(no subject)
have decided to scrapbook my own contributions to the one-line meme here for, i don't know, propriety's sake. that and i was organizing stuff. communities are good for organizing stuff (and disorganizing everything else).
just so you know, i was ridiculously bad at this -- most of them are much, much longer than one line, each word specially placed to apologize for the terribility of the last. terribility isn't even a word. and that's how bad they are. XP XP XD
fish: j. alfred prufrock/pyramus. telescope.
The night is full of telescope eyes, growing and focusing, staring and scrutinizing, the night you meet this exquisite young man who smiles like a whisper behind the wall, whose cheeks blush like mulberry blood. But you are not Thisbe, no more than you are Juliet, no more than you are Hamlet -- Thisbe, you're certain, was never balding, and Hamlet never lived that long. But he turns to you, now and for-ever, lips parted with an overwhelming question.
fish: horatio/guildenstern. eyelash.
This was becoming a bit of a problem, wasn't it? At first he was grateful, having someone at Wittenburg to study with -- someone who could remember what they were doing -- someone who wouldn't hum and tap irritating tunes under a desk, wouldn't twirl his pen, splattering ink anywhere -- wouldn't try to copy answers without caring about the question, peer over his shoulder, hair tickling his neck. Horatio didn't do any of those things; Horatio was quiet (not thoughtlessly rambling); Horatio was considerate (not careless and forgetful); Horatio understood. (Understood what?) But it's a bit of a problem.
Because, you see, Guildenstern had stopped studying the letters and the numbers -- he finds himself reading Horatio's hands like books, contemplating the curve of a particular eyelash. He works over Horatio's shoulder, trading papers so they touch, and --
And (this is absurd) he reaches over, brushes away a (particular) fallen eyelash (someone else might laugh, might ask, if you'd like to make a wish) and he thinks (he thinks) he understands.
(Understands what?)
Guildenstern studies alone now.
fish: horatio/guildenstern. electronic.
Guildenstern argues passionately, electrically -- anachronistically electronically -- about the universe -- for or against, he can't remember which. He expects Horatio to argue back. But Horatio only smiles, and speaks softly -- electrically -- a soft chiming electronically -- Guildenstern can hear the universe in every word.
jane: hyacinthus/apollo. sight.
Darkness spread through his sight like flowers in the spring -- it took away the spring, the sky, the world -- he could only hear the wind, and it was crying -- he could only feel his lover's arms, and then nothing at all. Grief bloomed in Apollo's heart; another flower born.
kali: rosencrantz/guildenstern. impression.
To Rosencrantz, the world is a first impression; everything is new, or else forgot and good as new; Guildenstern was never really very good at first impressions. Except with Rosencrantz -- Guildenstern is clever -- Guildenstern is funny -- Guildenstern is sweet in a Guildenstern sort of way -- Guildenstern is a bit silly sometimes (isn't he?) -- Guildenstern has a heartbeat that keeps perfect time, that Rosencrantz could listen to for days, or at least hours. Guildenstern is best in Rosencrantz's eyes, and seeing himself as Rosencrantz is like discovering a country.
soujin: rosencrantz/laertes. interest.
Somehow on the way to Denmark, they ended up in France; Guildenstern spent the time trying to explain why it was geographically, logically, and mathemetically unlikely (maths being the most difficult of three, but he was working on the graph) and Rosencrantz spent the time looking for sights and souvenirs, little things of interest. The first thing of interest was a very pleasant fellow Dane who, after some lively conversation and a bottle of wine, was glad to give directions. Guildenstern looked up from the graph and asked where he'd been all day.
soujin: claudius/horatio. tilt.
It's the sort of thing you have to tilt your head sideways and squint to see, but it's there -- Horatio has heard of such things, and in part believed them, but the King is taking him by the shoulder in the corridor, asking his opinion on matters of the court, consoling him on Hamlet's sudden departure and reassuring him there is still a place here for him in Elsinore -- and Horatio is not sure what to believe. He wants to believe there is nothing in these touches, these murmurs, these looks -- but how is he to understand the mind of a king? -- He smiles politely and wonders when his lord will return.
soujin: ophelia/ghost. flame.
She watches as they put her in the ground. Her eyes are closed, her arms are crossed, her head is up and she drowns in flowers -- she drowns in dust, she drowns in prayer, in oaths, in tears, in sacrifice. It's the worst sort of drowning -- one you can't try to swim out of -- but she sees it all as something far away.
She tries to remember her Hamlet's eyes -- she thinks they were a soft calling kind of blue, like water when it wants you to jump.
His eyes are all flame, and like a father -- a king -- like something else entirely, he says nothing but holds her. She is lost in the earth, they are alone in the darkness.
They will not be alone for long.
z: rosencrantz/guildenstern. blood.
Paper-cut -- blood blots out the words on the wings of a paper butterfly. "Try to be more careful," Guildenstern says, but it doesn't sound like scolding when the touch behind it is so gentle. He doesn't even mind that Guildenstern didn't get to see the butterfly, batting it impatiently, worriedly away. Anyway, "Sorry," Rosencrantz says.
just so you know, i was ridiculously bad at this -- most of them are much, much longer than one line, each word specially placed to apologize for the terribility of the last. terribility isn't even a word. and that's how bad they are. XP XP XD
fish: j. alfred prufrock/pyramus. telescope.
The night is full of telescope eyes, growing and focusing, staring and scrutinizing, the night you meet this exquisite young man who smiles like a whisper behind the wall, whose cheeks blush like mulberry blood. But you are not Thisbe, no more than you are Juliet, no more than you are Hamlet -- Thisbe, you're certain, was never balding, and Hamlet never lived that long. But he turns to you, now and for-ever, lips parted with an overwhelming question.
fish: horatio/guildenstern. eyelash.
This was becoming a bit of a problem, wasn't it? At first he was grateful, having someone at Wittenburg to study with -- someone who could remember what they were doing -- someone who wouldn't hum and tap irritating tunes under a desk, wouldn't twirl his pen, splattering ink anywhere -- wouldn't try to copy answers without caring about the question, peer over his shoulder, hair tickling his neck. Horatio didn't do any of those things; Horatio was quiet (not thoughtlessly rambling); Horatio was considerate (not careless and forgetful); Horatio understood. (Understood what?) But it's a bit of a problem.
Because, you see, Guildenstern had stopped studying the letters and the numbers -- he finds himself reading Horatio's hands like books, contemplating the curve of a particular eyelash. He works over Horatio's shoulder, trading papers so they touch, and --
And (this is absurd) he reaches over, brushes away a (particular) fallen eyelash (someone else might laugh, might ask, if you'd like to make a wish) and he thinks (he thinks) he understands.
(Understands what?)
Guildenstern studies alone now.
fish: horatio/guildenstern. electronic.
Guildenstern argues passionately, electrically -- anachronistically electronically -- about the universe -- for or against, he can't remember which. He expects Horatio to argue back. But Horatio only smiles, and speaks softly -- electrically -- a soft chiming electronically -- Guildenstern can hear the universe in every word.
jane: hyacinthus/apollo. sight.
Darkness spread through his sight like flowers in the spring -- it took away the spring, the sky, the world -- he could only hear the wind, and it was crying -- he could only feel his lover's arms, and then nothing at all. Grief bloomed in Apollo's heart; another flower born.
kali: rosencrantz/guildenstern. impression.
To Rosencrantz, the world is a first impression; everything is new, or else forgot and good as new; Guildenstern was never really very good at first impressions. Except with Rosencrantz -- Guildenstern is clever -- Guildenstern is funny -- Guildenstern is sweet in a Guildenstern sort of way -- Guildenstern is a bit silly sometimes (isn't he?) -- Guildenstern has a heartbeat that keeps perfect time, that Rosencrantz could listen to for days, or at least hours. Guildenstern is best in Rosencrantz's eyes, and seeing himself as Rosencrantz is like discovering a country.
soujin: rosencrantz/laertes. interest.
Somehow on the way to Denmark, they ended up in France; Guildenstern spent the time trying to explain why it was geographically, logically, and mathemetically unlikely (maths being the most difficult of three, but he was working on the graph) and Rosencrantz spent the time looking for sights and souvenirs, little things of interest. The first thing of interest was a very pleasant fellow Dane who, after some lively conversation and a bottle of wine, was glad to give directions. Guildenstern looked up from the graph and asked where he'd been all day.
soujin: claudius/horatio. tilt.
It's the sort of thing you have to tilt your head sideways and squint to see, but it's there -- Horatio has heard of such things, and in part believed them, but the King is taking him by the shoulder in the corridor, asking his opinion on matters of the court, consoling him on Hamlet's sudden departure and reassuring him there is still a place here for him in Elsinore -- and Horatio is not sure what to believe. He wants to believe there is nothing in these touches, these murmurs, these looks -- but how is he to understand the mind of a king? -- He smiles politely and wonders when his lord will return.
soujin: ophelia/ghost. flame.
She watches as they put her in the ground. Her eyes are closed, her arms are crossed, her head is up and she drowns in flowers -- she drowns in dust, she drowns in prayer, in oaths, in tears, in sacrifice. It's the worst sort of drowning -- one you can't try to swim out of -- but she sees it all as something far away.
She tries to remember her Hamlet's eyes -- she thinks they were a soft calling kind of blue, like water when it wants you to jump.
His eyes are all flame, and like a father -- a king -- like something else entirely, he says nothing but holds her. She is lost in the earth, they are alone in the darkness.
They will not be alone for long.
z: rosencrantz/guildenstern. blood.
Paper-cut -- blood blots out the words on the wings of a paper butterfly. "Try to be more careful," Guildenstern says, but it doesn't sound like scolding when the touch behind it is so gentle. He doesn't even mind that Guildenstern didn't get to see the butterfly, batting it impatiently, worriedly away. Anyway, "Sorry," Rosencrantz says.