Well, at least I'm writing...
I thought I heard someone say "alchemists" on the radio. (I frequently mishear, though, so I could be wrong.) Then I thought, "You can't hold the hand of a rock and roll star." (Okkerville River song.) Then I thought, "Holding the hand of an alchemist." (...?) Then I thought, "My boyfriend Ron died in an explosion..." even though I hate the name Ron. Then I sat down and wrote this:
My boyfriend Ron died in a tremendous explosion at two o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon. The explosion took out the entirety of his house- it had originated in his basement- and half the outer walls of the nearest neighbors. Also the neighbor’s Pekinese, though no blame was laid on Ron for that, which makes me think even Scrappy’s owners didn’t much care for Scrappy.
He wasn’t actually my boyfriend at the time, of course. That came later. At the time he was nothing more than a gently eccentric frequenter of the coffee shop I worked in. Eccentric in that he wore hats and suits that clearly did not belong to him; gently so in that he was, at least, clothed at all times. Something which could not always be said for the men who came into my coffee shop. It was a bad part of town.
The explosion rocked the city for fifteen blocks in every direction. It turned the air a pasty yellow color, as though someone had taken a set of pastels to reality. At work, a cup fell off a high shelf and crawled into a corner before it shattered. The customer I was helping at the moment- a narrow-faced man with a split tongue, half-hidden tattoos, and other remnants of a youth spent in revolt- looked up at me with blue eyes that bled slowly, as I watched, into brown. Halfway through, the color seemed to stop, and from the upper half of brown his soul watched me with kindness; from the lower half of blue, with suspicion.
His voice, his split tongue, said, “That’s unusual for this time of day.”
“I hope no one’s died,” I told him. The cup shattered then, and we turned to look at it. The man with the split tongue frowned gently.
“I’ll be right back,” he said. “Hold my tea for me, will you?” He’d carried a camera in with him, and he grasped at it hurriedly with articulated fingers as he stumbled towards the door. I’d thought he would be more graceful than he actually was, and as I watched him go, I was surprised by the wide, yawning stretch of my disappointment, awakening.
Uh, so. That's... something. (Indestructible lovesick alchemist as played by early-90s Joel Hodgson, a female first-person MC named Molly who falls in love with an ex-punk as yet unnamed, love triangles and many many funerals and possibly warping the fabric of reality as we know it, y/n?)
My boyfriend Ron died in a tremendous explosion at two o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon. The explosion took out the entirety of his house- it had originated in his basement- and half the outer walls of the nearest neighbors. Also the neighbor’s Pekinese, though no blame was laid on Ron for that, which makes me think even Scrappy’s owners didn’t much care for Scrappy.
He wasn’t actually my boyfriend at the time, of course. That came later. At the time he was nothing more than a gently eccentric frequenter of the coffee shop I worked in. Eccentric in that he wore hats and suits that clearly did not belong to him; gently so in that he was, at least, clothed at all times. Something which could not always be said for the men who came into my coffee shop. It was a bad part of town.
The explosion rocked the city for fifteen blocks in every direction. It turned the air a pasty yellow color, as though someone had taken a set of pastels to reality. At work, a cup fell off a high shelf and crawled into a corner before it shattered. The customer I was helping at the moment- a narrow-faced man with a split tongue, half-hidden tattoos, and other remnants of a youth spent in revolt- looked up at me with blue eyes that bled slowly, as I watched, into brown. Halfway through, the color seemed to stop, and from the upper half of brown his soul watched me with kindness; from the lower half of blue, with suspicion.
His voice, his split tongue, said, “That’s unusual for this time of day.”
“I hope no one’s died,” I told him. The cup shattered then, and we turned to look at it. The man with the split tongue frowned gently.
“I’ll be right back,” he said. “Hold my tea for me, will you?” He’d carried a camera in with him, and he grasped at it hurriedly with articulated fingers as he stumbled towards the door. I’d thought he would be more graceful than he actually was, and as I watched him go, I was surprised by the wide, yawning stretch of my disappointment, awakening.
Uh, so. That's... something. (Indestructible lovesick alchemist as played by early-90s Joel Hodgson, a female first-person MC named Molly who falls in love with an ex-punk as yet unnamed, love triangles and many many funerals and possibly warping the fabric of reality as we know it, y/n?)