House of Mortar
Dom/Mal peripherally, again.
summary: excerpts of Mal's writings.
this is whatever you think it means.
warnings: vague AU atmosphere. time is not in a line. (this is not for those who favor chronology.)
disclaimer: this somehow came out from watching Howl. i don’t know how i feel about that yet, but you'll probably find references therein.
The move is imminent. The house already has a buyer.
Dom clears out the attic, leaving a heavy box labeled Academic Texts for last.
He doesn’t remember what’s in it, but it looks to be a pain in the ass to move.
Can’t tell whether the handwriting is his or Mal’s. All capitals, too generic.
Wipes dust off his upper lip before clattering down the rungs.
Yells out something to the kids about having takeout for dinner.
+
1995
She places the lid on top.
Shoves the box into a corner.
It holds certain moments in her life that don’t really bear revisiting.
Yet she can’t bring herself to throw its contents away.
Like childhood memories, she supposes.
+
He might as well take the load down in increments.
Tossing the box down the ladder would probably put a dent in the floorboards.
Feeling a headache coming on, Dom pushes the lid aside and expects to be faced with dissertations.
With reams of theories and bibliographies that explain in full, but never push the boundaries.
Instead, he finds novels and essays and poems that she wrote, unpublished, in disarray.
Barely-started, half-finished, illegible, margin-starved, torn in two.
He runs a hand gingerly over discolored pages.
Collects them all together and starts from the top.
+
1988
She puffs on a cigarette as she puts ink to paper once more. Coughs and wonders who the hell puts up with this shit. Why every aspiring writer around her seems to cling to its scent. As if a hit between their lips is all they need, because nicotine is the fucking gatekeeper. Muse, come forth! But apparently it’s untrue, so she scowls and stubs it into an ugly glass ashtray. Who bought that for her, anyway? The fuck. They have no taste. God, she needs to wash the fiberglass and filtered tobacco out of her mouth before she goes insane. It ruins her productivity, wherever it is.
Nothing is all that appears at the top of the sheet. Big, black, bold. A hole torn in the final g, from where her pen stabbed through. Anger is a familiar enemy by now. Maybe a friend. It’s hard to say.
It’s really a shame that one sheet isn’t enough to justify the start of a small fire in the apartment.
Also, city laws but whatever. She goes to find something to eat.
Tosses away the remaining Gitanes but keeps the lighter in her pocket.
+
1991
Why is it that diseases are crippling?
Why is it that subways are roaring?
Why is it that mothers are nurturing?
Why is it that-?
Why is it that smiles are mysterious?
Why is it that eyes are the windows to the soul?
Why is it that Dom keeps fucking knocking on my door at all the wrong moments?
Why Dom, is the question.
This is some shit poetry. He better not see this.
+
Unbidden, a smile curves and stays.
He carefully sets the poem down beside him, and reaches for another leaf.
+
1989
Cheers erupt and rock the normally apathetic street.
Tears stream down her face, as she fixates on a television screen airing history in the making.
Young and old alike throw arms around each other and beer spills everywhere. But that doesn’t matter in the slightest.
The wall has fallen. There is a pervading sense of immeasurable happiness. Never did I think I could feel so much for people I’ve never met. But freedom has a universal sweetness. Sometimes we forget, but not today.
+
1993
I’m with you in the ages of the gods, the eons of the race. Fair-haired neither, but the glow is all the same. Tracks and telephone lines and pavements and streets, one path two directions. Forward, forward, backwards. Do you know what you’re doing to me? Eyes that see, and eyes that seek mine out, too. You don’t get me, but you try. You don’t know me, but you try. The love is in the try, isn’t it. Turn the corner, turn the hourglass, turn back time. Wait, don’t. Can you slow it down instead? Frame by frame, like Muybridgian stills. File, file, catalogue. I want all the moments to myself. I’m with you in the
+
Dom flips the page, searching for the rest.
But there is none.
+
1994
The study, thrown into darkness.
Shadows streak across the desk, as the lamp burns midnight oil.
Angular lines softened, as she curls an arm around to write.
Fondness. He leans in a little, keeping a hand on the door frame.
“It’s late. You should get some rest.”
She pushes up her reading glasses and sighs.
“Be right there.”
In the event that I should die, where would I go.
If something were to take me away from you, where would I go.
If you were left behind, where would I go.
To this day, to this hour, there is a fear that equates to none other.
Where it comes from: unknown. Where it leads to: unknown.
How can one person forge such knotted, fragile ties.
In the event that we should be apart,
+
The moving man clamps his teeth around a pen and growls good-naturedly, lifting the last box with no small effort.
“Whaddya got in here? Bricks?”
Dom shoves his hands into his pockets.
“Yeah. Bricks.”
summary: excerpts of Mal's writings.
this is whatever you think it means.
warnings: vague AU atmosphere. time is not in a line. (this is not for those who favor chronology.)
disclaimer: this somehow came out from watching Howl. i don’t know how i feel about that yet, but you'll probably find references therein.
The move is imminent. The house already has a buyer.
Dom clears out the attic, leaving a heavy box labeled Academic Texts for last.
He doesn’t remember what’s in it, but it looks to be a pain in the ass to move.
Can’t tell whether the handwriting is his or Mal’s. All capitals, too generic.
Wipes dust off his upper lip before clattering down the rungs.
Yells out something to the kids about having takeout for dinner.
+
1995
She places the lid on top.
Shoves the box into a corner.
It holds certain moments in her life that don’t really bear revisiting.
Yet she can’t bring herself to throw its contents away.
Like childhood memories, she supposes.
+
He might as well take the load down in increments.
Tossing the box down the ladder would probably put a dent in the floorboards.
Feeling a headache coming on, Dom pushes the lid aside and expects to be faced with dissertations.
With reams of theories and bibliographies that explain in full, but never push the boundaries.
Instead, he finds novels and essays and poems that she wrote, unpublished, in disarray.
Barely-started, half-finished, illegible, margin-starved, torn in two.
He runs a hand gingerly over discolored pages.
Collects them all together and starts from the top.
+
1988
She puffs on a cigarette as she puts ink to paper once more. Coughs and wonders who the hell puts up with this shit. Why every aspiring writer around her seems to cling to its scent. As if a hit between their lips is all they need, because nicotine is the fucking gatekeeper. Muse, come forth! But apparently it’s untrue, so she scowls and stubs it into an ugly glass ashtray. Who bought that for her, anyway? The fuck. They have no taste. God, she needs to wash the fiberglass and filtered tobacco out of her mouth before she goes insane. It ruins her productivity, wherever it is.
Nothing is all that appears at the top of the sheet. Big, black, bold. A hole torn in the final g, from where her pen stabbed through. Anger is a familiar enemy by now. Maybe a friend. It’s hard to say.
It’s really a shame that one sheet isn’t enough to justify the start of a small fire in the apartment.
Also, city laws but whatever. She goes to find something to eat.
Tosses away the remaining Gitanes but keeps the lighter in her pocket.
+
1991
Why is it that diseases are crippling?
Why is it that subways are roaring?
Why is it that mothers are nurturing?
Why is it that-?
Why is it that smiles are mysterious?
Why is it that eyes are the windows to the soul?
Why is it that Dom keeps fucking knocking on my door at all the wrong moments?
Why Dom, is the question.
This is some shit poetry. He better not see this.
+
Unbidden, a smile curves and stays.
He carefully sets the poem down beside him, and reaches for another leaf.
+
1989
Cheers erupt and rock the normally apathetic street.
Tears stream down her face, as she fixates on a television screen airing history in the making.
Young and old alike throw arms around each other and beer spills everywhere. But that doesn’t matter in the slightest.
The wall has fallen. There is a pervading sense of immeasurable happiness. Never did I think I could feel so much for people I’ve never met. But freedom has a universal sweetness. Sometimes we forget, but not today.
+
1993
I’m with you in the ages of the gods, the eons of the race. Fair-haired neither, but the glow is all the same. Tracks and telephone lines and pavements and streets, one path two directions. Forward, forward, backwards. Do you know what you’re doing to me? Eyes that see, and eyes that seek mine out, too. You don’t get me, but you try. You don’t know me, but you try. The love is in the try, isn’t it. Turn the corner, turn the hourglass, turn back time. Wait, don’t. Can you slow it down instead? Frame by frame, like Muybridgian stills. File, file, catalogue. I want all the moments to myself. I’m with you in the
+
Dom flips the page, searching for the rest.
But there is none.
+
1994
The study, thrown into darkness.
Shadows streak across the desk, as the lamp burns midnight oil.
Angular lines softened, as she curls an arm around to write.
Fondness. He leans in a little, keeping a hand on the door frame.
“It’s late. You should get some rest.”
She pushes up her reading glasses and sighs.
“Be right there.”
In the event that I should die, where would I go.
If something were to take me away from you, where would I go.
If you were left behind, where would I go.
To this day, to this hour, there is a fear that equates to none other.
Where it comes from: unknown. Where it leads to: unknown.
How can one person forge such knotted, fragile ties.
In the event that we should be apart,
+
The moving man clamps his teeth around a pen and growls good-naturedly, lifting the last box with no small effort.
“Whaddya got in here? Bricks?”
Dom shoves his hands into his pockets.
“Yeah. Bricks.”