![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
but_can_i_be_trusted posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
100wordsTitle: 'The Sorceress'
Fandom: Original Fiction
Rating: G
Notes: Crossposted tovocab_drabbles
When he hands me back the manuscript, he's silent.
"Well," I nervously ask. I've never shown him my work before, so the apprehension is justified. His is an opinion that I have a great amount of respect for. "What did you think?"
There's a slight upturn at the corner of his mouth, a half-smile. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"It's excellent," he responds. "You're quite the sorceress."
I blink, taken aback. "Me? A sorceress? Oh, come on, now. There's praise, and then there's utter nonsense. This is just a short story; there's no magic involved in the process of writing a story."
He shakes his head slowly. "I disagree. Tell me something. Where did you get the idea to write this?"
"It was inspired by a dream that I had one night, not very long ago."
"Then my point's been made for me," he murmurs. "Dreams don't tend to translate well to the written medium. They're too disjointed, too confusing, to capture well on paper. You," he says, pointing at me. "You managed to pull it off. I was there, in the setting. Smelling the sea air; feeling the cool breeze. I could even feel the sand under my feet, and I haven't even left this chair."
His grin widens, warmly.
"That," he says, tapping the manuscript once per word, for emphasis, "is magic. If I'm mistaken in that, though...if this is not analogous with magic...if you're not every bit the wonderful little sorceress that I personally believe you to be..."
He leans back in his chair now. There's a twinkle in his eyes. Not necessarily that of mischief. But of the first hints of a kind of pride in what he's just witnessed.
"If not," he murmurs gently, "then prove me wrong."
Fandom: Original Fiction
Rating: G
Notes: Crossposted to
vocab_drabblesWhen he hands me back the manuscript, he's silent.
"Well," I nervously ask. I've never shown him my work before, so the apprehension is justified. His is an opinion that I have a great amount of respect for. "What did you think?"
There's a slight upturn at the corner of his mouth, a half-smile. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"It's excellent," he responds. "You're quite the sorceress."
I blink, taken aback. "Me? A sorceress? Oh, come on, now. There's praise, and then there's utter nonsense. This is just a short story; there's no magic involved in the process of writing a story."
He shakes his head slowly. "I disagree. Tell me something. Where did you get the idea to write this?"
"It was inspired by a dream that I had one night, not very long ago."
"Then my point's been made for me," he murmurs. "Dreams don't tend to translate well to the written medium. They're too disjointed, too confusing, to capture well on paper. You," he says, pointing at me. "You managed to pull it off. I was there, in the setting. Smelling the sea air; feeling the cool breeze. I could even feel the sand under my feet, and I haven't even left this chair."
His grin widens, warmly.
"That," he says, tapping the manuscript once per word, for emphasis, "is magic. If I'm mistaken in that, though...if this is not analogous with magic...if you're not every bit the wonderful little sorceress that I personally believe you to be..."
He leans back in his chair now. There's a twinkle in his eyes. Not necessarily that of mischief. But of the first hints of a kind of pride in what he's just witnessed.
"If not," he murmurs gently, "then prove me wrong."
