More Fanfiction.
Yeah, yeah, I know. See this post.
Title: I only cheated on my girl once.
Length: ~700 Words
Rating: PG
Chapter: 1/1
Notes:Writing first person as Spirit is damned hard. I don't think I'll do it again. I doubt I'll cross post this anywhere--it probably sucks and I just can't tell cause I wrote it. Mrrrr.
When I close my eyes, I can see the endless procession of eyes, legs, breasts, and smiles. Sometimes, when I do, I wonder if all art, all music, all poetry isn't just an exercise in replicating women. Some passing attempt to recreate the gentle curves, the fullness, the soft, demure grace of women. Needless to say, it's an effort in futility-no medium can properly capture the feminine essence.
I consider myself a connoisseur of beauty, an appreciating patron of the sublime. I'd like to think that the sublime appreciates my diligent reverence-the women usually do. But, despite how much beauty I've paid homage to, I've only ever cheated on my girl once.
I suppose, someday, she might forsake me for my infidelity.
It was the middle of November and, despite how appropriate it might have been, it wasn't raining. I had been forced from my Crypt mid-afternoon and blessed my fedora for blocking the glare from my eyes. There was a sting on one side of Central City-a weapon's smuggler was getting a shipment in at sunset-and a search and seizure off a bank and loan on this side.
I backed the officers at the bank and loan for proximity's sake.
It began routine enough, the waiting, the officers closing in, the S.W.A.T. and I entered from above when they realized what was happening. The deal went south quickly, though, and the pistols we'd predicted turned out to be semi-automatics. Three gangsters ended up being five gunmen and six face men.
They put twenty holes in me before I took them out. I was a mess-wandered off, rattled from too many blows. I hit the concrete in an alley just south of the bank and lost several hours. When I came back to myself, I was disappointed to find asphalt beneath my face. I peeled myself off the street and returned to the Crypt.
It was night again when I woke in the Crypt-too late to be evening, but not late enough to be the morning just yet. I had a message, but I didn't understand it. Doolan, blaring in half cocked joy, or anger “She's alright.” I called him. He didn't answer and I understood. The other deal had gone bad, the smugglers had shot them up, and no one could take a hole like I could. Especially not her.
I passed a robbery and a carjacking as I ran toward Central City General. I found her too quickly-no time to reorder my plans-and I nearly dropped dead again as I walked in that room.
She was just lying there, still and silent as a doll. A cavalcade of machines, large and small, loud and silent surrounded her like a congregation around an altar. Of all the noises, the respirator was the most offensive. It ground against my nerves, I could barely take hearing it suck her breath from her only to hiss and pump it right back in. Something in her made a quiet, inelegant gurgle every time.
I heard her, outside, calling to me-beckoning me-reminding me she still needed me. As I stared at the woman on the bed, though, I couldn't think. I sat by her side, took her still hand, and ignored my girl in favor of Ellen Doolan.
I've only cheated on my girl once. I only ever ignored Central City once, just that once, and I don't think Ellen understands. I tell her, every so often, that she's the only one. She scoffs, berates me, or ignores the statement. She calls me unfaithful and adulterous and I can't refute it.
I don't think she'll ever realize that she's the other woman.
In other news, if I'm going to keep writing this sentimental fanfiction crap, I should probably get an icon of The Spirit where he's NOT socking his girlfriend in the face.
Title: I only cheated on my girl once.
Length: ~700 Words
Rating: PG
Chapter: 1/1
Notes:Writing first person as Spirit is damned hard. I don't think I'll do it again. I doubt I'll cross post this anywhere--it probably sucks and I just can't tell cause I wrote it. Mrrrr.
When I close my eyes, I can see the endless procession of eyes, legs, breasts, and smiles. Sometimes, when I do, I wonder if all art, all music, all poetry isn't just an exercise in replicating women. Some passing attempt to recreate the gentle curves, the fullness, the soft, demure grace of women. Needless to say, it's an effort in futility-no medium can properly capture the feminine essence.
I consider myself a connoisseur of beauty, an appreciating patron of the sublime. I'd like to think that the sublime appreciates my diligent reverence-the women usually do. But, despite how much beauty I've paid homage to, I've only ever cheated on my girl once.
I suppose, someday, she might forsake me for my infidelity.
It was the middle of November and, despite how appropriate it might have been, it wasn't raining. I had been forced from my Crypt mid-afternoon and blessed my fedora for blocking the glare from my eyes. There was a sting on one side of Central City-a weapon's smuggler was getting a shipment in at sunset-and a search and seizure off a bank and loan on this side.
I backed the officers at the bank and loan for proximity's sake.
It began routine enough, the waiting, the officers closing in, the S.W.A.T. and I entered from above when they realized what was happening. The deal went south quickly, though, and the pistols we'd predicted turned out to be semi-automatics. Three gangsters ended up being five gunmen and six face men.
They put twenty holes in me before I took them out. I was a mess-wandered off, rattled from too many blows. I hit the concrete in an alley just south of the bank and lost several hours. When I came back to myself, I was disappointed to find asphalt beneath my face. I peeled myself off the street and returned to the Crypt.
It was night again when I woke in the Crypt-too late to be evening, but not late enough to be the morning just yet. I had a message, but I didn't understand it. Doolan, blaring in half cocked joy, or anger “She's alright.” I called him. He didn't answer and I understood. The other deal had gone bad, the smugglers had shot them up, and no one could take a hole like I could. Especially not her.
I passed a robbery and a carjacking as I ran toward Central City General. I found her too quickly-no time to reorder my plans-and I nearly dropped dead again as I walked in that room.
She was just lying there, still and silent as a doll. A cavalcade of machines, large and small, loud and silent surrounded her like a congregation around an altar. Of all the noises, the respirator was the most offensive. It ground against my nerves, I could barely take hearing it suck her breath from her only to hiss and pump it right back in. Something in her made a quiet, inelegant gurgle every time.
I heard her, outside, calling to me-beckoning me-reminding me she still needed me. As I stared at the woman on the bed, though, I couldn't think. I sat by her side, took her still hand, and ignored my girl in favor of Ellen Doolan.
I've only cheated on my girl once. I only ever ignored Central City once, just that once, and I don't think Ellen understands. I tell her, every so often, that she's the only one. She scoffs, berates me, or ignores the statement. She calls me unfaithful and adulterous and I can't refute it.
I don't think she'll ever realize that she's the other woman.
In other news, if I'm going to keep writing this sentimental fanfiction crap, I should probably get an icon of The Spirit where he's NOT socking his girlfriend in the face.