Icon ficlet #8 - Original fic!
Jun. 1st, 2004 01:13 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pauraque_bkEr, sort of. ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
keladryb requested a fic based on this icon, and I have a feeling I know the sort of thing she wanted. *g*
G, 259 words.
Such Sport
The spoon's warm tip slides across the dish's face. A quiet, familiar stroke. It is hard not to be comforted.
The dish has seen the cat rubbing her lips over the newly-polished bridge of the fiddle, writhing and flexing her paws. The dish doesn't want to be that way. A proper dish has many partners-- a red sauce, a white sauce, soaking into ceramic pores. The tines of a long and delicate fork, scratching and teasing. A zealous young knife that leaves marks in hard-glazed skin.
The spoon's edge catches on a shallow knife-cut as it slides, but just barely. The spoon's silver skin has gone gray with years and hands and sweat. The spoon knows about getting older.
This spoon is not like the other spoons, lying on folded white napkins and arching their backs up coyly, elegantly. This spoon is straight and plain, pulled out of the drawer for a cup of yogurt in front of the TV, or shoved briefly through the dry ingredients of a cake, and then tossed into the chipped kitchen sink, its face white with flour.
The dish sits on the sink in the nighttime. New plates have moved into the cupboard that hangs above, and they cuddle together in smug formation, all unblemished and alike. So the dish sits on the shore of the sink, with the moonlight filtering through the window onto the cracked milk jug.
And in the milk jug's shadow, there is the spoon.
One day, the dish says to itself, they are going to run away.
end.
Feedback would be appreciated.
[cross-posted to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
anthropomor_fic]
keladryb requested a fic based on this icon, and I have a feeling I know the sort of thing she wanted. *g*G, 259 words.
Such Sport
The spoon's warm tip slides across the dish's face. A quiet, familiar stroke. It is hard not to be comforted.
The dish has seen the cat rubbing her lips over the newly-polished bridge of the fiddle, writhing and flexing her paws. The dish doesn't want to be that way. A proper dish has many partners-- a red sauce, a white sauce, soaking into ceramic pores. The tines of a long and delicate fork, scratching and teasing. A zealous young knife that leaves marks in hard-glazed skin.
The spoon's edge catches on a shallow knife-cut as it slides, but just barely. The spoon's silver skin has gone gray with years and hands and sweat. The spoon knows about getting older.
This spoon is not like the other spoons, lying on folded white napkins and arching their backs up coyly, elegantly. This spoon is straight and plain, pulled out of the drawer for a cup of yogurt in front of the TV, or shoved briefly through the dry ingredients of a cake, and then tossed into the chipped kitchen sink, its face white with flour.
The dish sits on the sink in the nighttime. New plates have moved into the cupboard that hangs above, and they cuddle together in smug formation, all unblemished and alike. So the dish sits on the shore of the sink, with the moonlight filtering through the window onto the cracked milk jug.
And in the milk jug's shadow, there is the spoon.
One day, the dish says to itself, they are going to run away.
end.
Feedback would be appreciated.
[cross-posted to
anthropomor_fic]
