Sujet pour mettre mes divers one shots, sans connections particulière entre eux. J'écris en anglais, alors, ce sera tout en anglais, désolé pour les francophones monolingues.
Je commence avec le dernier one shot que j'ai écrit, dites moi si vous voulez que je rajoute les quatre que j'avais écrits avant de rejoindre le forum
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Thread to put my various unconnected one shots I write in English, so everything will be in English, my apologies to monilingual francophones.
I'm starting with the last one shot I wrote, tell me if you want me to add the four I wrote before joining this forum
Yseult's Mysterious Snippies of Gold
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Yseult Y. Nott
- Guerrier Maya
- Messages : 163
- Enregistré le : 30 mai 2023, 21:40
- Genre : Homme
- Âge : 25
Yseult's Mysterious Snippies of Gold
Non binaire, pronoms masculins
-
Yseult Y. Nott
- Guerrier Maya
- Messages : 163
- Enregistré le : 30 mai 2023, 21:40
- Genre : Homme
- Âge : 25
Re: Yseult's Mysterious Snippies of Gold
The Child from the Cold Mountain
"I'm a fast learner," you say, and it's the first thing you've said to the man in front of you that isn't a lie.
The man stares at you, gauging, judging, looks at your shoulders and arms, at your ill-fitting clothes, and you clench your fists to stop your fingers from shaking, you set your jaw to keep your lips from wobbling, and you try to make it all look like determination instead of despair. Instead of fear. If he finds you out…
It wouldn't take much. Just a hint of breast under the stolen shirt.
"Don't make me regret this," the man says.
When you open your hands, your palms are bloody where nails dug into skin.
---
You sleep under deck that night, or rather you lie awake, cloth hammock and wooden ceiling, wooden floor and wooden walls all creaking with every whisper of the wind, with every wave against the hull. No stone anywhere, no ground, and you've never been at sea before. Not like this.
It's a cramped place, and you hate it, the snoring and the groaning and the conversations in low voices of too many men in too small a place, and the vulnerability of being alone in a crowd of strangers, and the smell, too, the smell most of all, salt and sweat and overwhelming, so thick you can taste it at the back of your throat, can choke on it, can feel your stomach turn and churn as though you are going to be sick.
You aren't. Thank God and Mary and the Christ in his crib, you aren't.
It doesn't make you safe. It doesn't make you feel safe. One wrong move, one mistake, one unlucky accident and they will know your lie.
You wonder if you made the right choice.
---
Old Juana Martín was not a kind woman, but she was a reliable one. A trustworthy one, in as much as trustworthiness exists. She'd be stern, and unforgiving, and quicker with a stick than with a kind word, and ever since her son's and her brother's and her husband's deaths, she'd trade labor for a slice of bread, and maybe half one more for her reminiscences.
You didn't mind it, the work or the bread or the old memories. Of course, you weren't as fond of the stick, but you'd learn how to avoid its bite, and so it hadn't been much of an issue.
Old Juana Martín grew up in the mountains.
It was hard to imagine, really, a place like she described. A place where the air doesn't smell of salt, where in winter the snow stays white, doesn't turn gray and yellow and black under the feet of passers-by. Strange, like a dream or a foreign country. You always wanted to see them.
They ask for your name and you go from Mayor to Mendoza, from girl to boy, from clean hands to bloody ones.
The ropes and the rigging tear the skin of your palms as you dress yourself in lies.
---
The man who sleeps on your left at night has for name Alonso López and has just as much bite as bark, lean and mean as a stray dog, teeth always bared in anger or contempt. You like him, in a way; you like the way he calls you boy with a sneer at your stumbles, the clockwork predictability of his cruelty, the way you can trust that you know what he will do.
Alonsico~ you tease, sing-song, and you duck under his raised hands and swinging fists, and all in the world is right and makes sense.
The man who sleeps on your right at night has for name Cristóbal Rodriguez and is as still and dull as a rock, so quiet some believe him mute. He's not, you know, you've heard him speak, but he doesn't react to teasing, to needling, to insults and provocations, and so you are wary of him. There's a faultline in every man, after all, and not knowing what makes one crack is a good way to get crushed.
You do not think much of Cristóbal Rodríguez, and you do not say much to him either. To each his life, and all will be well.
The man who sleeps across the room from you at night has for name Juan Terciado and he watches as you trip on the deck, as you pull bloody splinters out of your fingers, and he puts his hand on your shoulder and smiles.
"Here," he says. "Watch. I'll show you how it's done."
---
Juan Terciado is a kind man.
You learn this as you learn the ropes, their names and their knots and their pulleys and sails, which to pull and when and how and when you need to let them go, how to work them with one hand as the other holds to the rigging. You learn this as he teaches you, voice level and lips smiling and a hand on your shoulder, never a yell and never a hit and always a compliment.
Yes, Juan Terciado is a kind man.
Kindness, you've learned, is like bones thrown at a stray dog, do a trick and get a treat, done only when convenient. Kindness doesn't open the door at night, doesn't open a home, doesn't make for a bed and a place by the hearth. Kindness binds no one to nothing, and kindness dries up quick, if one stops begging for scraps and starts demanding love instead. Kindness is useful, helpful, and ultimately kindness is not enough, and you've always been a greedy thing.
You take what he has to give and you learn what he has to teach and you keep yourself to yourself and offer only smiling lies and laughter.
He calls you boy, like the captain calls you boy, like Cristóbal does, like Alonsico.
You like it.
---
You're not sure you know what a boy is anymore. What a girl is. What you are. All you know is kindness's lies and want's truth and a thousand flickers of things:
You know you like the feeling of your skirts when you wore them, the swish of the fabric at the back of your legs. You miss them, even, despite trousers being more practical when it comes to climbing the rigging.
You know you like boy and he and Mendoza, and for all that Mayor is fine, the thought of being a she again is like razors under your skin.
You know you like the way the work put strength to your shoulders and arms.
You know you have Alonsico to bother and Cristóbal to ignore and Juan to make use of, the captain to pay you and the cook to feed you and all the crew to be your world. You know you have sweat on your palms drying like blood, fear in your stomach and a meal every day. You know you have yourself, and your wits, and all the strength and skill you've gained, and you know you'll be alright.
There's a dead boy lying naked in a street in Valencia, there's a girl who went missing and who never was one, there's you sitting in the rigging in stolen clothes, and you're going to be alright.
You've got your whole life to figure it out.
Mendoza sails for the very first time, and comes to some confusing realizations
Tags and Warnings
"I'm a fast learner," you say, and it's the first thing you've said to the man in front of you that isn't a lie.
The man stares at you, gauging, judging, looks at your shoulders and arms, at your ill-fitting clothes, and you clench your fists to stop your fingers from shaking, you set your jaw to keep your lips from wobbling, and you try to make it all look like determination instead of despair. Instead of fear. If he finds you out…
It wouldn't take much. Just a hint of breast under the stolen shirt.
"Don't make me regret this," the man says.
When you open your hands, your palms are bloody where nails dug into skin.
---
You sleep under deck that night, or rather you lie awake, cloth hammock and wooden ceiling, wooden floor and wooden walls all creaking with every whisper of the wind, with every wave against the hull. No stone anywhere, no ground, and you've never been at sea before. Not like this.
It's a cramped place, and you hate it, the snoring and the groaning and the conversations in low voices of too many men in too small a place, and the vulnerability of being alone in a crowd of strangers, and the smell, too, the smell most of all, salt and sweat and overwhelming, so thick you can taste it at the back of your throat, can choke on it, can feel your stomach turn and churn as though you are going to be sick.
You aren't. Thank God and Mary and the Christ in his crib, you aren't.
It doesn't make you safe. It doesn't make you feel safe. One wrong move, one mistake, one unlucky accident and they will know your lie.
You wonder if you made the right choice.
---
Old Juana Martín was not a kind woman, but she was a reliable one. A trustworthy one, in as much as trustworthiness exists. She'd be stern, and unforgiving, and quicker with a stick than with a kind word, and ever since her son's and her brother's and her husband's deaths, she'd trade labor for a slice of bread, and maybe half one more for her reminiscences.
You didn't mind it, the work or the bread or the old memories. Of course, you weren't as fond of the stick, but you'd learn how to avoid its bite, and so it hadn't been much of an issue.
Old Juana Martín grew up in the mountains.
It was hard to imagine, really, a place like she described. A place where the air doesn't smell of salt, where in winter the snow stays white, doesn't turn gray and yellow and black under the feet of passers-by. Strange, like a dream or a foreign country. You always wanted to see them.
They ask for your name and you go from Mayor to Mendoza, from girl to boy, from clean hands to bloody ones.
The ropes and the rigging tear the skin of your palms as you dress yourself in lies.
---
The man who sleeps on your left at night has for name Alonso López and has just as much bite as bark, lean and mean as a stray dog, teeth always bared in anger or contempt. You like him, in a way; you like the way he calls you boy with a sneer at your stumbles, the clockwork predictability of his cruelty, the way you can trust that you know what he will do.
Alonsico~ you tease, sing-song, and you duck under his raised hands and swinging fists, and all in the world is right and makes sense.
The man who sleeps on your right at night has for name Cristóbal Rodriguez and is as still and dull as a rock, so quiet some believe him mute. He's not, you know, you've heard him speak, but he doesn't react to teasing, to needling, to insults and provocations, and so you are wary of him. There's a faultline in every man, after all, and not knowing what makes one crack is a good way to get crushed.
You do not think much of Cristóbal Rodríguez, and you do not say much to him either. To each his life, and all will be well.
The man who sleeps across the room from you at night has for name Juan Terciado and he watches as you trip on the deck, as you pull bloody splinters out of your fingers, and he puts his hand on your shoulder and smiles.
"Here," he says. "Watch. I'll show you how it's done."
---
Juan Terciado is a kind man.
You learn this as you learn the ropes, their names and their knots and their pulleys and sails, which to pull and when and how and when you need to let them go, how to work them with one hand as the other holds to the rigging. You learn this as he teaches you, voice level and lips smiling and a hand on your shoulder, never a yell and never a hit and always a compliment.
Yes, Juan Terciado is a kind man.
Kindness, you've learned, is like bones thrown at a stray dog, do a trick and get a treat, done only when convenient. Kindness doesn't open the door at night, doesn't open a home, doesn't make for a bed and a place by the hearth. Kindness binds no one to nothing, and kindness dries up quick, if one stops begging for scraps and starts demanding love instead. Kindness is useful, helpful, and ultimately kindness is not enough, and you've always been a greedy thing.
You take what he has to give and you learn what he has to teach and you keep yourself to yourself and offer only smiling lies and laughter.
He calls you boy, like the captain calls you boy, like Cristóbal does, like Alonsico.
You like it.
---
You're not sure you know what a boy is anymore. What a girl is. What you are. All you know is kindness's lies and want's truth and a thousand flickers of things:
You know you like the feeling of your skirts when you wore them, the swish of the fabric at the back of your legs. You miss them, even, despite trousers being more practical when it comes to climbing the rigging.
You know you like boy and he and Mendoza, and for all that Mayor is fine, the thought of being a she again is like razors under your skin.
You know you like the way the work put strength to your shoulders and arms.
You know you have Alonsico to bother and Cristóbal to ignore and Juan to make use of, the captain to pay you and the cook to feed you and all the crew to be your world. You know you have sweat on your palms drying like blood, fear in your stomach and a meal every day. You know you have yourself, and your wits, and all the strength and skill you've gained, and you know you'll be alright.
There's a dead boy lying naked in a street in Valencia, there's a girl who went missing and who never was one, there's you sitting in the rigging in stolen clothes, and you're going to be alright.
You've got your whole life to figure it out.
Non binaire, pronoms masculins