Sestina!fic #1: House post-infarction
So those sets of six prompts I requested back in September? The big secret is that I've been playing around with some sestinas. (Yes, I am that much of a geek.) For those of you who aren't familiar with the term, it's a type of poem consisting of seven stanzas where the same six words appear at the ends of the lines in a different order in each of the first six stanzas, and then two of the words appear in each line of the final three-line stanza. There are more rules -- Poets.org explains in detail -- but that's the gist of it. That may sound confusing, but once you read one you'll get it.
Irony of ironies, of the five poems I've got going for the first round (four House, one Harry Potter), I ended up using only one full prompt set from what everyone supplied, plus a few words scattered here and there. Since I'd never written poetry!fic nor a "normal" sestina before, it was easiest to write with simple prompts closely related to the characters. If you gave me prompts, don't be disappointed -- at least one set from everyone will be turned into a poem or ficlet.
ETA: For the poetry-phobic among you: It's non-rhyming, and it reads like a story. There are just line breaks in odd places and a lot of repeated words.
Okay! First one up:
Character: Gregory House
Rating: R for language
Word Count: 450
Prompts: painkiller, Stacy, fuck, nerves, dead, laugh
Spoilers: "Three Stories"
A/N: To quote Eddie Izzard, the infrastructure's fucked. In other words, screwed up the order on this one. But I liked the stanzas enough to leave it alone.
A/N 2: A University of Northern Iowa webpage mentions the obsession that underlies the sestina because of its constant return to the same words. I think that's what makes this form so fitting for House.
Being crippled against one's will is in fact worse than being dead,
He concludes. Six days of this hell called recovery and his nerves
Are frayed beyond repair (metaphorically and physically; he'd laugh
If he wasn't afraid he'd start sobbing). So are Stacy's-
She's smoking again-but he doesn't have the energy to give a fuck
About anyone as he lies in his hospital bed numbing himself with painkillers.
Of course, he wouldn't need the IV or the antibiotics or the painkillers
If they had let him ride it out once he'd gone under instead of laughing
In his comatose face, scooping out muscle and slicing nerves
Despite knowing full well he wanted the idiots to stay the hell out. Stacy
Cries her excuses (You would have died, for a minute you were dead),
Cuddy checks in and Wilson visits, and he wishes everyone would leave him the fuck
Alone for a change. Fuck Stacy for betraying him and fuck
Cuddy for encouraging her. Yeah, maybe he'd be dead
But now he has to live with a ruined leg and raw nerves
That no sympathy or rehab or walking aid or painkiller
Can heal. He's the one who's fucking crippled, not Stacy
Sitting there with smudged mascara looking as if she'll never laugh
Again. Except then she barks the most bitter, incredulous laugh
He's heard from her as she loses her patience and has the nerve
To snap For God's sake, Greg, would you rather be dead?
He thinks Why not-he can't walk, can't drive, can't fuck,
Can't stand the sight of his goddamn painkillers
And his goddamn concave thigh and goddamn Stacy
Who did this to him. So he lobs a pill bottle at Stacy's
Head and shouts What's the opposite of painkiller
Because that's you and laughs
And keeps laughing because what the fuck
Else can he do when his leg's half-dead
And what's left comprises a minefield of detonating nerves?
He turns away from her, wondering whether the nerve
Damage or the helplessness will break him first. It doesn't take long for Stacy
To heave a frustrated sob and leave the room. He can't reach his painkillers
But he refuses to press the call button. His breath hitches when he laughs
This time. His throat feels tight. His cheeks are wet. Baby. Like a fucking
Baby, says his father's voice in his head. Men don't cry. Dead
Men don't feel pain. His nerves fire as if on cue. Though it hurts like fuck
It distracts him from visions of Stacy leaving for good. He wheezes a final laugh.
If he takes enough painkillers, maybe he can forget how peaceful it felt to be dead.
* * *
Feedback is love. That includes concrit. Considering there will be more of these, advice on what works and what doesn't would be appreciated.
Irony of ironies, of the five poems I've got going for the first round (four House, one Harry Potter), I ended up using only one full prompt set from what everyone supplied, plus a few words scattered here and there. Since I'd never written poetry!fic nor a "normal" sestina before, it was easiest to write with simple prompts closely related to the characters. If you gave me prompts, don't be disappointed -- at least one set from everyone will be turned into a poem or ficlet.
ETA: For the poetry-phobic among you: It's non-rhyming, and it reads like a story. There are just line breaks in odd places and a lot of repeated words.
Okay! First one up:
Character: Gregory House
Rating: R for language
Word Count: 450
Prompts: painkiller, Stacy, fuck, nerves, dead, laugh
Spoilers: "Three Stories"
A/N: To quote Eddie Izzard, the infrastructure's fucked. In other words, screwed up the order on this one. But I liked the stanzas enough to leave it alone.
A/N 2: A University of Northern Iowa webpage mentions the obsession that underlies the sestina because of its constant return to the same words. I think that's what makes this form so fitting for House.
Being crippled against one's will is in fact worse than being dead,
He concludes. Six days of this hell called recovery and his nerves
Are frayed beyond repair (metaphorically and physically; he'd laugh
If he wasn't afraid he'd start sobbing). So are Stacy's-
She's smoking again-but he doesn't have the energy to give a fuck
About anyone as he lies in his hospital bed numbing himself with painkillers.
Of course, he wouldn't need the IV or the antibiotics or the painkillers
If they had let him ride it out once he'd gone under instead of laughing
In his comatose face, scooping out muscle and slicing nerves
Despite knowing full well he wanted the idiots to stay the hell out. Stacy
Cries her excuses (You would have died, for a minute you were dead),
Cuddy checks in and Wilson visits, and he wishes everyone would leave him the fuck
Alone for a change. Fuck Stacy for betraying him and fuck
Cuddy for encouraging her. Yeah, maybe he'd be dead
But now he has to live with a ruined leg and raw nerves
That no sympathy or rehab or walking aid or painkiller
Can heal. He's the one who's fucking crippled, not Stacy
Sitting there with smudged mascara looking as if she'll never laugh
Again. Except then she barks the most bitter, incredulous laugh
He's heard from her as she loses her patience and has the nerve
To snap For God's sake, Greg, would you rather be dead?
He thinks Why not-he can't walk, can't drive, can't fuck,
Can't stand the sight of his goddamn painkillers
And his goddamn concave thigh and goddamn Stacy
Who did this to him. So he lobs a pill bottle at Stacy's
Head and shouts What's the opposite of painkiller
Because that's you and laughs
And keeps laughing because what the fuck
Else can he do when his leg's half-dead
And what's left comprises a minefield of detonating nerves?
He turns away from her, wondering whether the nerve
Damage or the helplessness will break him first. It doesn't take long for Stacy
To heave a frustrated sob and leave the room. He can't reach his painkillers
But he refuses to press the call button. His breath hitches when he laughs
This time. His throat feels tight. His cheeks are wet. Baby. Like a fucking
Baby, says his father's voice in his head. Men don't cry. Dead
Men don't feel pain. His nerves fire as if on cue. Though it hurts like fuck
It distracts him from visions of Stacy leaving for good. He wheezes a final laugh.
If he takes enough painkillers, maybe he can forget how peaceful it felt to be dead.
* * *
Feedback is love. That includes concrit. Considering there will be more of these, advice on what works and what doesn't would be appreciated.