![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
slipjig31193 words. Now we're getting somewhere. Unfortunately, that "somwhere" is a badly-written place. Oh, well. The prologue isn't too bad, though, so... *deep breath*
Prologue to Ordinary Talismans
My life’s inheritance from Constance Long is divided between my two hands.
In my left hand, I hold my keychain. More accurately, I hold the key that does not belong with the others: an antique, five times as old as I am, shaped in wrought iron. It’s as long as my little finger, and half as wide, but with the solidness, the weight, the permanence, that wrought iron always seems to bear—more permanent than the box or cabinet or drawer that it once opened. I twirl it between thumb and forefinger, just at the juncture of its blade and its cloverleaf bow, and find it cold to the touch, the same as I always find it, no matter how long it has been in my pocket.
In my right hand, I hold nothing. But it is this hand (always this hand, always the right) that I am constantly folding upon itself, pressing fingernails to palm, and rocking the wrist a mere few degrees, counting rhythm: one...two...three, feeling the wooden tabletop or chair leg meet my knuckles at each motion. “Good luck,” you say, and the motion of my right hand is the reply. Knock wood.
Iron key, ironclad habit. These are the gifts my great-grandmother gave me. These are the tools she left to allow me to survive.
Prologue to Ordinary Talismans
My life’s inheritance from Constance Long is divided between my two hands.
In my left hand, I hold my keychain. More accurately, I hold the key that does not belong with the others: an antique, five times as old as I am, shaped in wrought iron. It’s as long as my little finger, and half as wide, but with the solidness, the weight, the permanence, that wrought iron always seems to bear—more permanent than the box or cabinet or drawer that it once opened. I twirl it between thumb and forefinger, just at the juncture of its blade and its cloverleaf bow, and find it cold to the touch, the same as I always find it, no matter how long it has been in my pocket.
In my right hand, I hold nothing. But it is this hand (always this hand, always the right) that I am constantly folding upon itself, pressing fingernails to palm, and rocking the wrist a mere few degrees, counting rhythm: one...two...three, feeling the wooden tabletop or chair leg meet my knuckles at each motion. “Good luck,” you say, and the motion of my right hand is the reply. Knock wood.
Iron key, ironclad habit. These are the gifts my great-grandmother gave me. These are the tools she left to allow me to survive.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-02 05:44 am (UTC)