sallow skinned (starry eyed) [1/?]
anonymous
November 21 2010, 11:43:02 UTC
the title came from a beautiful song by the band elbow, called "powder blue". I strongly advise that you give it a listen here (along with their other stuff, all fantastic): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WJgXcaU7aA0
sallow skinned (starry eyed)
Arthur is probably crazy. and. anal-retentive.
Everything is organised, set up in two sides: a. mind. b. body. and Arthur does a similar thing with-wherever they're living at the time, each side, one. clean. two. not clean.
For example. Side one is for people. The showcase. They have a love seat with coins between the cushions and a tv and a selection of Bond and Batman and a fridge-freezer with stupid Monday magnets and two beds and a set of kitchen knives.
Side two. The kitchen knives switch. Case of ammunition under Alfred's bed, guns under the floorboard also under the bed. Arthur keeps the syringes in a locked medicine cabinet above the sink, where no one thinks to look.
(Part a. for separating the murder from the morale and one's manners, b. is doing the dirty, blood under the nails.)
To the world, Alfred and Arthur are travelling-somethings. Travellers. Everyone takes them for tourists: Arthur has an English accent, Alfred like he's borne of all of America. They go for that, ankle-deep in motel bills and money they don't have, one suitcase and no friends.
They never settle. Settling is bad. Settling allows dust and cobwebs and routine, people through the cracks. Arthur reminds him every day, with every person Alfred smiles at. It does not bear thinking about. Comfort leads to getting reckless; that leads to a people stumbling on things they shouldn't.
(It leads to more work, Alfred. I blow out enough brains as it is, Alfred. I don't like killing the innocent, Alfred.)
Alfred cannot remember when he met Arthur, nevermind when he tangled into him. A thread loose in the tapestry that should have been left un-pulled. Arthur came. Waited. Arthur, who pulled him head-first into the water, and Alfred, who was okay with that, but still can't remember how he first got there.
Arthur is twenty-three, two years Alfred's senior. His partner-in-crime, or Alfred's his, and the far end of loopy. He crochets and collects thimbles, set in rows in a little glass case, souvenirs lined from Bristol to York. Arthur stays up nights planning how to make a murder look like a fetish gone wrong. Arthur cannot cook, but will, and will burn everything.
(It's oven scorch. The stretch and strain of a kitchen ten years past, a man too old, fingers more knife-clever than stove.)
Arthur has been in bar fights since he was fifteen. Alfred can shoot between the eyes from fifty feet away. They are good at what they do.
Shame it's murder. What a thing to excel at.
Being good at it isn't bad; Alfred still gets a jump start with every new, praising, horrified article; body nicely cut, knowledge in that knife, jack-the-ripper-esque (a man that knew his kidneys well), and Arthur cannot care less as long as their names stayed secret. The press has them as a pair of anonymous assassins, because that's what's publicised. When something has an identity-being, a signature, a trail, clientele-it's easy to pluck a fuss.
Their real jobs are quick-tuck-lost murders with no faces. There are only two detectives in the whole world who think they're on to something, and about a thousand others who think those are insane.
They forge, too. Arthur has too many identities and skills for one man, and Alfred is a quick learner. They don't need to, but it brings in fast cash and gives the people underground (stupid turn of phrase. For them, that means. very. dead.) an idea of what kind of person he is. English kid's a thief, petty cash criminal that pulled a teenager with him, but no murderer. It's common knowledge he's good with a knife, though.
sallow skinned (starry eyed) [2/?]
anonymous
November 21 2010, 11:44:34 UTC
(And with Alfred, too.)
As far as Alfred's concerned, it's a side-effect of being locked up in the same place with the same person who knows every secret. Arthur knows most of Alfred's-one brother, obsession with aliens, scared of dark corners-but Arthur keeps himself close. Alfred knows he is English-hard to miss-and angry, at the world. Lonely. He knows Arthur has brothers, too, and an affinity for children, and is possibly, possibly a pathological liar. Which could derail everything he knows about Arthur. Thinks he knows.
Alfred does know-for sure-that Arthur rarely kills without reason, but they get less reasonable depending on his mood. Not saying thank you when he holds the door open. Yelling at a kid. Most of the time, Arthur is picky: child molesters and animal killers and rapists. Arthur's dealing out justice, as far as he's concerned, whether it's for the better of humanity or reviving chivalry (or a fat wallet. Alfred can't complain).
Arthur calls that side the commissions, mainly because costly murder / assassination / hit does not sound as good. As genteel. Arthur treats paid victims as something of a novelty; he's professional with them, clean. Gloves and guns and good manners, boys.
(For serial killers, they have standards. No children, no women. (Misogyny, Arthur had laughed, but the first time-jealous ex and fifteen thousand in cash and a hotel room with no lights, blindfold and roses, Alfred's shaking hands. First time it went wrong, too.))
x
Sweat.
Arthur reeked of it, smoke and copper and salt in waves, drenched through. Bad job.
We're leaving.
“We're leaving.”
Arthur has, in his hands, a bloody knife and a box of matches and a gasoline can. Things will go boom.
“Already?” asks Alfred, stretches, shaking sleep from his bones. Arthur grabs the (bought just for this) metal trashcan, and starts piling clothes, papers. Alfred helps. It's been two weeks, and he thinks: not too bad, considering. Liquid echoes off steel, pulls him from himself, ratta tat splash. He almost flinches when Arthur illuminates gold.
They leave (-but bring: syringes, guns, cutlery, Alfred's alien figurine and Arthur's thimbles). In the car, Alfred dabs the brine-hot flush from Arthur's face, the set line of his jaw.
(There will always be a gap. They are, after all, not together to be intimate.)
One world left behind, in grey. The knife comes with them.
x
i'm just setting up at the moment, sorry, haha. There'll be plot eventually i hope OTL i hope you like it so far, OP, and i promise it'll get... more interesting!
Re: sallow skinned (starry eyed) [2/?]
anonymous
November 21 2010, 12:00:21 UTC
Oh damn, damn, damn but this is shockingly good! I clicked on this on a whim, but I didn't expect anything so promising; I can't believe you've created such believable and intriguing characters in what could have just been an unrealistic, stereotypical Hollywood-style story with cliched characters. It would have ended up that way in my hands, honestly! But you made it work beautifully, and in the space of two short comments, too. I'm impressed, author!anon. *_*
Re: sallow skinned (starry eyed) [2/?]
anonymous
November 21 2010, 16:59:37 UTC
God, I love stories like these that don't nessessarily focus on the romantics betwwen two characters but rather the mechanics on which they interact together on a daily basis.
Please oontinue anon! Although, I'm quite happy with what I've read till this point |D
Beautiful, anon! Your writing style is something that I have never encountered before. I love it to death. You have set a background that is poetical in its beauty. And don't get me started on the characterisations. I love how Arthur is a motley collection of contradictions, and Alfred, oh my. USUK with knives. I think I've found a new kink of mine.
I'll be waiting enthusiastically for the next installment! Thank you so much for filling this request ><
P.S. How do you know OP loves brackets? *drools at the brackets* Bracketing is one of OP's most favourite literary techniques. Ever.
Re: sallow skinned (starry eyed) [2/?]
anonymous
November 24 2010, 05:57:58 UTC
Bracket!Anon has made me deliriously happy. This is gorgeous. There's no other way to describe it. You managed to create realistic, interesting characters and which such a delightful style. I love stream-of-concious narrative.
This seems to be a fascinating story and I'll follow it faithfully.
On a side note, this anon loves it when a story has England being good with children, I think he has a thing for them (in a non-sexual way before anyone says it) because of his own crappy family history /headcanon
sallow skinned (starry eyed)
Arthur is probably crazy. and. anal-retentive.
Everything is organised, set up in two sides: a. mind. b. body. and Arthur does a similar thing with-wherever they're living at the time, each side, one. clean. two. not clean.
For example. Side one is for people. The showcase. They have a love seat with coins between the cushions and a tv and a selection of Bond and Batman and a fridge-freezer with stupid Monday magnets and two beds and a set of kitchen knives.
Side two. The kitchen knives switch. Case of ammunition under Alfred's bed, guns under the floorboard also under the bed. Arthur keeps the syringes in a locked medicine cabinet above the sink, where no one thinks to look.
(Part a. for separating the murder from the morale and one's manners, b. is doing the dirty, blood under the nails.)
To the world, Alfred and Arthur are travelling-somethings. Travellers. Everyone takes them for tourists: Arthur has an English accent, Alfred like he's borne of all of America. They go for that, ankle-deep in motel bills and money they don't have, one suitcase and no friends.
They never settle. Settling is bad. Settling allows dust and cobwebs and routine, people through the cracks. Arthur reminds him every day, with every person Alfred smiles at. It does not bear thinking about. Comfort leads to getting reckless; that leads to a people stumbling on things they shouldn't.
(It leads to more work, Alfred. I blow out enough brains as it is, Alfred. I don't like killing the innocent, Alfred.)
Alfred cannot remember when he met Arthur, nevermind when he tangled into him. A thread loose in the tapestry that should have been left un-pulled. Arthur came. Waited. Arthur, who pulled him head-first into the water, and Alfred, who was okay with that, but still can't remember how he first got there.
Arthur is twenty-three, two years Alfred's senior. His partner-in-crime, or Alfred's his, and the far end of loopy. He crochets and collects thimbles, set in rows in a little glass case, souvenirs lined from Bristol to York. Arthur stays up nights planning how to make a murder look like a fetish gone wrong. Arthur cannot cook, but will, and will burn everything.
(It's oven scorch. The stretch and strain of a kitchen ten years past, a man too old, fingers more knife-clever than stove.)
Arthur has been in bar fights since he was fifteen. Alfred can shoot between the eyes from fifty feet away. They are good at what they do.
Shame it's murder. What a thing to excel at.
Being good at it isn't bad; Alfred still gets a jump start with every new, praising, horrified article; body nicely cut, knowledge in that knife, jack-the-ripper-esque (a man that knew his kidneys well), and Arthur cannot care less as long as their names stayed secret. The press has them as a pair of anonymous assassins, because that's what's publicised. When something has an identity-being, a signature, a trail, clientele-it's easy to pluck a fuss.
Their real jobs are quick-tuck-lost murders with no faces. There are only two detectives in the whole world who think they're on to something, and about a thousand others who think those are insane.
They forge, too. Arthur has too many identities and skills for one man, and Alfred is a quick learner. They don't need to, but it brings in fast cash and gives the people underground (stupid turn of phrase. For them, that means. very. dead.) an idea of what kind of person he is. English kid's a thief, petty cash criminal that pulled a teenager with him, but no murderer. It's common knowledge he's good with a knife, though.
(Arthur's good with sex too.)
Reply
As far as Alfred's concerned, it's a side-effect of being locked up in the same place with the same person who knows every secret. Arthur knows most of Alfred's-one brother, obsession with aliens, scared of dark corners-but Arthur keeps himself close. Alfred knows he is English-hard to miss-and angry, at the world. Lonely. He knows Arthur has brothers, too, and an affinity for children, and is possibly, possibly a pathological liar. Which could derail everything he knows about Arthur. Thinks he knows.
Alfred does know-for sure-that Arthur rarely kills without reason, but they get less reasonable depending on his mood. Not saying thank you when he holds the door open. Yelling at a kid. Most of the time, Arthur is picky: child molesters and animal killers and rapists. Arthur's dealing out justice, as far as he's concerned, whether it's for the better of humanity or reviving chivalry (or a fat wallet. Alfred can't complain).
Arthur calls that side the commissions, mainly because costly murder / assassination / hit does not sound as good. As genteel. Arthur treats paid victims as something of a novelty; he's professional with them, clean. Gloves and guns and good manners, boys.
(For serial killers, they have standards. No children, no women. (Misogyny, Arthur had laughed, but the first time-jealous ex and fifteen thousand in cash and a hotel room with no lights, blindfold and roses, Alfred's shaking hands. First time it went wrong, too.))
x
Sweat.
Arthur reeked of it, smoke and copper and salt in waves, drenched through. Bad job.
We're leaving.
“We're leaving.”
Arthur has, in his hands, a bloody knife and a box of matches and a gasoline can. Things will go boom.
“Already?” asks Alfred, stretches, shaking sleep from his bones. Arthur grabs the (bought just for this) metal trashcan, and starts piling clothes, papers. Alfred helps. It's been two weeks, and he thinks: not too bad, considering. Liquid echoes off steel, pulls him from himself, ratta tat splash. He almost flinches when Arthur illuminates gold.
They leave (-but bring: syringes, guns, cutlery, Alfred's alien figurine and Arthur's thimbles). In the car, Alfred dabs the brine-hot flush from Arthur's face, the set line of his jaw.
(There will always be a gap. They are, after all, not together to be intimate.)
One world left behind, in grey. The knife comes with them.
x
i'm just setting up at the moment, sorry, haha. There'll be plot eventually i hope OTL i hope you like it so far, OP, and i promise it'll get... more interesting!
Reply
But you made it work beautifully, and in the space of two short comments, too. I'm impressed, author!anon. *_*
Reply
Reply
I really love love love your writing style.
Reply
Please oontinue anon! Although, I'm quite happy with what I've read till this point |D
Reply
I'll be waiting enthusiastically for the next installment! Thank you so much for filling this request ><
P.S. How do you know OP loves brackets? *drools at the brackets* Bracketing is one of OP's most favourite literary techniques. Ever.
Reply
This seems to be a fascinating story and I'll follow it faithfully.
On a side note, this anon loves it when a story has England being good with children, I think he has a thing for them (in a non-sexual way before anyone says it) because of his own crappy family history /headcanon
Reply
This is really... too amazing ( ゜∀゜) /totally rendered speechless
This is completely beyond awesome anon 8D
Reply
kjewriou
ican'twaitformore
fjf
irtiuer
jkfds
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment