(no subject)
Eddie paced the room for the twenty-seventh time. He knew this because he'd been counting. Not the actual number of steps, because that would be obsessive. Jake had been gone for a while. Quite a while. Eddie knew this because he was Eddie. He also knew that Jake promised to come back, and Jake had never broken a promise. Eddie didn't think he could. But, the Voice of DoomTM in his head whispered, Something might have happened. You never know.
Eddie had heard just about enough of that voice. "WILL YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP?" He stopped pacing at the sound of his own voice echoing around the...what had Jake called it, the Wick 'em up? Something like that. Whatever it was called, Jake wasn't in it yet.
Fighting back the urge to resume pacing,Eddie looked around the small space at Jake's mat, handmade from some kind of plant fiber, lying a few feet from his own. Cuthbert's was just a small distance away. A book was lying on Cuthbert's mat. Eddie picked it up, turning it over to read the title. Shakespeare's Sonnets. He slid down onto his own bed space, absently flipping through the pages. He remembered the dorky kids in High School who carried paperbacks like this around in their pockets, pulling them out in line at the cafeteria and other public places no popular kid ever would. He'd never read any Shakespeare, but he'd seen some of plays with one girlfriend who liked them. Couldn't get much past the thees and thous, but sometimes the comedies were kinda funny. This book was all poems. Jesus, Eddie, you'd think the word "Sonnets" woulda given you a clue, huh? I'm not stupid, he thought back to the Voice. He knew what a Sonnet was. He lay back on the mat and read from the page he'd flipped to:
But wherefore do not you a mightier way
Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?
And fortify your self in your decay
With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?
Now stand you on the top of happy hours,
And many maiden gardens, yet unset,
With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers,
Much liker than your painted counterfeit:
So should the lines of life that life repair,
Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,
Neither in inward worth nor outward fair,
Can make you live your self in eyes of men.
To give away yourself, keeps yourself still,
And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.
He read it again, twice, then set the book down. This stuff wasn't so hard. Make war upon Time? He'd been battling Time since he first laid his eyes on old Long, Tall, and Ugly. Probably since he cooked his first spoon, if you wanted to split hairs. Racing the Turkey was making war on Time, too. Or maybe just running from it.
And "Time's Pencil"? Fuck, he'd written with Time's Pencil plenty of times. He could carve it by now, perfectly, he was sure.
And he'd always lived, had Eddie Dean, drawn by his own sweet skill.
Heh. Nice poem, Billy-boy. Except I didn't really have to read it because I've fucking lived it.
Casting a backward glance at the book, he stood up, stretched a little, and started up pacing again. Jake would be back soon, he promised he would. Eddie wasn't worried. Much.
Eddie had heard just about enough of that voice. "WILL YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP?" He stopped pacing at the sound of his own voice echoing around the...what had Jake called it, the Wick 'em up? Something like that. Whatever it was called, Jake wasn't in it yet.
Fighting back the urge to resume pacing,Eddie looked around the small space at Jake's mat, handmade from some kind of plant fiber, lying a few feet from his own. Cuthbert's was just a small distance away. A book was lying on Cuthbert's mat. Eddie picked it up, turning it over to read the title. Shakespeare's Sonnets. He slid down onto his own bed space, absently flipping through the pages. He remembered the dorky kids in High School who carried paperbacks like this around in their pockets, pulling them out in line at the cafeteria and other public places no popular kid ever would. He'd never read any Shakespeare, but he'd seen some of plays with one girlfriend who liked them. Couldn't get much past the thees and thous, but sometimes the comedies were kinda funny. This book was all poems. Jesus, Eddie, you'd think the word "Sonnets" woulda given you a clue, huh? I'm not stupid, he thought back to the Voice. He knew what a Sonnet was. He lay back on the mat and read from the page he'd flipped to:
But wherefore do not you a mightier way
Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?
And fortify your self in your decay
With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?
Now stand you on the top of happy hours,
And many maiden gardens, yet unset,
With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers,
Much liker than your painted counterfeit:
So should the lines of life that life repair,
Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,
Neither in inward worth nor outward fair,
Can make you live your self in eyes of men.
To give away yourself, keeps yourself still,
And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.
He read it again, twice, then set the book down. This stuff wasn't so hard. Make war upon Time? He'd been battling Time since he first laid his eyes on old Long, Tall, and Ugly. Probably since he cooked his first spoon, if you wanted to split hairs. Racing the Turkey was making war on Time, too. Or maybe just running from it.
And "Time's Pencil"? Fuck, he'd written with Time's Pencil plenty of times. He could carve it by now, perfectly, he was sure.
And he'd always lived, had Eddie Dean, drawn by his own sweet skill.
Heh. Nice poem, Billy-boy. Except I didn't really have to read it because I've fucking lived it.
Casting a backward glance at the book, he stood up, stretched a little, and started up pacing again. Jake would be back soon, he promised he would. Eddie wasn't worried. Much.