based on the WHQ prompt "Cellar vs Attic"
Other to the common denominators of ‘storage’and ‘musty’, there are many things which differ between the cellar and attic of my grandmother’s country house. It seems as if the floral tableware lining the walls of the attic was birthed alongside the rustic planks that swallow it. The buckets stuffed with hay which are kept in the cellar, however, in which are crammed my great-grandmother’s jewelleries, feel like they generated from a land completely separate and distant: a lost future of a slipped life, hiding an uncertain survival.
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A dozen clouds beset the air with heaviness. Gentle westerly breezes were coaxing a dragonfly out of its slumber, and then, only for a moment, the entire world smelled of iron-set citrus.
A god could not feel thirst as a mortal does, insofar as the silkiness of sweet nectar is incomparable to the roughness of a mouthful of water. Yet here lied Apollo, his throat parched, glistening as if he were submerged in liquid rubies, as a moon glistens in the depths of the Acheron river, beside a sleeping corpse still warm in the sunshine
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