Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Joss, except the idea that is mine.
Rating: NC-17/R18/21/?, whichever is higher.
Feedback: Yes, definitely. Particularly on writing style.
Summary: Er...it's probably a fantasy/mythology tale, confirmed not sci-fi, modern...I think...see Notes.
Notes: I'm just writing as I go, as inspiration (or procrastination) hammers. There prooobably will be changes to the posts of before when I get to after. I'm just stretching my writing muscles. I don't exercise for long, but I will try to finish this. I don't know what turns it will take, to be honest. Cliffhangers or no cliffhangers, most of the time we hang because I don't know what happens next.
Enjoy (I hope).
* * *
Tara breathed hard, perspiration dripped from her chin and gave a glisten to her toned arms, as she brought a crude ax high above her head; it sliced its target. Beside the large trunk upon which she worked lay a toddler's height worth of firewood. She swept the two chunks of wood into the pile and threw the ax onto the trunk. Tara wiped her forehead, her stomach answering to the delicious scent, then took up the chain below the pile and dragged the carrier into the house. She squinted and opened her eyes wide: twilight was the only source within. “Sal, light the candle please. I'm sure we can afford to use a bit of wax.” She could make out an outline of a child stirring in the kitchen, and her stomach moved her nearer. “Whatcha cookin'? It smells great.” Tara kissed the top of her head. “Thank you.”
“No, thank you. And we must stop with this politeness. We
have been living together for a while now and it
is my duty to cook, seeing as you can only burn rabbits.” Sal grinned at her and earned a tickle. “Hey, hey! Fire burning!”
Tara lightly smacked Sal's head. “I can burn other things too.”
“Like the house if you don't stop this at once.”
“Yes, little mother,” Tara said. She set the table with two wooden bowls and spoons just in time for Sal to bring over the pot. Tara sat, watching the flow as Sal tipped the porridge into the bowls.
“Are you ready, Tara?” Sal asked.
“I'm hungry as wolves.”
“No, that wasn't what I meant.” Sal looked at her. “It is tonight.”
Tara took her share and stirred. She blew away the steam. Sal sat opposite her with arms flat on the table, peering as Tara repeated her actions. “Well, come on,” Sal said, “taste it. You won't get a chance again.”
Tara complied and seemed to be deep in thought about her critique: her lips savored almost imperceptibly upon the dip her tongue had acquired. “Lovely texture,” she croaked, cleared her throat. “Taste is refreshing, as always, but...” she brushed the corner of her eye and smiled at Sal, “but it is sweet and stays even after the food is gone. You added something. Or did not. What was it?”.
“Are you not going to guess the ingredients?” Sal asked. “But you get them right anyway. Guess this time!” Sal uprighted herself and anticipated.
“Hmm...” Tara rubbed her chin, fingers shading a lopsided smile. “It can't be spring water because I've guessed it before...nor does it taste herby...hmm...this is a tough one.” Her brows furrowed and Sal grinned wider; Tara had to further hide her own amusement. “Definitely not meat. Unless...human meat?” Sal giggled—“They taste like chicken anyway”--“Not human then. Perhaps a certain
distillation was involved...” Tara's eyebrow rose at Sal.
Sal pouted. “Sometimes I wonder if you're the prophetess or I am.”
“So my official answer is rice wine. My only question is: how?”
“Farmer Joe.” Sal said. “My next question is: did you notice something else?”
Tara paused. “What else?”
Sal hopped off her stool and hugged Tara. “The bitterness. Sweet as it is, even
I cannot remove the bitterness. Not that I tried, because I want to nag at you. Do not mourn for me, Tara Aurelae—actually, sprinkle rice wine by a river when you remember me—and always recall to this moment that I love you, and that the future is
not fixed.”
Sal removed the pot to the kitchen--a chill wind gusted in but did not extinguish the stove. The wooden arch of the doors shattered to a black horse with flaming ruby eyes and its rider--three others burst in through the walls--Tara dashed to shield Sal--Tara's head twitched to the sound of Sal's collapse. “Leave,” Tara growled. The leader clopped forward—without breath—garmented in a wanderer's cloak, its face a swirling mist--and without touch flung Tara into a cupboard. Her back hurt piercingly, but she got up--and was trapped between the cupboard and an invisible barrier.
Sal lay on the floor facing her, brown eyes closed as illuminated by the stove. Her tendrils of golden hair curled over her high forehead, her cherub cheek, the tiniest of dimples—a smile--she rested on a pool of viscous liquid; Sal's hand, poised next to her as if she was asleep, covered the handle of the knife.
Sal floated into the air--her head quirked toward the floor, the gash yawning, and that crimson liquid drooled forth, dripped. A deep rumbling came from the earth. Tara looked to the group. They were still, concentrating on Sal. The house shook. Tara set her jaw, her fists clenched, perspiring, as the cupboard trembled against her back; bowls, utensils, books, tools crashed to the floor. The shaking worsened, such that the beams of the roof thundered down the invisible barrier over Sal and herself. Tara's eyes fluttered; her nails dug deeper and she bit her lip to strain herself to watch. The earth finally crumbled. From below Sal echoed a thousand wails; higher in pitch and might, as if maniacal in clawing out--turning into screams--rushing toward her--in her!
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