& this is what we call a minor character(flaw)
title: at the fools we are
author: acidquill
disclaimer: don't own em
rating: pg
characters: George Darrow (Crossroad Blues)
word count: 350
notes: really no excuse for this other than self indulgence. I thought George was interesting & wanted to get in someone's head besides one of the boys.
All George ever wanted was to be remembered.
He wanted to change people, be able to make them feel something deep down in their gut. Now here he was, the wrong side of forty and not a damn thing to show for it.
Ideas aren't slow in coming, but somehow what he sees in his head and what he ends up with are nothing alike. His fingers are too thick. Too clumsy. He has the will, but not the talent, the natural grace of putting paint down and having it be more than pigment and oil.
He knows better. He isn't some stupid child stomping around the crossroads in ignorance. George's grandmother taught him about the old ways, the spirit-callings passed down through the generations. Secrets of summoning and protection in turn. He remembers her lessons. Her warnings. About the dark things raised from the mud of the bayous and rhythms of the islands.
George knows it all, and calls The Bargainer anyway.
He sells his soul for the ability to paint what he's only been able to dream. Ten years is enough. After all, it's just between him and the demon; no one else is going to get hurt.
Ten years is too long. Sometimes he dreams about the others, the woman doctor, the architect. He keeps up with them when he can; they seem happy enough. George knows that doesn't make up for what he's done. He didn't force anyone into a deal, but he's the one who called The Bargainer. He set her loose among those people who didn't know anything. Like a wolf among the lambs.
He paints every day, can't stop the flow that spreads from his head to his hands. The canvases stack up in his apartment like dry leaves. The funny thing is, he knows that once he's gone, his paintings will be found. They'll hang in a gallery somewhere and finally, finally, people will look at his work and say I feel this. I remember this. I see this. Everything he wanted.
But he never wanted the price to be so high.
- end
author: acidquill
disclaimer: don't own em
rating: pg
characters: George Darrow (Crossroad Blues)
word count: 350
notes: really no excuse for this other than self indulgence. I thought George was interesting & wanted to get in someone's head besides one of the boys.
All George ever wanted was to be remembered.
He wanted to change people, be able to make them feel something deep down in their gut. Now here he was, the wrong side of forty and not a damn thing to show for it.
Ideas aren't slow in coming, but somehow what he sees in his head and what he ends up with are nothing alike. His fingers are too thick. Too clumsy. He has the will, but not the talent, the natural grace of putting paint down and having it be more than pigment and oil.
He knows better. He isn't some stupid child stomping around the crossroads in ignorance. George's grandmother taught him about the old ways, the spirit-callings passed down through the generations. Secrets of summoning and protection in turn. He remembers her lessons. Her warnings. About the dark things raised from the mud of the bayous and rhythms of the islands.
George knows it all, and calls The Bargainer anyway.
He sells his soul for the ability to paint what he's only been able to dream. Ten years is enough. After all, it's just between him and the demon; no one else is going to get hurt.
Ten years is too long. Sometimes he dreams about the others, the woman doctor, the architect. He keeps up with them when he can; they seem happy enough. George knows that doesn't make up for what he's done. He didn't force anyone into a deal, but he's the one who called The Bargainer. He set her loose among those people who didn't know anything. Like a wolf among the lambs.
He paints every day, can't stop the flow that spreads from his head to his hands. The canvases stack up in his apartment like dry leaves. The funny thing is, he knows that once he's gone, his paintings will be found. They'll hang in a gallery somewhere and finally, finally, people will look at his work and say I feel this. I remember this. I see this. Everything he wanted.
But he never wanted the price to be so high.
- end