Oh, Carolina, you little fictional thing, you. I miss you and I hurt for you.
So Much Fiction
- Originally posted on a 6s community, August 17, 2010 at 1:46pm
Carolina was never the kind to lower her eyes in the presence of her betters. Her capacity for strength and her resilient honesty kept her afloat many a time, and, though Daddy seethed when Carolina dared speak in a room full of men, Mother maintained her beyond the fray.
An odd paradox, thought Carolina, to use so familiar a name with so foreign a man and so structured a name for her oft-time savior. She never once contemplated that Mother may be more foreign still.
But that was before the day she met Mother’s lover on the terrace in the middle of July. Ever after Carolina understood the use of being coy, the function of seeming weak, the care to take with truth, and the strategy in allies; she had seen beneath the deeply layered veil of so much fiction.
Often, on the 6s community, I found inspiration in the writings of others. Full disclosure: I don’t remember or have a copy of the thread that inspired this, but I do have warm memories of the women on that thread.
- Originally posted on a 6s community on August 11, 2011 at 11:07am
- Fiction inspired by the Teresa, Grey, Gita thread
Charlamaigne Annaliese Tribideau (a family name) Fitzpatrick typically preferred Charlie with a hard “ch”, briefly – in college – answered only to Channa with a soft “ch”, and changed her name today to Jane Smith, purposefully uninspired, distinctly indistinct; thus begins her new life.
The courthouse air moves little, and that with the must of ancient smoke and the degradation of so many pointless slips of paper; indeed, the only papers of consequence are the new name paper and the deed she crumples with joy flowing through her fingertips.
Jane’s light and fire overpower the moist, exorbitant heat engorged by the cityscape.
She walks past her heiress-worthy Mercedes with doors unlocked and keys in ignition. Dripping with determination, she wills her stony and exhausted heart forward in revolution over scarred streets, through the fringes of gated communities, to the solitary willow on a horizon of green-dotted red clay.
Parting the branches, Jane Smith throws open the door of her posh dugout, delves into the belly of her land, and breathes the perfume of the earth.