CAST: Jade, Becquerel
WORD COUNT: 1941
ADDITIONAL TAGS: created for jadefest
SUMMARY: Jade, and what it’s like living on a lonely island, made lonelier after her grandpa dies.
EXCERPT: That morning, storm clouds had started to bloom on the horizon, huge and towering, the light going all wrong. Jade had watched it for hours, slowly growing, and finally made her way down to sit on the rocky shore, above the waves—she kept on having to move further and further back, but she knew that if she got too wet, if the surf reached her, Bec would make her go inside. She was still wet, even though the rain visible as a haze on the horizon hadn’t reached them yet. The wind was whipping salt spray at her, soaking through her clothes, and Jade sat there and felt the cold, as the harsh wind stripped away the water, evaporative cooling, something she’d read about. She could imagine the clouds climbing out of her pores—there were places where she was chilled, where the water and wind and the change of matter (water to water, liquid to vapor) left her skin cold and clammy, and there little pockets of heat, not quite enough, where her arms rested against her knees, where her knees were pulled up to her chest, protected.
Her Grandpa had always told her to be a sensible gal. She should go inside. The salt was starting to crust on her skin, drying stiff, and she’d need to wash it off—it stung, badly, on her skinned knee. Where she’d tripped on the rocks, the knots and ropes of cooled lava—sharp, rough, sometimes breaking or sliding under her feet. She hadn’t been careful enough, and Bec took care of her, but she needed to learn her lessons, and Grandpa was dead now. She still had her rifle with her. She’d need to clean it thoroughly—after all, you took good care of your weapons! Grandpa had taught her that.
Bec was suddenly there, a warm mass against her back, and she let herself lean, boneless, against him.
rec’d by diatorre, lantadyme