These three words were chosen:
And these blurbs were written within five minutes….Enjoy!
As he stumbled closer, she noticed he had something in his teeth or his teeth were … green?
Oh god she thought. Shayna had the same thought but hers was out loud. As he pulled up to high-top table leaning on it for support, he slurred the words “Your hair is on fire.” as a lime fell out of his mouth.
“What?” Tabitha asked him as her hair was not on fire.
“You hair…” belch “is like a fire” belch again “in my eyes”.
“Wow Romeo” Shayna began “You really know how to make a girl all tingly.”
The man looked at her and then back to Tabitha and then back again. They both could tell his eyes were trying to focus. He opened his mouth to speak but before he could he slid off the table to the ground.
“Your hair is like fire” Shayna said to Tabitha teasing as she flipped her off.
Just when Rory thought his life forfeit the dragon sneezed and then Rory was falling. He couldn’t tell you how but he had somehow managed to be tossed to the groves. As he fell, branches full of ripe limes wracked him at every turn. He landed with a thud on the ground.
The pain wrenched through him but seemed to fade a bit and he was shocked to find that nothing seemed to be broken though he felt a cut on his foot and his temple dripping his rich green blood. Panicking, he stumbled to his feet and moved away from the noise of the pubs destruction. The screams and fire was nothing compared to what the villagers would do to him if they found out his heritage.
The Fae were hated and feared above all other creatures in this sector. That was the very reason Rory had made it his home. The Fae were not known for their patience and kind ways and not a single one that he knew was interested in Rory breathing on the same plane.
“There, before my helpless sight, I see him stumbling, like a man in fire or lime,” the teacher recited the poem, and Bridget elbowed her classmate, leaning over to whisper in her ear.
“This is why I hate poetry,” she groaned. “What the hell is that? How do you stumble in fire or lime?” She leaned away, her face annoyed.
The teacher looked at them and paused in her recitation. “Do you have a comment, Miss O’Neil?” she asked, a finger pushing her horn-rimmed glasses up her long nose. “Something you’d like to share with the rest of us?”
Bridget shuffled uncomfortably in her chair, but then squared her shoulders. “Actually, yes. I do have a comment for the class.” She paused, clearly steeling herself for some big revelation. “Why can’t they just use normal words?”
The teacher tilted her head, face curious. “‘Normal words?’” she repeated. “What about these words are not normal?”
“Well, that fire or lime bit,” Bridget tried, latching on to the last thing she remembered. She hadn’t actually read the poem before class like they were supposed to, but she did have good recall of the teacher’s voice saying the words. There was a brief moment where she prayed that the next lines weren’t something really obvious, like fire or lime green fog. Then she’d feel like more of an idiot than she normally did when reading poetry.
Faron ran through the dark woods as quickly as he could – the branches tearing at his clothes that were already tattered and covered in dirt, his muscled arms and legs sliced by thorns. The roots that lined the ground made it almost impossible not to stumble, but he had to keep going – he had to get to the fire. He looked down at the lime green stone he clutched in his hand, the one he had stolen. The one he had promised to return to her, no matter the cost – even if it cost him his life. In the distance, the trees began to open as if they were beckoning him in deeper.