THE WRITING GAME Prompt "SeePainting"
Feb. 27th, 2012 05:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
basricTITLE:Sara
AUTHOR:basric
RATING:pg
WORD COUNT: 585
FEEDBACK: On || FEEDBACK TYPE: Serious constructive criticism
WARNING: none
SUMMARY:A chance meeting at a gallery opening
PROMPTS:sanity, escape, street and
A/N:none
He’d brought his sister to the gallery opening; where she’d been whisked away by friends her own age. He accepted a fluted glass of champagne from the roving waiter and slowly made his way through the crowd pausing before each canvas.
He sighed, the painter had talent but his vision was warped as far as Nick was concerned. He preferred the master’s landscapes or a well done portrait. From the corner of his eye he caught flash of silver in a room filled with black clad women. He turned, frowned over the crowd of elderly men with nineteen year old arm candy. A black tie event with the ladies in black evening gowns most cut low to show off artificial endowments.
Then he saw her, the woman in sparkling silver to match her hair of spun moonlight. Jesus, he was waxing poetic. She was simply gorgeous. Her dress covered her curves neck to toe with sleeves that flowed to her fingertips. She was so dramatically different he had the horrible feeling she was the artist.
He came to stand behind her barely suppressing the shudder at the canvas before them.
She turned emerald eyes to him, “What do you think.” He was tall and too good looking. All that black curly hair and a face of a fallen angel. He had the broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips. She almost sighed aloud in disappointment. She found gorgeous men could never love anyone more than themselves.
“It’s interesting.”
To his surprise threw back her head and laughed, really laughed, “I’m not the artist.”
“Thank God.”
“I just know the family.”
“Do they have sanity issues?”
She turned back and perused the painting for several moments tapping her chin with a silver nailed finger, “You’d think so, but not that I know of. However,” she shuddered delicately, “I’m revising my opinion.”
His sister caught his eye waving wildly, the little brat.
“I must take my sister and her giggling friends to dinner,” he apologized.
She glanced over at the group of teenagers, and patted his arm sympathetically, “Lose a bet?”
“Something like that. Married?” He changed the subject.
“Never, you?” she countered.
“Never, attached?”
“No, and since you asked I assume you are heterosexual.”
“Most definitely.”
“Your name?”
“Nick Constantine.”
She’d heard of him, of course. She took a card from her clutch then handed it to him, “Call me, if you’d like, Nick Constantine.”
She turned and made her escape into the crowd. He had expected the name on the card to be as whimsical as she looked. It just said “SARA” and a number. He wasn’t taking a chance, he took out his phone and entered all the information into it then replaced it and slipped the card into his pocket just as he was surrounded by excited chattering sixteen year olds.
“The limo is waiting go on out and wait for me."
He located the artist and praised his work before asking about Sara.
“Man you’d just be wasting your time there. But perhaps Mr.Constantine you'd be interested in making a purchase?”
A porcelain doll clinging to the arm of a business associate gave a brittle laugh, “Sara is an ice queen. No man melts the ice she has encased around her person. She would be a waste of a phone call, trust me.” Several people around them, including the artist 'family friend' laughed uncomfortably.
“Niiicck?” his sister saved him from responding as she dragged him toward the door, across the street and into a limo filled with giggling teens.
He’d call her, IF he survived this night.
AUTHOR:basric
RATING:pg
WORD COUNT: 585
FEEDBACK: On || FEEDBACK TYPE: Serious constructive criticism
WARNING: none
SUMMARY:A chance meeting at a gallery opening
PROMPTS:sanity, escape, street and
A/N:none
He’d brought his sister to the gallery opening; where she’d been whisked away by friends her own age. He accepted a fluted glass of champagne from the roving waiter and slowly made his way through the crowd pausing before each canvas.
He sighed, the painter had talent but his vision was warped as far as Nick was concerned. He preferred the master’s landscapes or a well done portrait. From the corner of his eye he caught flash of silver in a room filled with black clad women. He turned, frowned over the crowd of elderly men with nineteen year old arm candy. A black tie event with the ladies in black evening gowns most cut low to show off artificial endowments.
Then he saw her, the woman in sparkling silver to match her hair of spun moonlight. Jesus, he was waxing poetic. She was simply gorgeous. Her dress covered her curves neck to toe with sleeves that flowed to her fingertips. She was so dramatically different he had the horrible feeling she was the artist.
He came to stand behind her barely suppressing the shudder at the canvas before them.
She turned emerald eyes to him, “What do you think.” He was tall and too good looking. All that black curly hair and a face of a fallen angel. He had the broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips. She almost sighed aloud in disappointment. She found gorgeous men could never love anyone more than themselves.
“It’s interesting.”
To his surprise threw back her head and laughed, really laughed, “I’m not the artist.”
“Thank God.”
“I just know the family.”
“Do they have sanity issues?”
She turned back and perused the painting for several moments tapping her chin with a silver nailed finger, “You’d think so, but not that I know of. However,” she shuddered delicately, “I’m revising my opinion.”
His sister caught his eye waving wildly, the little brat.
“I must take my sister and her giggling friends to dinner,” he apologized.
She glanced over at the group of teenagers, and patted his arm sympathetically, “Lose a bet?”
“Something like that. Married?” He changed the subject.
“Never, you?” she countered.
“Never, attached?”
“No, and since you asked I assume you are heterosexual.”
“Most definitely.”
“Your name?”
“Nick Constantine.”
She’d heard of him, of course. She took a card from her clutch then handed it to him, “Call me, if you’d like, Nick Constantine.”
She turned and made her escape into the crowd. He had expected the name on the card to be as whimsical as she looked. It just said “SARA” and a number. He wasn’t taking a chance, he took out his phone and entered all the information into it then replaced it and slipped the card into his pocket just as he was surrounded by excited chattering sixteen year olds.
“The limo is waiting go on out and wait for me."
He located the artist and praised his work before asking about Sara.
“Man you’d just be wasting your time there. But perhaps Mr.Constantine you'd be interested in making a purchase?”
A porcelain doll clinging to the arm of a business associate gave a brittle laugh, “Sara is an ice queen. No man melts the ice she has encased around her person. She would be a waste of a phone call, trust me.” Several people around them, including the artist 'family friend' laughed uncomfortably.
“Niiicck?” his sister saved him from responding as she dragged him toward the door, across the street and into a limo filled with giggling teens.
He’d call her, IF he survived this night.
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no subject
Date: 2012-03-02 12:37 am (UTC)I do agree with what
no subject
Date: 2012-03-02 03:35 am (UTC)