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Sep. 14th, 2004 01:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nnyLeave me a drabble of backstory. It can be about anyone -- one of your characters, one of mine, someone else's, no-one's. Anyone. Then I'll write one for you.
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schiarire, and I will get round to writing some for f-list people soon, honest I will. I'm a little behind. That's what comes of having to do four shops' worth of dry cleaning...
But like the Murphys...
Anyone gets that and I will love them forever. *g*
gacked from
schiarire, and I will get round to writing some for f-list people soon, honest I will. I'm a little behind. That's what comes of having to do four shops' worth of dry cleaning...But like the Murphys...
Anyone gets that and I will love them forever. *g*
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2004-09-14 05:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-14 05:52 am (UTC)From the reports gathered later, it started during a party. These weren't uncommon, but the alcohol was; after all, it was a Quaker campus. Throughout the course of the night, the alcohol had been flowing more and more freely - both into and out of the flimsy plastic cups that were the only containers numerous enough to support so large a gathering. By and by, the decades-old couch had absorbed more and more alcohol, until finally it reached its saturation point. Even just setting you hand on the cushions resulted in a moist spot.
The organizers of the party decided, in a rare moment of clarity, that they didn't want anybody getting that alcohol-soaked at their party, and what topped the list of Ways To Get Rid Of A Couch was throwing it off the balcony. This would get it out of the way, and they could let somebody else worry about cleaning it up, which was - as far as they were concerned - an added bonus.
Just as four of the drunken athletes hoisted the couch onto the railing, a fifth shouted at them - the wood would take fingerprints! They needed a way to not incriminate themselves. His solution was simple: "Alcohol burns. Light it on fire!"
It was that "Light it on fire!" that we, two stories down and twenty yards away, heard - or, at least, that was what caught our attention. My friend the guard shouted for them to stop, but they either couldn't hear or weren't listening, because after a few moments we saw flames slide up over the top of the couch. Hastily they tossed the burning sofa over the side of the balcony and stood watching as it shattered on the ground, various pieces and cushions burning merrily.
At that point, the security guard went into the dormitory to confront the partygoers, while I grabbed a fire extinguisher and put the fire out. It turned out that twenty or thirty people were given written warnings - after all, this was a Quaker campus - and the five responsible for destroying the couch were presented with probations and had to replace the couch.
We never went walking again after that night.
no subject
Date: 2004-09-14 06:52 am (UTC)He’s heard rumours. Stories. Legends. Perhaps truth, in some fragment. There's always a grain of it, when you look. And there are, of course, the facts. Conquest, carnage, improbable victories. Things no man under the beating sun could accomplish.
The angel pauses, outlined against the sun, wings beating like a heart around him. He shades his eyes. He is lost. There had been a mountain, where now there is none. He searches for his bearings. He searches...
He’d met the man once or twice - he can see why others follow him. There had been something oddly familiar about him, in the set of his jaw, or the look in mismatched eyes, but the angel has never quite been able to place it. Pothos, they call it. That look. A yearning for something... more.
Two pillars of dust; one east, one west. No. One is dust. The other is smoke. And where there’s smoke... The angel sighs, flies on. There. The demon, stretched out on his back, watching the fumes from a funereal pyre drift up into the sky. The angel’s feet touch the ground, dirt and sand still packed hard from the sandals of the host that marches west. The demon's wings are dusty, his face smudged. Curious, the angel asks him whether he's all right, but receives no answer.
The smoke from the pyre is still thick, black, oily. The wood on the outside is charred and darkened, but inside, there still glows a fierce orange-red. Finally, even that sputters and dies, smoke turning slowly lighter: black to grey, grey to white. It rises, high as the angel had flown, higher, never curving downward, searing the unresisting air. Blood sacrifice.
When the last wisp of smoke has vanished towards the heavens, Aziraphale asks again.
‘Yes,’ says Crowley.
It’s almost true.
no subject
Date: 2004-09-14 07:05 am (UTC)My eleven year old brother was jittery in the back seat. "Can you see her yet?"
I shook my head and gripped the steering wheel, white-knuckled.
My mother, overweight, moon-faced, chock full of chemotherapy and radiation, burst through the door and bobbled to the car.
"I got it!" She held up a large bag of medicine. "Let's go!"
I pealed out, afraid to look back. My brain telling me, screaming that what we were doing was insane.
I looked over at my mother and she was grinning. Wild eyed and kooky with glee. That look had been lost years ago when she was first diagnosed. It came back now. Figures. Her face hadn't been made round by steroids then and her wackiness wasn't creepy - wasn't about death.
Cancer changes everything.
no subject
Date: 2004-09-14 07:26 am (UTC)From my WIP of doom
Date: 2004-09-14 07:39 am (UTC)His smirk was coldly self-satisfied as he gently whispered the idea in her ear. Her face, this close up, was ravaged by her garish makeup. She smelled of slow, sweet decay.
Your sister had a good idea, but she wasn’t strong enough to carry it through. Her Popish weakness held her back from greatness.
This temptation was far too easy. Her mind was halfway made up before he even started talking. All he had to do was nudge her and it would all fall into place.
You are England.
In time, they will be England, too.
He hadn’t made her what she was; hadn’t made England what it was. She had done it all on her own, for the most part.
All he’d done was nudge.
It is a protection of your interests. The state will benefit; the population will flourish, with all that empty land to fill.
He sat back for a moment, relishing the precipice upon which an entire culture teetered. His grin, when he leaned forward to deal the final blow, was bloodthirsty.
And who cares about a few worthless Celts, anyway?
He shrugged carelessly.
Nothing but trouble, really.
no subject
Date: 2004-09-14 07:50 am (UTC)This is a vivid drabble -- thanks for sharing it, Katie.
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Date: 2004-09-14 08:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-14 08:33 am (UTC)The boy can feel it, all around him, no matter how hard he squirms and struggles to get away from it. He splashes. He flails. The water keeps coming.
There are strong hands holding him down: he'd never have guessed those hands would be so strong. He's seen them do very delicate work.
A sly attempt at escape earns him a sharp stinging smack on the ear.
It's not fair.
This one phrase encompasses every thought in his head.
It'snotfairit'snotfairit'snotfair!
"No, mum!" Brian yells, fruitlessly, "Please, not another bath! I just had one last week!"
His mother just hands him the soap.
Re: From my WIP of doom
Date: 2004-09-14 08:48 am (UTC)Re: From my WIP of doom
Date: 2004-09-14 08:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-14 09:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-14 10:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-14 11:17 am (UTC)What kills me about your Crowley (and oh, I am so proud of and impressed with the way you have fleshed him out, I don't even have the words) is that he can't ever be all right, not entirely. There will always be something there that keeps the "all right" from being entirely true, because...that's the way it is. (Or at least, that's how I see it. :P)
Brilliant, Soph.
From a HP Fic in planning
Date: 2004-09-14 11:20 am (UTC)It wasn't perfect. Far from it: sex with Olivia was rare, and cold, and usually he arrived home at midnight from a hard-day's overwork. Sometimes his sons got the better of him, and he hit them, though he knew they were small and meant no harm.
But it was a life no different than those of his friends, or his neighbours.
That's why, the morning he woke up, he wished he had not survived. The news were crumbling his past life, shattering it to pieces.
He was a werewolf. As good as dead.
no subject
Date: 2004-09-14 12:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-14 03:57 pm (UTC)Re: From my WIP of doom
Date: 2004-09-14 04:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-14 06:37 pm (UTC)Azzie dear, the postcard read in loopy pink letters, having fun! Wish you were here. XOXOXO, you know perfectly well who, you sly devil, you!
The 'i's were dotted with hearts, and he dropped it like a hot coal.
After Aziraphale had done staring at it, he picked it up with the rusty fireplace tongs and deposited it carefully on the kitchen counter.
Then he remembered something:
"I'm going," Crowley said casually, "on vacation. Touring, as it were." He noticed Aziraphale's quickly-veiled expression (da -- er, dang him) and added, "Don't worry. I'll be in touch."
Aziraphale had, of course, protested that he was doing no such thing, but he had been rather touched, really.
He frowned. This wasn't at all what he'd expected.
He sent a telegram to Nice with a message along the lines of 'That wasn't funny, Crowley,' but it was too late: Crowley had already left.
The next postcard came from Berlin, this time in neat green script. Could have fooled me, angel. Aziraphale imagined the demon snickering and spent the next week or so in a huff. Already left, his foot.
More followed after, from Venice and Vienna, Denmark and Stalingrad, and at last a plainly printed missive from London:
Guess who?
Aziraphale beamed, put on his hat and coat, and went to the door.
"Hallo," Crowley said. "Amazing thing, isn't it, timing. Here I am, just coming in to visit you after ages and ages away, and you're going out. Now that's what I call nice. Or rude, maybe, I can never remember which."
Aziraphale started to object, but almost immediately found he didn't really want to, somehow.
So he tutted at Crowley instead, and invited him in for tea.
no subject
Date: 2004-09-14 09:35 pm (UTC)The apples in the orchard bloom out of season, sometimes, and odd spiky bushes in the garden grow pomegranates and purple roses and fruits that don't have names. Other than this Polly finds Hunsdon House quiet and strangely ordinary, the first summer she stays there with Tom.
They don't have enough furniture between them to fill it, not nearly, and when Tom plays the cello in the afternoons the sound echoes off the empty walls. Polly sometimes goes to stand and watch him play: all gawky limbs and frowning concentration as he peers down at the scattered notes, his whole long body hunched around the instrument and fair hair falling in his eyes as the steel strings hum under his fingers and sing, and sing, and sing.
She had been afraid, absurdly, that he would change, but it's the house that changes. It was sinister and gloomy and somehow suffocating, before, but with Tom making coffee in the kitchen and humming Shostakovich absently under his breath, the whole structure gives a great sigh and surrenders to the onslaught of shabby jumpers left draped over couches and summer light spilling in through curtains drawn haphazardly askew.
One August morning she's at breakfast, trying to take notes on "Endymion" despite the sheet music that Tom's spilled across the table to study or drip coffee on or both. He's rumpled and unshaven, squinting against the early sunlight, tapping his fingers in 4/4 time. She feels a sudden lurch of dislocation, and closes her eyes until she realizes that she does know where she is, after all. It's a place she's only visited; it's a place she's never called her own. It's a place she's always longed for, and the name of that place is home.
no subject
Date: 2004-09-14 10:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-14 11:59 pm (UTC)Bitter and strange when you first taste Jonathan's clumsy hands and sudden pain just there that makes you close your eyes and try not to scream and then slowly or quickly depending on what you mix them with, they become more palatable, more bearable...until you need them, would do anything for them Master, can I help? Can I do anything to assist you? Only tell me! and then...and then you are addicted, and coldly consume them only because you need to stop the pain. the warm sticking feeling of blood across your back as Alex laughs. You hate him, but he is the only one left now
Women are like honey.
Soft and sweet and golden-red in the sun Cythera's golden hair, twinned around your little white finger, her giggles soft and sweet then cloying, sticking to your fingers and your society Delia, what's the matter with you? You...you flirt and I can't sta- but you come back for more for you remember the sweetness, the feeling of thick honey against your lips and tongue Josiane's kisses are soft and beguiling, with a wicked tongue and sharp little teeth to make you gasp
Women will make you sick, but men will kill you, ruin you for you, Delia, formerly of Eldorne, the Courts decree that you shall be sentenced to life imprisonment, may the gods bless the King for his Mercy but you never found out until it was too late.
any more mistakes, and I'm not changing them...
no subject
Date: 2004-09-15 02:25 pm (UTC)"Are you all right?"
It had been just over two months since he'd last talked to Ade, and even longer since this whole mess had started; for some reason, Imp hadn't processed those facts in full until now.
Patience seemed to have its limits after all. But a plan presented itself to him, one that involved what he knew about the no-longer-student wizard and mass quantities of alcohol, and he deemed it the best shot at ending this mess for good.
This decided, he turned to Morgan (who had posed the question), smiled, and said, "I'lll be fine."
no subject
Date: 2004-09-15 10:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-20 12:25 pm (UTC)He's been back over a week. No one knows. He can't deal with it yet, isn't up to the stack of work on his desk, any messages saying call or write or I miss you or can I see you? Careful wording, simple phrases that say nothing and everything at the same time. He can't cope with that yet. He needs time to remember how to breathe when Skazz grins at someone else, needs time to readjust to being normal.
He doesn't like to think of it as stalking.
He leans against a tree and watches Skazz be Skazz. Watches the way he interacts, and the smile that isn't quite the same as his smile, and that's reassuring, or it will be when he gets the courage to step out and claim what's his. What he hopes is still his.
He takes a couple of deep breaths. Steps out into the light.
"Hey, kid."
no subject
Date: 2004-09-20 02:39 pm (UTC)Lovelylovelylovelylovelylovely
no subject
Date: 2004-09-22 07:12 am (UTC)He suddenly realised he was staring, and cleared his throat.
"Can I help you?"
"I'm looking for Anthony Crowley." Soft spoken, pleasant voice, and again that slight thrum of familiarity. He frowned, confused, wondering why anyone would assume Crowley was there (the fact that he was was incidental, really), but before he could answer a voice from behind him replied.
"Come on in."
The young man stepped past him, bringing the cold scent of fresh air and snow into the dusty bookshop. Aziraphael turned, and Crowley smiled at him, looking strained.
"Can we get a cup of tea?"
"I..." he looked at the both of them, the careful way they were standing, felt the tension in the air, and turned towards the kitchen. "Very well."
It wasn't the largest of flats. He bustled about, switched on the kettle and attempted to find a third cup, straying to the door a little more often than was strictly necessary, perhaps. He could tell that Crowley wanted privacy, but it really wasn't his fault that the walls were so thin. At least... now they were, he amended somewhat guiltily.
*
Crowley leaned against a bookshelf, arms folded, and glared. "I thought I told you not to come here."
The young man sighed, not meeting his eyes. "I know. I just wanted... to return these." Somehow, Crowley was certain that that wasn't what he had been going to say, but he wasn't going to pick at it in case it unravelled, and he was stuck picking up the pieces. Again. He looked at the sunglasses that had been placed on the table.
"Thanks."
What else was there to say? He didn't need this. 'Sobran'- was it?- hunched a little lower in his chair, and Crowley swore.
"What do you want? What are you expecting from me? We're done. You have all the information you need to survive, there's nothing more I can do for you."
"Man cannot live by bread alone."
"Don't fucking quote that at me," Crowley spat, striding across and leaning over him, tension radiating from him. Sobran, Xas, whatever he called himself, just looked up at him, unperturbed, something close to... anticipation in his eyes. The violence abruptly drained out of Crowley, and he shook his head and stepped back.
"Not from me. Not any more. You're going to have to find it somewhere else."
Serene blue eyes flickered towards the kitchen door, and Xas smiled wryly. "I know." He stood, and turned to leave, looking fragile.
"For fuck's..." Blinds rattled down, suddenly, shielding the shop from the street, and Crowley unurled his wings, glaring at the other being. "Take one."
Xas stared at him, hesitant, then stepped forward to touch his wing gently. "Are you..."
"Just take one, don't make me say it again. If you get in trouble I want to be able to yell at you." He turned his back, hissed at the sharp yank, the sudden pain, then turned back. "Don't thank me. Just go. I'll find you again."
Xas ran a black feather across his fingers, and Crowley watched, hypnotised, a sudden sense-memory sending a tremor through him. Blue eyes met his, and Xas smiled faintly. "I know that time is past." His gaze flickered across to the kitchen door, and his smile widened. "Good luck."
Crowley turned to meet the angel's curious stare, and barely noticed the tinkle of the shop bell behind him. It was already in the past.
Re: From my WIP of doom
Date: 2004-10-19 06:55 pm (UTC)<333333333!!!!!!
His grin, when he leaned forward to deal the final blow, was bloodthirsty.
I have no idea what's going on but I *loved* this.
Re: From my WIP of doom
Date: 2004-10-19 06:58 pm (UTC)