(no subject)
[mood| 
calm]
[music| The Unknown Soldier -The Doors ]
Title: Escapees
Pairing: House/Cameron
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Spoilers: None what so ever.
Summary: The serrated edges nip and slash at their ankles, driven by hunger. [inspired by Tchaikovsky's 4th Symphony, as classical masterpieces bear multitudes of emotions in a single score.]
Word Count: 696
Thanks to: bytheshoreline my wonderful [if belating ;)] beta.
I. Andante Sostenuto
Walking pace; sustained
They should hear the melodic rhythm of a waltzing ¾ beat, light as when spring’s first blossom tiptoes onto the sleeping face of the lake.
Instead are the rings of lonely chords.
Tragic. Dismal. Distant.
“Why did you take me here?”
Insular. Private. Cryptic.
The fireflies’ glow dips softly as the fog glides a thick layer of bedding over the water’s edge.
He passes his tongue over his teeth, his motion experienced and refined, yet stumbling now.
“Because if we get lost… they’ll never find us.”
* * *
II. Andantino in modo di canzono
Slower than Andante; in the manner of a dance
They hear the long drawn of the moon’s wail, smooth as the enchantments of a desperate mirage. Like a dream steadily tuning into focus; a fever brewing in a bottle, its cap carelessly left undone.
They lie under the fading riparian growth, a parting distance sufficient for the demon of self-jurisdiction.
“If I drift off…”
Hovering ghosts haunt their every word.
There’s terror and there’s grace.
“…I won’t wake you.”
Shame, and elegance.
He douses his hand into the undisturbed, drawing perfect circles within the water.
Daunting indulgence.
A nightingale sings of melancholy and harmony.
They breathe in deep, deep, the scent of empty cider cones and fallen maple leaves and hold onto the writhing lungful.
For a moment the fine grains entrapped inside the hourglass DEFY gravity. And they know of no loss, only discovery.
It passes as it is released.
They close their eyes to remember and to forget.
* * *
III. Scherzo: Pizzicato ostinato
Joke; stubborn pizz.
They sit by the sandy white banks, their feet submerged in the shimmering liquid.
The wind billows its drapes. Playful and extravagant.
The nightingale is replaced by a young swallow that chants of ripened berries and summer’s rays.
The moonlight reflects off the waters onto their contours.
He launches a pebble into the air and watches it splash ripples. A patch of butterflies flitters too close by.
“We could… be Tarzan and Jane, and live like monkeys.”
She laughs.
Raindrops begin their descent from above, pitter pattering into the surface, their tempo steady and cadenced.
They make no hint of escape, nor do the butterflies.
“Is it the semi-nude factor that excites you?”
She teases, her hand sweeping close through the fair sand.
“Oh yeah. I’m just dying to wear a loincloth.
Can’t wait to swing from those vines and chase you…
Wouldn’t that be romantic?”
His hair, dampened and untamed, almost deceives her.
But the rain has not slowed or sped.
Precision of endurance.
“Please spare me the visual.”
He smirks.
She can’t help but feel the tug on her own lips.
* * *
IV. Allegro con fuoco
Lively, fast; with fire
A gust of ill-tempered reverence dims the moon and sends the mat of moist leaves roaring like the sea. The serrated edges nip and slash at their ankles, driven by hunger.
They trample toward the thickening growth, their shoes abandoned and forgotten upon the lurching sand. The abuse of kettledrums thunders the sky, accompanying each bare and hollow thump.
Her voice struggles in the tides of air.
“Don’t tell me I have to carry you.”
Behind her he grins wide.
“Question is, does she have the muscles?”
He drags her into a dark opening; a hollowed out cider trunk.
The howl of the rampaging chaos lays waste to the rest of being, echoing in their ears just a layer of bark away.
Resounding. Permanent.
“Wouldn’t you like to find out?”
She rests against the ragged wood, her brows calm and slightly raised.
He fixes his gaze on her eyes.
Still. Resolute.
He sways and loses himself in the seamless tangle of ivy.
Desire seeps out from the moistened pearls.
Thick. Urgent. Ensnaring.
Painfully out of control under the temples. Pounding with cruel demand as thunder quakes the night.
It’s BARBARIC and WILD.
He bites down to feel blood drench his lips. A stunning crimson, vividly alive.
She moves close with a concerned frown, vague enough to drive him over the edge.
Something bursts and it’s BLIND.
*
*
*
Fin.
• Honorary mention of author William Golding and his well-known Lord of the Flies. I didn't see it at fist, but the way he creates mood is unbelievably stunning, gorgeous, just amazing. I am not recommending the book, because it is as sick as it is beautiful. And for that I both hate and love him. Although I'm sure most have already experienced this symbolic masterpiece, I understand if you don't feel the same way :) I took and learned from the book.
calm]
[music| The Unknown Soldier -The Doors ]
Title: Escapees
Pairing: House/Cameron
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Spoilers: None what so ever.
Summary: The serrated edges nip and slash at their ankles, driven by hunger. [inspired by Tchaikovsky's 4th Symphony, as classical masterpieces bear multitudes of emotions in a single score.]
Word Count: 696
Thanks to: bytheshoreline my wonderful [if belating ;)] beta.
I. Andante Sostenuto
Walking pace; sustained
They should hear the melodic rhythm of a waltzing ¾ beat, light as when spring’s first blossom tiptoes onto the sleeping face of the lake.
Instead are the rings of lonely chords.
Tragic. Dismal. Distant.
“Why did you take me here?”
Insular. Private. Cryptic.
The fireflies’ glow dips softly as the fog glides a thick layer of bedding over the water’s edge.
He passes his tongue over his teeth, his motion experienced and refined, yet stumbling now.
“Because if we get lost… they’ll never find us.”
* * *
II. Andantino in modo di canzono
Slower than Andante; in the manner of a dance
They hear the long drawn of the moon’s wail, smooth as the enchantments of a desperate mirage. Like a dream steadily tuning into focus; a fever brewing in a bottle, its cap carelessly left undone.
They lie under the fading riparian growth, a parting distance sufficient for the demon of self-jurisdiction.
“If I drift off…”
Hovering ghosts haunt their every word.
There’s terror and there’s grace.
“…I won’t wake you.”
Shame, and elegance.
He douses his hand into the undisturbed, drawing perfect circles within the water.
Daunting indulgence.
A nightingale sings of melancholy and harmony.
They breathe in deep, deep, the scent of empty cider cones and fallen maple leaves and hold onto the writhing lungful.
For a moment the fine grains entrapped inside the hourglass DEFY gravity. And they know of no loss, only discovery.
It passes as it is released.
They close their eyes to remember and to forget.
* * *
III. Scherzo: Pizzicato ostinato
Joke; stubborn pizz.
They sit by the sandy white banks, their feet submerged in the shimmering liquid.
The wind billows its drapes. Playful and extravagant.
The nightingale is replaced by a young swallow that chants of ripened berries and summer’s rays.
The moonlight reflects off the waters onto their contours.
He launches a pebble into the air and watches it splash ripples. A patch of butterflies flitters too close by.
“We could… be Tarzan and Jane, and live like monkeys.”
She laughs.
Raindrops begin their descent from above, pitter pattering into the surface, their tempo steady and cadenced.
They make no hint of escape, nor do the butterflies.
“Is it the semi-nude factor that excites you?”
She teases, her hand sweeping close through the fair sand.
“Oh yeah. I’m just dying to wear a loincloth.
Can’t wait to swing from those vines and chase you…
Wouldn’t that be romantic?”
His hair, dampened and untamed, almost deceives her.
But the rain has not slowed or sped.
Precision of endurance.
“Please spare me the visual.”
He smirks.
She can’t help but feel the tug on her own lips.
* * *
IV. Allegro con fuoco
Lively, fast; with fire
A gust of ill-tempered reverence dims the moon and sends the mat of moist leaves roaring like the sea. The serrated edges nip and slash at their ankles, driven by hunger.
They trample toward the thickening growth, their shoes abandoned and forgotten upon the lurching sand. The abuse of kettledrums thunders the sky, accompanying each bare and hollow thump.
Her voice struggles in the tides of air.
“Don’t tell me I have to carry you.”
Behind her he grins wide.
“Question is, does she have the muscles?”
He drags her into a dark opening; a hollowed out cider trunk.
The howl of the rampaging chaos lays waste to the rest of being, echoing in their ears just a layer of bark away.
Resounding. Permanent.
“Wouldn’t you like to find out?”
She rests against the ragged wood, her brows calm and slightly raised.
He fixes his gaze on her eyes.
Still. Resolute.
He sways and loses himself in the seamless tangle of ivy.
Desire seeps out from the moistened pearls.
Thick. Urgent. Ensnaring.
Painfully out of control under the temples. Pounding with cruel demand as thunder quakes the night.
It’s BARBARIC and WILD.
He bites down to feel blood drench his lips. A stunning crimson, vividly alive.
She moves close with a concerned frown, vague enough to drive him over the edge.
Something bursts and it’s BLIND.
*
*
*
Fin.
• Honorary mention of author William Golding and his well-known Lord of the Flies. I didn't see it at fist, but the way he creates mood is unbelievably stunning, gorgeous, just amazing. I am not recommending the book, because it is as sick as it is beautiful. And for that I both hate and love him. Although I'm sure most have already experienced this symbolic masterpiece, I understand if you don't feel the same way :) I took and learned from the book.