[fic] Street of Dreams 1/1 (Band of Brothers, gen, Guarnere-centric)

[garnettrees]

So, the authors of Berlin by Christmas have been revealed. I was right, Leigh did write "Dead Men and Dreamers"! Yay for me, I win. ^_~
(Just the title alerted me, darling. It was a Leigh title. Also, no one writes Lipton like you do-- no one could actually crawl inside Speirs scary brain. You have slain me with the beauty of this story, honestly.

Comments

[gamesiplay]

I just read your feedback. Thank you so much. I'll have to go back and respond later. And it made me smile that you recognized it; clearly, we do share a brain, because I recognized this very quickly. The backstory was part of it, and the parentheticals, but also intangible things like your particular use of metaphor, and your tendency to find those gaps in reality ("That's a lie. That's not what happened.") I loved it, unsurprisingly. I was so happy to see you tackling Guarnere, because (a)he is so underrepresented in fic; (b)he has such a distinctive voice, which I knew you would do wonders with; and (c)I've always had trouble sympathizing with him, and I knew you would change that.

In the dream, Bill is staring at his hands, small and boyish, yet unmarked by basic training, or practice scuffles in the English countryside.

I was talking to someone a while ago about how dream scenes in fiction are often just dead weight-- they're used too much to drag subtext to the surface when it ought to be allowed to bubble up on its own, and they're done clumsily. Not so with yours. Your fic, even in waking moments, often has that oneiric cast to it (yes, I found an excuse to use my favorite word again!), so it's never jarring when dreams themselves have meaning. This line especially struck me because it's very authentic, I think: it gets at that strange duality of dreams, where you can know it's not real (Bill is aware of actually being older than his dream-self, with hands that are marked by training) and yet still accept the emotion of what's happening.

They are puppyish hands, retaining some baby fat, with big, clumsy knuckles that make him think briefly of Bull. Then the dream comes over him fully, clinging as close as skin, blocking the future.

This was where I knew you were the culprit. :) "[P]uppyish hands, retaining some baby fat" and "clinging close as skin" tipped me off; I don't know what it was about the first phrase, but the second one was so you, that use of metaphor that's at once unexpected and absolutely right.

He's just six years old, lazily peeling an orange as he stares at the alleyway three stories below. What he wants to do is throw the meat of the fruit, hear it make that satisfying 'splat' on the pavement-- or better yet, see if he can angle it just right, and sink it in the dumpster on the corner.

I love the sensory detail of this scene.

His brother is four years older than he, close enough in age to be a friend, but removed enough to retain some small authority--

Great understanding of their relationship here. Kib and I are four years apart, too, give or take a few months, and you've got the dynamic exactly. That's almost eerie. *grins*

Adam always seems to be reading-- big, thick books from the Public Library, where he can linger for hours, fingering spines and pages while Bill kicks the table to see how long it takes for the librarian to notice.

Getting a view of Bill's brother excited me so much, because I have such great associations with your original characters. (See also: Maddoc Pierce, Erin's Abigail, and Ryan from "What You See from Where You're Standing," whom I still want to marry, never mind that he's dead and fictional.)

(Minor note, though: isn't Bill's brother named Henry?)