Original Fic: Saturday Morning Rituals
This is the third piece in my Coyote ambles.
~~~
Another Saturday morning, another cheap ass motel room. The desert light wraps itself in nostalgia as it filters through seventies paisley print on the heavy cotton drapes. Coyote watches the sun glint off of the gilt fringe along the top of the curtain and thinks of the sun's daughters. Last time he'd snuck into the solar estate, cloth of gold had fallen out of fashion [which was fine by him - that shit made for heavy and itchy lingerie]. The sun's eldest had just returned from California and brought a pile of Old Hollywood films with her, along with a love of frilly housecoats and feathered slippers. He grins at the memory of her Veronica Lake impersonation and finishes piling the pillows on the bed farthest from the door.
Coyote's on his way to Vegas. There's a new revue based off of Grimm's fairy tales at that casino across from the Bellagino and he's feeling the need to do some research. Okay, he's actually looking forward to getting all the juicy details and embarrassing the shit out of Wolf at the Solstice gathering over in Sedona. It's his own damn fault - Coyote told Wolf talking to those Grimm brothers would back-fire on him. He'd seen they way they'd talked to Baba Yaga's sister; no matter what they said, they weren't interested in the storytelling.
Coyote pulls the faded coverlet off the bed, rumples the sheets. There's not a set of cheap sheets that isn’t more comfortable rumpled. He curls his toes in the shag carpeting. The crumbs of stories, dropped by other travelers and forgotten, itch against his skin. The faint memory of a honeymoon lodges under the toenail on his big toe. It's a happy, awkward dribble of time. Coyote decides to carry it for a while.
It’s almost time. He slaps a hand against the television, causing static to flare bright. Two more smacks and the screen rolls through images until the image of a trio of vaudevillian animals dances into view. Rabbit, Black Duck and Pig with canes and pork pies. Perfect.
They don't run cartoons on the weekends anymore - the constant stream of cartoon cable channels, reproducing like farm-raised salmon sent that tradition off to Dodo's realm. Coyote feels that some traditions deserve to have a foothold here, regardless.
He’s laughing before the title music for the first cartoon’s even finished, that high pitched yip-yip of glee that sends half of the People he knows ducking for cover. When he sees the stylized desert on the scene, Coyote fist-pumps and howls. The salesman next door thumps on the wall. But Coyote can’t help himself. He’ s not to proud to admit - he’s a huge Chuck Jones fanboy.
~~~
This entry was originally posted at http://crowgirl13.dreamwidth.org/519190.html. Comment hither or yon.
~~~
Another Saturday morning, another cheap ass motel room. The desert light wraps itself in nostalgia as it filters through seventies paisley print on the heavy cotton drapes. Coyote watches the sun glint off of the gilt fringe along the top of the curtain and thinks of the sun's daughters. Last time he'd snuck into the solar estate, cloth of gold had fallen out of fashion [which was fine by him - that shit made for heavy and itchy lingerie]. The sun's eldest had just returned from California and brought a pile of Old Hollywood films with her, along with a love of frilly housecoats and feathered slippers. He grins at the memory of her Veronica Lake impersonation and finishes piling the pillows on the bed farthest from the door.
Coyote's on his way to Vegas. There's a new revue based off of Grimm's fairy tales at that casino across from the Bellagino and he's feeling the need to do some research. Okay, he's actually looking forward to getting all the juicy details and embarrassing the shit out of Wolf at the Solstice gathering over in Sedona. It's his own damn fault - Coyote told Wolf talking to those Grimm brothers would back-fire on him. He'd seen they way they'd talked to Baba Yaga's sister; no matter what they said, they weren't interested in the storytelling.
Coyote pulls the faded coverlet off the bed, rumples the sheets. There's not a set of cheap sheets that isn’t more comfortable rumpled. He curls his toes in the shag carpeting. The crumbs of stories, dropped by other travelers and forgotten, itch against his skin. The faint memory of a honeymoon lodges under the toenail on his big toe. It's a happy, awkward dribble of time. Coyote decides to carry it for a while.
It’s almost time. He slaps a hand against the television, causing static to flare bright. Two more smacks and the screen rolls through images until the image of a trio of vaudevillian animals dances into view. Rabbit, Black Duck and Pig with canes and pork pies. Perfect.
They don't run cartoons on the weekends anymore - the constant stream of cartoon cable channels, reproducing like farm-raised salmon sent that tradition off to Dodo's realm. Coyote feels that some traditions deserve to have a foothold here, regardless.
He’s laughing before the title music for the first cartoon’s even finished, that high pitched yip-yip of glee that sends half of the People he knows ducking for cover. When he sees the stylized desert on the scene, Coyote fist-pumps and howls. The salesman next door thumps on the wall. But Coyote can’t help himself. He’ s not to proud to admit - he’s a huge Chuck Jones fanboy.
~~~
This entry was originally posted at http://crowgirl13.dreamwidth.org/519190.html. Comment hither or yon.