Mini NoNoWriMo -- 502 words
Nov. 19th, 2006 10:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vanillafluffyThe floor lamp casts a 100-watt glow on the shirt Nancy is mending. Her needle eases through the worn plaid flannel, drawing together edges that have been rent and frayed. From time to time, she glances through to the dining room, where John stabs at the keyboard of her computer with two fingers, a scowl of concentration on his face. The machine is new since his last visit, and she's surprised that he seems to be more familiar with its use than she is.
He'd showed up on her doorstep late that afternoon, just in time to wash up for dinner. He had a story about another hunter he'd run into, some guy named Sweeney who had a knife that John had a feeling about. "Not that kind of feeling," he said when she'd teased him. "I recognized one of the symbols on the hilt."
Now, he's trying to translate the rest of the Japanese kanji from the knife's hilt from a rubbing he made on the back of a sales slip while Nancy does his laundry and sews up the evidence of her lover's hazardous profession. She's always thought that he comes here for quickies, although after five years of intermittent visits, she's equally inclined to wonder if it's the stolen domesticity he craves. She's careful not to cling or demand anything from him; she's patient, savoring what she does have instead of begging for more.
A sharp intake of breath from the other room---"That's it!" John says. He's studying the screen fixedly, and she settles the shirt on the ottoman and goes over to take a look. There's a scan of what looks to be an old sketch of a long knife. The background of the sketch is some kind of parchment that's yellowed with age. There's a heraldic device of some kind on the pommel of the weapon---a grotesque face of some kind---kanji engraved on one side of the hilt, and the piece of paper propped against the base of the monitor certainly looks like it's the same.
"Okay, so what is it?" she asks him. He's barely keeping some strong emotion in check, and there's goose-flesh on his forearms.
"That...is a sixteenth century Japanese knife." He sounds entirely too calm. "Do you know what that says?" John points to the characters on the hilt. He doesn't wait for her answer. "It names the sword-saint---literally considered to be a divinity when armed---who used this weapon to kill a number of demons who were terrorizing his province. It was forged to kill demons and consecrated for that purpose." He snarls at the monitor. "That stupid fucker doesn't know what he has---his father looted it from a dead Japanese during World War II. Steve thinks it's a goddamned samurai sword."
There's not much Nancy can say when he begins to swear inventively and at length, so she goes back into the living room and returns to her task. At least she can fix the shirt.
He'd showed up on her doorstep late that afternoon, just in time to wash up for dinner. He had a story about another hunter he'd run into, some guy named Sweeney who had a knife that John had a feeling about. "Not that kind of feeling," he said when she'd teased him. "I recognized one of the symbols on the hilt."
Now, he's trying to translate the rest of the Japanese kanji from the knife's hilt from a rubbing he made on the back of a sales slip while Nancy does his laundry and sews up the evidence of her lover's hazardous profession. She's always thought that he comes here for quickies, although after five years of intermittent visits, she's equally inclined to wonder if it's the stolen domesticity he craves. She's careful not to cling or demand anything from him; she's patient, savoring what she does have instead of begging for more.
A sharp intake of breath from the other room---"That's it!" John says. He's studying the screen fixedly, and she settles the shirt on the ottoman and goes over to take a look. There's a scan of what looks to be an old sketch of a long knife. The background of the sketch is some kind of parchment that's yellowed with age. There's a heraldic device of some kind on the pommel of the weapon---a grotesque face of some kind---kanji engraved on one side of the hilt, and the piece of paper propped against the base of the monitor certainly looks like it's the same.
"Okay, so what is it?" she asks him. He's barely keeping some strong emotion in check, and there's goose-flesh on his forearms.
"That...is a sixteenth century Japanese knife." He sounds entirely too calm. "Do you know what that says?" John points to the characters on the hilt. He doesn't wait for her answer. "It names the sword-saint---literally considered to be a divinity when armed---who used this weapon to kill a number of demons who were terrorizing his province. It was forged to kill demons and consecrated for that purpose." He snarls at the monitor. "That stupid fucker doesn't know what he has---his father looted it from a dead Japanese during World War II. Steve thinks it's a goddamned samurai sword."
There's not much Nancy can say when he begins to swear inventively and at length, so she goes back into the living room and returns to her task. At least she can fix the shirt.