(no subject)
i needed to write something in order to break up this straightforward streak i have going on. farnaz, i know what you're going to say. don't hold it against me. people do strange things when they're desperate. i like to think this story takes place in the kind of black and white that "stranger than paradise" does.
lime twisting
greta/darren, g, prompt
i'm beginning to regret that i brought you back to life.
There’s an interest in the way she talks. Word by word: careful, stealthily. Scenes from an autobiographical film run wildly behind her eyes. Collected moments. Darren sees mystery people hunting for diamonds and trash. Questions are forming, he can hear her.
He has come to the conclusion that Greta can sense gut feelings. In crowds, she pulls them out and makes each key on her piano produce a sound that that person can identify with. It sometimes alarms Darren to be this close to her. Thin, papery air physically separating her from what he thinks she already knows.
Greta’s hair could be a mirror. Darren wants to see himself right now. His face, body, some reminder that he is here, that she hasn’t misplaced him. She reaches for his hand. In his teeth he can feel the rocks scraping against her palm.
Darren imagines glitter scattering as Greta lets a puff of air out of her peach mouth. She likes strawberries cut length-wise, milk from glass bottles. Thick linings of morning dew cover the pavement and intertwine their veins. Why sit in chairs when this is close enough?
Her hand is sweat-soft. Nails bright pink and the sun makes the colour seem resigned. It’s not though, she is not. Greta crosses her pinkie finger with his. Chris said last night that this morning would be promising.
Head to his shoulder. Pretty satin eyes blink up at Darren. She has lips, ones that whisper English as if it were another language. Programmed, free-form poetry is right here in front of him.
His shirt is white, the seams bulge with synthetic life. It’s like she finds them fascinating. She presses her knee against his. Today, Greta wears shorts. Black ones with class and cuffs. Lily legs and red flats. She isn’t known for pin-prick shoes.
Darren rubs his cheek, rough with stubble, lightly against her temple. She holds their hands where she can see them. He can feel her heartbeat waking his lungs. Breathing is hard, scattered, cold and sharp. Not quite an adjective.
“You know,” Greta says, pinching at Darren’s stomach. There’s a dead weight breakfast can’t fill. “Brick walls like these are perceived as a lot of things. Sources of hurt and distance, but we’re close.”
Darren’s back can’t flatten out completely. “That says something about us, then, doesn’t it?” She closes her eyes. Eyelashes like black fans and her smile light.
“Yeah.” Greta’s voice wavers softly and then again, “yeah.” More confidence, a surety. She feels anchored to his side. A never ending run-off of everything he isn’t. Her breath smells like stale mint, always does an hour after toothpaste and brush bristles. She likes tubes of children’s paste. Bright colours and flavours. Taste so surreal it makes her mouth waft away to some mess of neon art. Good clean fun.
Darren sighs, re-aligns his fingers with hers and twines and tangles them tighter. Dusty sunlight spills over the geometrical skyline. It’s gray out, more dark than light. Vision frosted over with grain. Maybe it’ll rain today. Greta can bring out her umbrella. He likes her rubber boots, the ones with the sketchy daisies.
“It reminds me of the cream Chris should put in his coffee. This sunrise,” Greta laughs. “I don’t understand the appeal of black coffee. More people should drink tea.”
He leans over and kisses her cheek in response. A translucent print from her beeswax balm is always visible on the side of her cup. It’s familiar and comforting like buying groceries too late at night. Dropping eggs in aisle nine. They bought two bags of sweets.
It's not like he's hungry, but Darren pulls a shortbread cookie from the paper bag between them out anyways. It doesn’t need any additives to be something interesting. No icing or raisins or milk to accompany its shape. Pure. She reaches and snaps off a piece with her thumb and index fingers.
Absolutely none at all.
lime twisting
greta/darren, g, prompt
i'm beginning to regret that i brought you back to life.
There’s an interest in the way she talks. Word by word: careful, stealthily. Scenes from an autobiographical film run wildly behind her eyes. Collected moments. Darren sees mystery people hunting for diamonds and trash. Questions are forming, he can hear her.
He has come to the conclusion that Greta can sense gut feelings. In crowds, she pulls them out and makes each key on her piano produce a sound that that person can identify with. It sometimes alarms Darren to be this close to her. Thin, papery air physically separating her from what he thinks she already knows.
Greta’s hair could be a mirror. Darren wants to see himself right now. His face, body, some reminder that he is here, that she hasn’t misplaced him. She reaches for his hand. In his teeth he can feel the rocks scraping against her palm.
Darren imagines glitter scattering as Greta lets a puff of air out of her peach mouth. She likes strawberries cut length-wise, milk from glass bottles. Thick linings of morning dew cover the pavement and intertwine their veins. Why sit in chairs when this is close enough?
Her hand is sweat-soft. Nails bright pink and the sun makes the colour seem resigned. It’s not though, she is not. Greta crosses her pinkie finger with his. Chris said last night that this morning would be promising.
Head to his shoulder. Pretty satin eyes blink up at Darren. She has lips, ones that whisper English as if it were another language. Programmed, free-form poetry is right here in front of him.
His shirt is white, the seams bulge with synthetic life. It’s like she finds them fascinating. She presses her knee against his. Today, Greta wears shorts. Black ones with class and cuffs. Lily legs and red flats. She isn’t known for pin-prick shoes.
Darren rubs his cheek, rough with stubble, lightly against her temple. She holds their hands where she can see them. He can feel her heartbeat waking his lungs. Breathing is hard, scattered, cold and sharp. Not quite an adjective.
“You know,” Greta says, pinching at Darren’s stomach. There’s a dead weight breakfast can’t fill. “Brick walls like these are perceived as a lot of things. Sources of hurt and distance, but we’re close.”
Darren’s back can’t flatten out completely. “That says something about us, then, doesn’t it?” She closes her eyes. Eyelashes like black fans and her smile light.
“Yeah.” Greta’s voice wavers softly and then again, “yeah.” More confidence, a surety. She feels anchored to his side. A never ending run-off of everything he isn’t. Her breath smells like stale mint, always does an hour after toothpaste and brush bristles. She likes tubes of children’s paste. Bright colours and flavours. Taste so surreal it makes her mouth waft away to some mess of neon art. Good clean fun.
Darren sighs, re-aligns his fingers with hers and twines and tangles them tighter. Dusty sunlight spills over the geometrical skyline. It’s gray out, more dark than light. Vision frosted over with grain. Maybe it’ll rain today. Greta can bring out her umbrella. He likes her rubber boots, the ones with the sketchy daisies.
“It reminds me of the cream Chris should put in his coffee. This sunrise,” Greta laughs. “I don’t understand the appeal of black coffee. More people should drink tea.”
He leans over and kisses her cheek in response. A translucent print from her beeswax balm is always visible on the side of her cup. It’s familiar and comforting like buying groceries too late at night. Dropping eggs in aisle nine. They bought two bags of sweets.
It's not like he's hungry, but Darren pulls a shortbread cookie from the paper bag between them out anyways. It doesn’t need any additives to be something interesting. No icing or raisins or milk to accompany its shape. Pure. She reaches and snaps off a piece with her thumb and index fingers.
Absolutely none at all.