December Days; Story
Dec. 30th, 2014 10:23 pmI got carried away by this, and spent two days worth getting it written. I've always been fascinated by mentions of stories about demons who repented and joined the church, but rarely actually read any. I didn't have any time to edit it, comments welcome, but especially about the overall story, or anything particular you liked or I got wrong, I know there are still some spelling and grammar errors.
When the assistant called her name, Hashara wobbled nervously to her feet, balanced on awkward mythological hooves. Nowhere in London was designed for hooves, or curving horns, and every day she shied away from the glares and suspicious looks and hate and pity and polite glances deliberately skating off her. People's surface thoughts echoing in her head, stopping drifting on dinner and TV and sex, long enough to reject her. Even on halloween, everyone else dressed up as sanitised demons, a human with a mask. Not a body covered with long hair, and gnarled, twisted horns. She showered daily, and rubbed wax into her horns and skin cream into her skin, but she still felt like a dirty, matted, horror. She'd resisted the idea of getting her hooves shod.
The assistant glanced up from her clipboard, and with an iron grip on perfectionism, hesitated no more than a second in calling "Hashara [embarrassed, shocked pause], devourer of souls? Hashara, the Bishop will see you now."
( Read more... )
When the assistant called her name, Hashara wobbled nervously to her feet, balanced on awkward mythological hooves. Nowhere in London was designed for hooves, or curving horns, and every day she shied away from the glares and suspicious looks and hate and pity and polite glances deliberately skating off her. People's surface thoughts echoing in her head, stopping drifting on dinner and TV and sex, long enough to reject her. Even on halloween, everyone else dressed up as sanitised demons, a human with a mask. Not a body covered with long hair, and gnarled, twisted horns. She showered daily, and rubbed wax into her horns and skin cream into her skin, but she still felt like a dirty, matted, horror. She'd resisted the idea of getting her hooves shod.
The assistant glanced up from her clipboard, and with an iron grip on perfectionism, hesitated no more than a second in calling "Hashara [embarrassed, shocked pause], devourer of souls? Hashara, the Bishop will see you now."
( Read more... )