Effortless/Doubt/Propensity
Her eyes watch in wonder as he moves gracefully through the motions; the water fabric itself seems to come alive at his movements. Would she ever be able to dance like him? She knows she cannot, but she can’t help that small spark of hope, just barely there, under the surface, covered by more conceivable longings and dreams. The boy bows, rising once more with a smug expression on his face that she can see, even from her position in the corps. She suddenly smiles, satisfied with who she is. Better to be a humble dancer than a lonely one.
Epiphany/Sliced/Inquisition
She yanks on her shirt roughly, her face red with shame, her eyes averted from his. She knows the truth now even if she never wanted to believe it before. Now she has no choice. Her heart, on a string, bare for him to see. She understands now, he never loved her. Never could. For his heart belonged to her sister, and the knowledge of this was enough to tear her heart into two. As she slips from the room, ignoring the questions that are plaguing her from all sides, she pauses to watch them love, heart and soul together.
Dissolve/Books/Revolution
It is a revolution of sorts. To fight or flight, and she chooses the former. She runs to the library, searching, praying for something, anything that can help her in this war within her mind, and finds very little. Desperation overtakes all her movements now – not just scholarly interest, and she does not want to give up hope, even as she watches it dissolve before her very eyes. There is so little time, and too many books to read. The subjects are too difficult for her comprehension, but she has to persevere. Why? Because she has one night until finals.
This one is Candle Snuffer/Stationary/Heartache . In honor of the brave men in battle this Christmas. (well, it's sad, but...)
She keeps their letters in her desk, tied neatly up with crimson velvet, safely tucked away out of sight. Her replies match his in every way, all save one; hers were never sent, while his were wept over joyously, full of tears with hope. Hope that he would return to her. Hope that had gone out of her like a candle snuffer over a light. She pulls the letters out, reliving her heartache, and gazes at their differences. One, on rough, dried out paper splotched by the rain and mud,and the other, the pale blue delicate shade of stationary.
And now, ladies and gentlemen, for the huge finale Squeaky!Challenge: ... wait... DRUMROLL PLLLEASE? What? Our drums broke? Well... -bangs on table in lieu of drums-
Muse/Ennui/Squamous/Shriven/Sniffle/Evocative
He felt like death warmed over. He was half disgusted, half intrigued with himself by the evocative image his memory created of her. Her shapely figure, disguised by the outfit he saw her in, yet he knew every curve, had touched every inch of her skin with his exploring fingers. Where was she now? She had been his muse, and she was his muse still. When he was with her he could create anything that needed creating. A painting. A design. Himself. For some reason it hadn’t worked, and he gazed at the easel in front of him, seeing, as if for the first time, the disgusting squamous being. He felt like he had betrayed her by even making such a thing; he felt like he needed to be shriven for all he had done. He threw the canvas on his bed behind him, and then collapsed onto his knees, suddenly full of ennui, then just as quickly passing into a deep sense of longing. He wanted her back! He had never wanted to be left alone. He wanted his wife with him, beside him, holding him, kissing him. He let out a sniffle before closing his eyes in despair.
