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Oct. 1st, 2006 10:15 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
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Challenge: [78] Tidying Up
Title: Untainted
Rating: PG
Word Count: 384
Spoilers: The story is post-KH2, but there are no spoilers.
There, ocean, he thought. You’re clean. Nothing is tainting you.
Later, the pile, having been arranged into stacks of the larger planks with the mismatched pieces on top, was his focal point as he chopped away at what was left, the solid product, not being able to look at it what he was doing to the raft. Their raft.
He peeled away the wood, splinters breaking. He stripped the sails. He tore all of it up and threw it into the not-so-neat-anymore pile, not in anger—not a single flash of malice to tear through his serene eyes.
There, beach, he thought. Nothing is marring your white sands.
Then there was hesitation. No one came running down to stop him; no distractions were offered; no excuse. Their raft was in a sad little heap on the sand for only him and the gulls to see. The birds, if indicated by their constant cackling, did not approve.
Riku could set fire to the pieces, but he wasn’t certain he was stable enough to watch them burn. He could throw them out to sea, but he wasn’t sure he could watch them float away.
The raft was freedom; the raft was a trap.
The raft could die in flames; the raft could die a cool, drowning death.
The raft, the stupid raft. We’ve got to finish the stupid raft. The islands stink, we have to leave on this stupid, stupid raft.
In the end, Riku left the pile there, offering no explanation, refusing to talk about it, walking away like a coward but not a coward, especially not after their journey.
A mouse trap won’t spring unless you touch it. An opportunity won’t pay off unless you take it.
Riku cleaned the wood from the waters, the sand, his conscious.
But Riku, he thought. There’s still blood on your hands.
Title: Untainted
Rating: PG
Word Count: 384
Spoilers: The story is post-KH2, but there are no spoilers.
Driftwood. Whatever had escaped the haphazardly built raft (now he saw how truly flawed its design was) was fished from the aqua blue waters. Fish darted from beneath his feet, some taking a daring nibble at a pale toe. Piece by piece Riku bent down (his back was sore), scooped up a chunk of slimy wood or sail (his fingers were numb), and threw them to shore in a pile that he would straighten up later.
There, ocean, he thought. You’re clean. Nothing is tainting you.
Later, the pile, having been arranged into stacks of the larger planks with the mismatched pieces on top, was his focal point as he chopped away at what was left, the solid product, not being able to look at it what he was doing to the raft. Their raft.
He peeled away the wood, splinters breaking. He stripped the sails. He tore all of it up and threw it into the not-so-neat-anymore pile, not in anger—not a single flash of malice to tear through his serene eyes.
There, beach, he thought. Nothing is marring your white sands.
Then there was hesitation. No one came running down to stop him; no distractions were offered; no excuse. Their raft was in a sad little heap on the sand for only him and the gulls to see. The birds, if indicated by their constant cackling, did not approve.
Riku could set fire to the pieces, but he wasn’t certain he was stable enough to watch them burn. He could throw them out to sea, but he wasn’t sure he could watch them float away.
The raft was freedom; the raft was a trap.
The raft could die in flames; the raft could die a cool, drowning death.
The raft, the stupid raft. We’ve got to finish the stupid raft. The islands stink, we have to leave on this stupid, stupid raft.
In the end, Riku left the pile there, offering no explanation, refusing to talk about it, walking away like a coward but not a coward, especially not after their journey.
A mouse trap won’t spring unless you touch it. An opportunity won’t pay off unless you take it.
Riku cleaned the wood from the waters, the sand, his conscious.
But Riku, he thought. There’s still blood on your hands.