(no subject)
Just a quick response to recent events. It's not especially original but it made me feel better to write it.
THE WATCHER AND THE WAKER
He sat on a fallen log, a small bundle of nervous energy, booted foot tapping impatiently. A cigarette dangled from the fingers of his right hand, whiskey bottle from the left; both were little more than props. As always, the campfire burned bright, its woodsmoke mingling with the scent of mountain sage and an indefinable grassy sweetness. Below him the hill sloped away to distant, hazy meadows, fading blue-grey at the horizon and up into an endless sky.
The sleeper on the grass stirred and sighed, resettled his pale, elegant limbs, thoroughbred lean. The man on the log watched a while, checked the coffeepot with the back of his hand, peered inside. Hot and full. It was always hot and full. A couple of handfuls of years separated the two men, a few years and a quarter of a century, yet they were bound together in a timeless embrace that would last as long as people had hearts and feelings and love and remembrance.
At last the sleeping man stretched and yawned, rolled over and struggled to sit up. The springy turf which had been his bed left patterns over face and body, like ritual tattoos. He rubbed his eyes with two fists, like a little kid, scratched the wild mop of dark hair, and breathed deep. Salt tang and ozone; bound to be a good surf beach nearby.
-- You okay, friend?
-- Yeah, yeah, feel great. Best sleep I've had in ages. Fucking weird dreams though.
-- You want a drink? holding out the bottle.
-- No, I've given up the booze. That coffee I can smell? I'm dying for a coffee.
They drank coffee together in amicable silence. Somewhere a mourning dove called, somewhere a wave crashed on a sandy beach. The breeze which curled around them was warm and comforting.
-- I know you, don't I know you? I'm sure I know you from somewhere.
The watcher flicked his cigarette butt into the fire.
-- You know me. Know my friend even better, even though you never met us. There's clothing there, you feel the need.
-- Thanks. Brushing grass from his pale skin, slipping on tight jeans, a silky, striped jumper, nothing else. You're Jack, right? Real Jack. And I'm still asleep and this is just a dream.
-- No dream, friend. Sit down. Don't want you gettin dizzy way up here.
The waker sat, back against the log, as a slow trickle of memory seeped through his being.
-- No, wait! Something's gone wrong. Shekhar's gonna call me, wake me up---
-- He tried.
-- And I've got things planned for today---
-- All the time in the world now.
-- And my girl, I've gotta be there for my girl! Shit! What the fuck have I done? His body began shaking with the shock of understanding. Jack slid along the log, straddled the waker's body with his sturdy legs, started a gentle massage of shoulders and back.
-- You took the world on your shoulders, that's all. You took everyone's pain and tried to carry it all by yourself. A man can't do that for too long. We start losing track, making mistakes. It ain't your fault. Ain't nobody's fault. Hey, that's right, let it out, let it all out. Come on, darlin, it's all right.
-- Don't want the fucking world, just want my little girl on my shoulders. What have I done to her? Oh god, help me, help me, please ...
They clung together and cried, both of them, for wrong moves and lost opportunities, and futures never to be, and loved ones left behind to grieve. They cried for themselves and for each other, for all the lost souls they had saved and the ones who never heard their message. And much later, when they'd done crying, Jack stroked the other's upturned face and smiled.
-- You'll get used to it, the waiting and the watching. You be surprised what can be done from here. You can get into a writer's head, spin her tales she never heard before, you can come to someone you love in their dreams, leave em with enough pleasure to stoke their day. You'll find ways. Maybe when that little one a yours is whisperin to trees, you'll figure out how to whisper back. Tell you what, she'll hear.
He leaned down and kissed away the tears, buried his face in the soft hair, the delicate cluster of curls upon the temple, and murmured softly.
-- Not as good-looking as him, but then no-one ever was. But you done him proud, done us both proud, and folks won't forget that. You sure earned those stars in your crown.
THE WATCHER AND THE WAKER
He sat on a fallen log, a small bundle of nervous energy, booted foot tapping impatiently. A cigarette dangled from the fingers of his right hand, whiskey bottle from the left; both were little more than props. As always, the campfire burned bright, its woodsmoke mingling with the scent of mountain sage and an indefinable grassy sweetness. Below him the hill sloped away to distant, hazy meadows, fading blue-grey at the horizon and up into an endless sky.
The sleeper on the grass stirred and sighed, resettled his pale, elegant limbs, thoroughbred lean. The man on the log watched a while, checked the coffeepot with the back of his hand, peered inside. Hot and full. It was always hot and full. A couple of handfuls of years separated the two men, a few years and a quarter of a century, yet they were bound together in a timeless embrace that would last as long as people had hearts and feelings and love and remembrance.
At last the sleeping man stretched and yawned, rolled over and struggled to sit up. The springy turf which had been his bed left patterns over face and body, like ritual tattoos. He rubbed his eyes with two fists, like a little kid, scratched the wild mop of dark hair, and breathed deep. Salt tang and ozone; bound to be a good surf beach nearby.
-- You okay, friend?
-- Yeah, yeah, feel great. Best sleep I've had in ages. Fucking weird dreams though.
-- You want a drink? holding out the bottle.
-- No, I've given up the booze. That coffee I can smell? I'm dying for a coffee.
They drank coffee together in amicable silence. Somewhere a mourning dove called, somewhere a wave crashed on a sandy beach. The breeze which curled around them was warm and comforting.
-- I know you, don't I know you? I'm sure I know you from somewhere.
The watcher flicked his cigarette butt into the fire.
-- You know me. Know my friend even better, even though you never met us. There's clothing there, you feel the need.
-- Thanks. Brushing grass from his pale skin, slipping on tight jeans, a silky, striped jumper, nothing else. You're Jack, right? Real Jack. And I'm still asleep and this is just a dream.
-- No dream, friend. Sit down. Don't want you gettin dizzy way up here.
The waker sat, back against the log, as a slow trickle of memory seeped through his being.
-- No, wait! Something's gone wrong. Shekhar's gonna call me, wake me up---
-- He tried.
-- And I've got things planned for today---
-- All the time in the world now.
-- And my girl, I've gotta be there for my girl! Shit! What the fuck have I done? His body began shaking with the shock of understanding. Jack slid along the log, straddled the waker's body with his sturdy legs, started a gentle massage of shoulders and back.
-- You took the world on your shoulders, that's all. You took everyone's pain and tried to carry it all by yourself. A man can't do that for too long. We start losing track, making mistakes. It ain't your fault. Ain't nobody's fault. Hey, that's right, let it out, let it all out. Come on, darlin, it's all right.
-- Don't want the fucking world, just want my little girl on my shoulders. What have I done to her? Oh god, help me, help me, please ...
They clung together and cried, both of them, for wrong moves and lost opportunities, and futures never to be, and loved ones left behind to grieve. They cried for themselves and for each other, for all the lost souls they had saved and the ones who never heard their message. And much later, when they'd done crying, Jack stroked the other's upturned face and smiled.
-- You'll get used to it, the waiting and the watching. You be surprised what can be done from here. You can get into a writer's head, spin her tales she never heard before, you can come to someone you love in their dreams, leave em with enough pleasure to stoke their day. You'll find ways. Maybe when that little one a yours is whisperin to trees, you'll figure out how to whisper back. Tell you what, she'll hear.
He leaned down and kissed away the tears, buried his face in the soft hair, the delicate cluster of curls upon the temple, and murmured softly.
-- Not as good-looking as him, but then no-one ever was. But you done him proud, done us both proud, and folks won't forget that. You sure earned those stars in your crown.