And not flying
So the dc_flashfiction challenge up right now is "poetry," and well. That's about all the incentive I need.
And not flying
Disclaimers: There aren’t words enough to say how not-mine this all is.
Rating: PG-15 or so.
Spoilers: Vaguely, vaguely AU-ish post-IC #5. I’m not really sure if there's anything else.
Summary: It’s all feathers and dust and falling apart.
Notes: This is-- in theory, at least-- meant to be the first of three little snippets, all of which live in the same twisty neighborhood. We'll see if that actually happens.
The title is taken from Michael Tieg's poem of the same name, from his collection big back yard, and is posted at the end of the story.
*
He knows this isn’t the best way to do this. Whatever this (grief, it should be) is, there are better, more effective, more efficient ways to do it. He’s thought about it, and looked at roadmaps and his trust fund (not the Wayne billions, but still too much) and there’s no reason-- no *real* reason-- why he couldn’t just leave.
Distance. Perspective. He could have some time to process and think and.
He knows that this would be the healthier, saner choice. He has plenty of working models (most with wings and neuroses) which illustrate, in perfect unrelenting detail, the consequences and complexities which result from certain other options, but.
He knows himself well enough (or not at all) to recognize that sometimes the sharp pikes at the bottom of the cliff are an attraction, and not a deterrent.
On good days, he even manages to acknowledge that he thinks he deserves them, and that this is-- probably (certainly)-- a dangerous line of thinking.
But he’s not too far gone yet, even as he feel the train picking up speed, rushing towards the coming derailment. He’s not too far gone *yet*, he reminds himself, and this is why he’s looked at the roadmaps and thought about it.
He’s even managed to wonder (and he already knows-- he’d say Yes, of course, let’s go) if Dick would come along if he asked.
Sometimes, if he closes his eyes and doesn’t think and doesn’t breathe, he can convince himself that he’s laying on a cheap slick bedspread somewhere in between the Atlantic and the Pacific with the AC blasting mildew-y air, waiting for the door to open and for Dick to come back with a pizza.
Mostly, it’s not difficult to imagine:
The door opens and a sticky heat pushes in, followed by a greasy cardboard box, a six-pack of Zesti, and Dick in jeans and a t-shirt. Dick’s keys scuttle across the low dresser, and he closes the door with his foot.
“Hawaiian okay?” he asks, and Tim nods, sitting up on the bed.
Dick says something about the heat, gas prices rising, getting stuck behind a tractor going fifteen in a no-passing zone with a cop on his ass, the stupid cows, and the girl with the low-cut shirt and green eyes behind the counter at the pizza parlor. Tim tries not to smile, and fails. Dick hands Tim a drink, and they sit Indian-style on the bed, pulling long strings of cheese and sauce and crust across the comforter.
It’s not noon yet, so it ought to be an early lunch, but it’s a late dinner instead. They both prefer to travel at night, and Tim likes to watch Dick sleep with an arrow of afternoon light cutting across his chest, so there seems no reason to alter the nocturnal patterns they’ve been following for the past few weeks.
It’s a good pattern, a comfortable rhythm: after finishing the pizza between them-- and Dick will watch to make sure Tim does more than just denude his slices of pineapple-- Dick will go into the bathroom to shower, and Tim will take the cans and empty pizza box to the dumpster. When he comes back, the room will be thickening with steam and smell a little like soap and Dick’s shampoo, and Tim will be able to hear Dick singing loudly and badly over the sound of the water.
It will be just another beat to the rhythm to pull the drapes closed, strip down to boxers, slide into the bed nearest to the air-conditioner, and wait for the mattress to dip and for Dick to pull him in, damp and cool.
Dick will say something, like: “Hey,” or “Come here,” or “Move your feet,” and Tim won’t have any choice but to bury his face in Dick’s neck and hold on. Dick will be used to the rhythm, the pattern by then, and won’t say anything for a while, even when Tim shakes a little as Dick’s hands smooth over his back.
Dick won’t let it get too bad.
When Tim’s shakes turn into shudders (and they do, they will), Dick will lay him on his back and help him breathe, fingers skating over Tim’s chest and mouth brushing over Tim’s own, smoothing out the panicked rhythm. Dick will kiss him and do his best to quiet the ache, holding Tim close and hard against him.
And here there is no more imagining.
He makes himself open his eyes and gasp for air and *think*, because no amount of pretending will ever feel right. It isn’t better that he knows that it’s his hand (and not Dick’s) and his empty bed and his empty apartment, and it isn’t better knowing that no one can hear the sob that catches in his throat when he comes.
He knows this isn’t the best way to do this, but it’s the option he’s taking.
*
And, seeing as "poetry" was the challenge, here's the poem:
And not flying
Phillip watches the weather
in other parts of the country on TV.
He’s outside to witness
dawn smack the block into being.
Feathers, he tells me, And not flying
make a bird different from other animals.
Last month we ransacked his fathers life
and found it filled with postcards and cereal boxes.
He had a terrace. He liked blue--
blue shirts buttoned down
by the memory of offices or Brillcream.
Blue toothbrush.
A few friends came by to say
Your father… Your fucking father…
amd always something about a woman
and the possibility of dancing.
Or vice versa. Or falling down.
We put everything in boxes and I drove
his father’s life around like a chaperon
for days trying to make small talk.
Just be a minutes, I said,
Phillip is fine, we’re all fine.
Sometimes when he’s out
I stumble around in his father’s shoes
feeling like Edward Hopper.
I tell him I’ll quit my job too
and take up thinking full time.
If men still wore hats, it might help.
In Minnesota the sky is dark.
In New Mexico it might hold a bird.
Michael Tieg
And not flying
Disclaimers: There aren’t words enough to say how not-mine this all is.
Rating: PG-15 or so.
Spoilers: Vaguely, vaguely AU-ish post-IC #5. I’m not really sure if there's anything else.
Summary: It’s all feathers and dust and falling apart.
Notes: This is-- in theory, at least-- meant to be the first of three little snippets, all of which live in the same twisty neighborhood. We'll see if that actually happens.
The title is taken from Michael Tieg's poem of the same name, from his collection big back yard, and is posted at the end of the story.
*
He knows this isn’t the best way to do this. Whatever this (grief, it should be) is, there are better, more effective, more efficient ways to do it. He’s thought about it, and looked at roadmaps and his trust fund (not the Wayne billions, but still too much) and there’s no reason-- no *real* reason-- why he couldn’t just leave.
Distance. Perspective. He could have some time to process and think and.
He knows that this would be the healthier, saner choice. He has plenty of working models (most with wings and neuroses) which illustrate, in perfect unrelenting detail, the consequences and complexities which result from certain other options, but.
He knows himself well enough (or not at all) to recognize that sometimes the sharp pikes at the bottom of the cliff are an attraction, and not a deterrent.
On good days, he even manages to acknowledge that he thinks he deserves them, and that this is-- probably (certainly)-- a dangerous line of thinking.
But he’s not too far gone yet, even as he feel the train picking up speed, rushing towards the coming derailment. He’s not too far gone *yet*, he reminds himself, and this is why he’s looked at the roadmaps and thought about it.
He’s even managed to wonder (and he already knows-- he’d say Yes, of course, let’s go) if Dick would come along if he asked.
Sometimes, if he closes his eyes and doesn’t think and doesn’t breathe, he can convince himself that he’s laying on a cheap slick bedspread somewhere in between the Atlantic and the Pacific with the AC blasting mildew-y air, waiting for the door to open and for Dick to come back with a pizza.
Mostly, it’s not difficult to imagine:
The door opens and a sticky heat pushes in, followed by a greasy cardboard box, a six-pack of Zesti, and Dick in jeans and a t-shirt. Dick’s keys scuttle across the low dresser, and he closes the door with his foot.
“Hawaiian okay?” he asks, and Tim nods, sitting up on the bed.
Dick says something about the heat, gas prices rising, getting stuck behind a tractor going fifteen in a no-passing zone with a cop on his ass, the stupid cows, and the girl with the low-cut shirt and green eyes behind the counter at the pizza parlor. Tim tries not to smile, and fails. Dick hands Tim a drink, and they sit Indian-style on the bed, pulling long strings of cheese and sauce and crust across the comforter.
It’s not noon yet, so it ought to be an early lunch, but it’s a late dinner instead. They both prefer to travel at night, and Tim likes to watch Dick sleep with an arrow of afternoon light cutting across his chest, so there seems no reason to alter the nocturnal patterns they’ve been following for the past few weeks.
It’s a good pattern, a comfortable rhythm: after finishing the pizza between them-- and Dick will watch to make sure Tim does more than just denude his slices of pineapple-- Dick will go into the bathroom to shower, and Tim will take the cans and empty pizza box to the dumpster. When he comes back, the room will be thickening with steam and smell a little like soap and Dick’s shampoo, and Tim will be able to hear Dick singing loudly and badly over the sound of the water.
It will be just another beat to the rhythm to pull the drapes closed, strip down to boxers, slide into the bed nearest to the air-conditioner, and wait for the mattress to dip and for Dick to pull him in, damp and cool.
Dick will say something, like: “Hey,” or “Come here,” or “Move your feet,” and Tim won’t have any choice but to bury his face in Dick’s neck and hold on. Dick will be used to the rhythm, the pattern by then, and won’t say anything for a while, even when Tim shakes a little as Dick’s hands smooth over his back.
Dick won’t let it get too bad.
When Tim’s shakes turn into shudders (and they do, they will), Dick will lay him on his back and help him breathe, fingers skating over Tim’s chest and mouth brushing over Tim’s own, smoothing out the panicked rhythm. Dick will kiss him and do his best to quiet the ache, holding Tim close and hard against him.
And here there is no more imagining.
He makes himself open his eyes and gasp for air and *think*, because no amount of pretending will ever feel right. It isn’t better that he knows that it’s his hand (and not Dick’s) and his empty bed and his empty apartment, and it isn’t better knowing that no one can hear the sob that catches in his throat when he comes.
He knows this isn’t the best way to do this, but it’s the option he’s taking.
*
And, seeing as "poetry" was the challenge, here's the poem:
And not flying
Phillip watches the weather
in other parts of the country on TV.
He’s outside to witness
dawn smack the block into being.
Feathers, he tells me, And not flying
make a bird different from other animals.
Last month we ransacked his fathers life
and found it filled with postcards and cereal boxes.
He had a terrace. He liked blue--
blue shirts buttoned down
by the memory of offices or Brillcream.
Blue toothbrush.
A few friends came by to say
Your father… Your fucking father…
amd always something about a woman
and the possibility of dancing.
Or vice versa. Or falling down.
We put everything in boxes and I drove
his father’s life around like a chaperon
for days trying to make small talk.
Just be a minutes, I said,
Phillip is fine, we’re all fine.
Sometimes when he’s out
I stumble around in his father’s shoes
feeling like Edward Hopper.
I tell him I’ll quit my job too
and take up thinking full time.
If men still wore hats, it might help.
In Minnesota the sky is dark.
In New Mexico it might hold a bird.
Michael Tieg