BSG ficlet - Music of the Cosmos
Title: Music of the Cosmos
Rating:
Word count: 190
Beta: none
Character: Sam Anders
Summary: Sammy never realized he could play a guitar...
Warnings: none
Author's note: Written for 13th_tribe's fic tag. I hate coming up with titles. And summaries. Ugh. But I do like writing ficlets. Not so ugh.
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He doesn’t know why he picked the thing up, but something in him just wouldn’t leave it behind.
Sam stares at the lines of it in his hands, straight and curved, whole and broken. He runs the tips of his fingers over those lines, feels the grit, the dirt of centuries - frak that, of millennia - the pock marks and gashes left by the inexorable and unrelenting passage of time as they catch on the ridges and whorls of his index finger.
He knows this thing. It once was his. How he knows this is a mystery, but he knows it more surely than he knows his own name.
Closing his eyes, Sam doesn’t think about what he does. He takes the piece of flotsam in his two hands and he lets his mind drift. He hears the notes again, the tones that led them all here. Tinny, staticky sounds from the radio. Pounding, emphatic notes pulled from a piano by graceful fingers, hands he knows so well. (Gods, how he misses her.) And finally, his hands, his fingers moving of their own volition, the strummed metal strings of a guitar…
Rating:
Word count: 190
Beta: none
Character: Sam Anders
Summary: Sammy never realized he could play a guitar...
Warnings: none
Author's note: Written for 13th_tribe's fic tag. I hate coming up with titles. And summaries. Ugh. But I do like writing ficlets. Not so ugh.
----------------
He doesn’t know why he picked the thing up, but something in him just wouldn’t leave it behind.
Sam stares at the lines of it in his hands, straight and curved, whole and broken. He runs the tips of his fingers over those lines, feels the grit, the dirt of centuries - frak that, of millennia - the pock marks and gashes left by the inexorable and unrelenting passage of time as they catch on the ridges and whorls of his index finger.
He knows this thing. It once was his. How he knows this is a mystery, but he knows it more surely than he knows his own name.
Closing his eyes, Sam doesn’t think about what he does. He takes the piece of flotsam in his two hands and he lets his mind drift. He hears the notes again, the tones that led them all here. Tinny, staticky sounds from the radio. Pounding, emphatic notes pulled from a piano by graceful fingers, hands he knows so well. (Gods, how he misses her.) And finally, his hands, his fingers moving of their own volition, the strummed metal strings of a guitar…