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monaboyd Nov. 10th, 2005 02:28 pm)
arisa1.livejournal.com posting in monaboyd Nov. 10th, 2005 02:28 pm)A bit of a story.. don't know where it came from, don't know where it's going. Honestly. haha.. I'm such a geek, and I can't even finish a story properly. I give this little snapshot to the wind.
Fandom: I guess you could call it RPS, LOTR
Pairing: Billy/?
A man walked out of the cold, mist shrouded streets into the dingy, heavy smelling interior of the pub. A wave of voices assaulted his reddened ears, and smoke hung tangible just above his head. The atmosphere of the place was at once cloying and welcoming, ushering him further into the throng, where a robust fire glowed in the hearth. Flames danced in the eyes of men and women all around him, smiles and shouted words and alcohol-laden warm breath. A patch of song here and there, buffetting his ears. He strained towards the singers, but always they seemed to break into laughter just before he could distinguish words or melodies.
He passed through faces and hands holding glasses, splashing beer, and hands touching, pulling, grasping. There was no recognition in the faces he passed and he ached for that bright flash of familiarity in warm eyes. Mouths smiled and laughed and called out around him, but none of their words were for him, and especially none of the smiles were his alone; no laughter breated intimately into his cold ears, warming his skin.
They were all shadows, all but reminders of who they weren't and the man hated them all; hated himself for needing their anonymity; hated the one who was the reason he was here, misplaced then discarded. His own mouth pinched into a smile and he even managed a laugh when faced with the uncaring barman, but his eyes were cold and still and closed.
Protecting his drink from the drunken mob of shadows, he faded back into a darkened corner, musty wood and sticky floors. The malt tasted too sweet on his tongue, too rich. It reminded him of what could never pass his lips again. A longer draught and the alcohol was buzzing through his viens, lifting his mental cages, letting the animals loose in his brain with an audible sigh. His shoulders hunched under soft cotton and leather, his balance upset by the weight of the thoughts that were set free.
The noise of the bar was a sort of anti-thesis to the cold, barren landscape behind his glassy-paned green eyes. Though he stared unblinkingly into his cup, they did not contemplate the darkish, foamy liquid within. In his minds eye, he was watching himself, standing alone ona barren patch of imagination. There was no noise, there was no movement, in the same way that a white sheet of paper has no colour. That is, it was all there - overwhelmingly there and then not as the senses could not quantify it.
This is me.
This is me without you.
He watched himself loose the will to stand, slowly, knees buckling then collapsing, bent over in the sharp barren sand, arms by his side and absolutely no emotion on his face. He watched as his inner self played back the last conversation he had had before coming to this common, noisy place. He watched as the words flew at his kneeling form and left little cuts on the naked torso, arms, cheek. He watched and mouthed the words before he closed his eyes and opened his mouth in a silent cry. Watched his heart break.
The image broke as well, and the man stood gasping, tears in his eyes, smoke in his mouth.
I can't do this
He quickly scanned the room, wiping his eyes and swallowing smoke. The words echoed in his ears and he tried to drown them with more ale, spilling on his shirt and not caring.
I can't do this any more, Billy.
Fandom: I guess you could call it RPS, LOTR
Pairing: Billy/?
A man walked out of the cold, mist shrouded streets into the dingy, heavy smelling interior of the pub. A wave of voices assaulted his reddened ears, and smoke hung tangible just above his head. The atmosphere of the place was at once cloying and welcoming, ushering him further into the throng, where a robust fire glowed in the hearth. Flames danced in the eyes of men and women all around him, smiles and shouted words and alcohol-laden warm breath. A patch of song here and there, buffetting his ears. He strained towards the singers, but always they seemed to break into laughter just before he could distinguish words or melodies.
He passed through faces and hands holding glasses, splashing beer, and hands touching, pulling, grasping. There was no recognition in the faces he passed and he ached for that bright flash of familiarity in warm eyes. Mouths smiled and laughed and called out around him, but none of their words were for him, and especially none of the smiles were his alone; no laughter breated intimately into his cold ears, warming his skin.
They were all shadows, all but reminders of who they weren't and the man hated them all; hated himself for needing their anonymity; hated the one who was the reason he was here, misplaced then discarded. His own mouth pinched into a smile and he even managed a laugh when faced with the uncaring barman, but his eyes were cold and still and closed.
Protecting his drink from the drunken mob of shadows, he faded back into a darkened corner, musty wood and sticky floors. The malt tasted too sweet on his tongue, too rich. It reminded him of what could never pass his lips again. A longer draught and the alcohol was buzzing through his viens, lifting his mental cages, letting the animals loose in his brain with an audible sigh. His shoulders hunched under soft cotton and leather, his balance upset by the weight of the thoughts that were set free.
The noise of the bar was a sort of anti-thesis to the cold, barren landscape behind his glassy-paned green eyes. Though he stared unblinkingly into his cup, they did not contemplate the darkish, foamy liquid within. In his minds eye, he was watching himself, standing alone ona barren patch of imagination. There was no noise, there was no movement, in the same way that a white sheet of paper has no colour. That is, it was all there - overwhelmingly there and then not as the senses could not quantify it.
This is me.
This is me without you.
He watched himself loose the will to stand, slowly, knees buckling then collapsing, bent over in the sharp barren sand, arms by his side and absolutely no emotion on his face. He watched as his inner self played back the last conversation he had had before coming to this common, noisy place. He watched as the words flew at his kneeling form and left little cuts on the naked torso, arms, cheek. He watched and mouthed the words before he closed his eyes and opened his mouth in a silent cry. Watched his heart break.
The image broke as well, and the man stood gasping, tears in his eyes, smoke in his mouth.
I can't do this
He quickly scanned the room, wiping his eyes and swallowing smoke. The words echoed in his ears and he tried to drown them with more ale, spilling on his shirt and not caring.
I can't do this any more, Billy.
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I know.. ouch... I really don't know why I was so mean to poor Billy
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his balance upset by the weight of the thoughts that were set free.
standing alone ona barren patch of imagination
He watched as the words flew at his kneeling form and left little cuts on the naked torso, arms, cheek
Wow! What a fabulous way with words you have. This was beautiful. So visual and imaginitively descriptive. Really great.
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Thank you! :)
I had so much fun writing this, even though it's encredibly sad. I'm glad you like it.