Jewelry.

Skin

A warm summer night, moon stitched against darkness. It's you and me. Outside is the rest of the world but right now, sod that, it's you and me.

Naked? Yes. It's me and my skin, and what you've been doing since the cab from the airport dropped you off; this is me, sweat pooling on hairline, below breasts, dotting and glistening on collar and cheekbones.

You touch your tongue to each, diamonds made of me, laughing down into my face. Later, falling asleep, I remember what you said as I clung to you: you look like you're made of pearl.

100 words, including title.

The Jewelry You’re Wearing Right Now

A plain gold band and a matching diamond solitaire. White gold – yellow looks bad against my skin and platinum, the saleswoman assured us, scratches fast and looks dull. I have a certificate somewhere declaring that it’s not a “crisis diamond”, but otherwise I am unsure of its ethical provenance.

I haven’t welded them together, or whatever jewelers do to make two separate rings one unified set. With every movement of my hand they rub against one another, slowly eroding. They grind away their own gold, losing value, mass, integrity.

I have to fix that.

A solid silver band gleams dully on my finger. A simple onyx square set in it does not reflect the light.

A gift from Fran.

Carved marcasite hoops set with tiny twinkling garnets swing from my ears. The garnets are the color of my hair.

A gift from Heather.

An elaborate silver anklet, swirling with vaguely Celtic designs, circles my left ankle.

A gift from Jen.

And from a long chain hangs an amber-colored citrine, setting topped by a dot of a garnet, red as the last drop of blood from a dragon's heart.

A gift from my parents.

I have embellished myself with love.

Not even close to 100:

Bright silver ovals, reflecting the light, graceful twisting silver filigree to hold them in place, silver to flatter my skin and my hair: my glasses are the only adornment I wear every day.

It's Monday, isn't it?

Challenge #122 (the jewelry you're wearing) is now closed.

Challenge #123 is the first bite.

eta: hehe. I got the numbering screwed up last week. Oops.

Or maybe crickets...

Folks off playing yesterday. They'll be back today. This one's rough and needs some work, but I can't figure out what to cut. 133 words:

The First Bite

Throw a line in the water and wait, crank it back slowly, the lure wiggling its yellow iridescent tail through the murky water like some irresistible fish-dream. Hour after hour, from spot to spot of shade over submerged trees, the boys try to mimic Dad.

The boat comes back to the cove and the younger child runs to cannonball into the water, Dad heads for the tent for a nap, keys given to the elder child for his first solo trip across the narrow channel, into the cove opposite, to the best fishing spot.

We hear the boat returning in less than five minutes. It beaches, the motor cuts out, and footsteps pound up the trail to the campsite.

"Dinner," he shouts, grinning and wide-eyed, a two-foot fish in his hand, "is served!"

Thanks Beverly.

That's lovely, Bev.

The First Bite

I took the first bite myself.

The girl was wary now, afraid of unexpected gifts and strange people. Even a stooped old woman with a glistening red apple, it seemed.

But I wouldn’t fail this time. She’d fooled me twice, with the help of those stunted little men. So I took the fruit between my teeth, careful to bite the smooth, untainted side.

It was proof enough. I hid my smile as she accepted her gift, and watched as she tasted it, imagining those lush lips cold and blue. Nothing was more tempting than trust to the pure of heart.

Gaaaaah. Still no mail from the agent lady. If I haven't heard from her by Thursday, I'll send another chirpy, upbeat "Hey, how are things?" email.

Unless my head explodes from waiting, which might just happen.