied shimmer. Streaks of brightest gold, streaks of palest yellow, streaks of barely brown and streaks of almost white combined, falling around her face.
As she brushed, her mind flew. Travelling through her room, touching lightly in all the corners, her fleeting thoughts drew her afternoon’s studies, upon last night’s dreams, upon tomorrow’s need for firewood, upon tonight’s evening meal, and finally upon her mirror.
One would think it would be a large thing, tall and wide and gilded and heavy. But it was nothing more than an oval wall mirror, no longer than her arm. There was no gilt frame, only basic wood. It was in slight need of silvering. One would never guess this mirror was special.
But wasn’t that always how it happens? One expects big and bold and beautiful when in truth, power has little to do with appearance. But that lesson was one that Thea had yet to learn.
It’s short, I know. I’m sorry. I have reasons, but no excuse. It’s my second week of this, I should have had something prepared. This was not last minute in thinking, but definitely was in “putting together.” Next week I’ll try to make it up to you with a WHOLE story. Beginning, middle, and end. Wish me luck!