Saturday's Storyteller: Dressed In Black
by Belinda Roddie
Today, I threw knives and I threw stars, and I threw javelins, but I didn't throw axes. I needed money for mead, anyway, and shepherd's pie, while pretty ladies sold garlands on staves and children wielded carved blue magic wands.
Dressed in black, I followed my dame through the dust and the slight September breeze. One man accused me of being a spy, but a mild denial from me kept him at bay; I couldn't believe my luck. We watched a joust and hollered as the knight from Scotland won the bout. He wore no shirt; his abs apparently offended the gentleman from France. The child in the stands behind us refused to sit, as he claimed it, "hurt his feet."
A man in orange blew a glass flower in front of us that afternoon. Minutes later, it shattered like the sun hit it just right - or like a miniature silicone supernova. The glassblower told us that the flower self-destructed because it hadn't been annealed. I guess that's what happens to all of us when we aren't properly cooled down and toughened out.
I bore my rapier against my hip, and no one could tug it from its scabbard. It slept soundly there the entire day, before it was dropped into the back of our carriage, and we wheeled ourselves down highways. And we bustled past the vineyards, and we passed the fruit and vegetable stands. And I felt the weight of both time and the festival sit on my head like a look from the Divine Queen.
This week's Storyteller was inspired by my day at the Northern California Renaissance Faire in Hollister, rather than a specific prompt. I had fun!
Today, I threw knives and I threw stars, and I threw javelins, but I didn't throw axes. I needed money for mead, anyway, and shepherd's pie, while pretty ladies sold garlands on staves and children wielded carved blue magic wands.
Dressed in black, I followed my dame through the dust and the slight September breeze. One man accused me of being a spy, but a mild denial from me kept him at bay; I couldn't believe my luck. We watched a joust and hollered as the knight from Scotland won the bout. He wore no shirt; his abs apparently offended the gentleman from France. The child in the stands behind us refused to sit, as he claimed it, "hurt his feet."
A man in orange blew a glass flower in front of us that afternoon. Minutes later, it shattered like the sun hit it just right - or like a miniature silicone supernova. The glassblower told us that the flower self-destructed because it hadn't been annealed. I guess that's what happens to all of us when we aren't properly cooled down and toughened out.
I bore my rapier against my hip, and no one could tug it from its scabbard. It slept soundly there the entire day, before it was dropped into the back of our carriage, and we wheeled ourselves down highways. And we bustled past the vineyards, and we passed the fruit and vegetable stands. And I felt the weight of both time and the festival sit on my head like a look from the Divine Queen.
This week's Storyteller was inspired by my day at the Northern California Renaissance Faire in Hollister, rather than a specific prompt. I had fun!
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