Harmony
Guy, Longfellow; Arch To The Sky (Nipawin, probably '93); G; 445 words. With no apologies for lack of Turnbull.
'Even a stopped clock gives the right time twice a day. And for once I'm inclined to believe Withnail is right; we are indeed drifting into the arena of the unwell. Making an enemy of our own future. What we need is harmony. Fresh air. Stuff like that.' - Peter Marwood, 'Withnail & I'
The light distorted to the curved edge of his glasses. Magnified, stretched on to the shape of metal and glass. Bursting colors.
It could have been the flashing lights of a police car. Could have been the TV, left on late at night to drift into his awareness. Could have been the transient lights of a trip gone beautiful. Guy didn't know. Wherever he was, it was warm.
Life faded in somewhere on those colors, shifting purple, blue, orange. He opened his eyes no further than they were. His glasses were askew; bent some, as they so often ended up. He'd gotten good at repairing them. He was by a fire. Nothing new there. It was a big one, though. Changing colors. Somebody was passing around the color powder, tossing it in.
His resting spot let go of a heavy sigh, pluming more sweet-smelling smoke into the night sky above them. Longfellow. Often as Guy fell asleep on the man, he'd become as familiar as any mattress.
The bonfire whooshed with green flame before it died back to its orange, and Guy grinned lazily at the laughter he could hear at the other side.
He couldn't remember how he'd gotten here, or why the people were gathered, but that just made things more interesting. He shut his eyes again, mostly. People were their own sort of song and light. The flashes of color and flicker through his eyelashes lent to Guy a kind of contentment.
He drifted on the warmth of it.
It was a sleep that seemed to pass in a single breath, but when consciousness found him again, Andrew had moved.
People had fallen quiet. Guy could tell they were still there; he had a kind of sixth sense for knowing how many bodies breathed nearby him, but the laughter had died. Another man would have jumped back hard at what he saw when his eyes cracked open; another set looking back at him, close enough to slam caveman-worthy adrenaline through a man. Not Guy. There was a kind of zen in where he was and with whom.
Drew was sliding his glasses back to their proper place.
It was for curiosity's sake that Guy pretended to remain asleep. Eyes barely open. The sunglasses were settled neatly on the bridge of his nose, and Longfellow seemed to check to make sure none of the others had noticed what he'd done before he flopped back to whatever soft thing it was they were laying on now.
Smoke curled again into the sky, winding away.
'Even a stopped clock gives the right time twice a day. And for once I'm inclined to believe Withnail is right; we are indeed drifting into the arena of the unwell. Making an enemy of our own future. What we need is harmony. Fresh air. Stuff like that.' - Peter Marwood, 'Withnail & I'
The light distorted to the curved edge of his glasses. Magnified, stretched on to the shape of metal and glass. Bursting colors.
It could have been the flashing lights of a police car. Could have been the TV, left on late at night to drift into his awareness. Could have been the transient lights of a trip gone beautiful. Guy didn't know. Wherever he was, it was warm.
Life faded in somewhere on those colors, shifting purple, blue, orange. He opened his eyes no further than they were. His glasses were askew; bent some, as they so often ended up. He'd gotten good at repairing them. He was by a fire. Nothing new there. It was a big one, though. Changing colors. Somebody was passing around the color powder, tossing it in.
His resting spot let go of a heavy sigh, pluming more sweet-smelling smoke into the night sky above them. Longfellow. Often as Guy fell asleep on the man, he'd become as familiar as any mattress.
The bonfire whooshed with green flame before it died back to its orange, and Guy grinned lazily at the laughter he could hear at the other side.
He couldn't remember how he'd gotten here, or why the people were gathered, but that just made things more interesting. He shut his eyes again, mostly. People were their own sort of song and light. The flashes of color and flicker through his eyelashes lent to Guy a kind of contentment.
He drifted on the warmth of it.
It was a sleep that seemed to pass in a single breath, but when consciousness found him again, Andrew had moved.
People had fallen quiet. Guy could tell they were still there; he had a kind of sixth sense for knowing how many bodies breathed nearby him, but the laughter had died. Another man would have jumped back hard at what he saw when his eyes cracked open; another set looking back at him, close enough to slam caveman-worthy adrenaline through a man. Not Guy. There was a kind of zen in where he was and with whom.
Drew was sliding his glasses back to their proper place.
It was for curiosity's sake that Guy pretended to remain asleep. Eyes barely open. The sunglasses were settled neatly on the bridge of his nose, and Longfellow seemed to check to make sure none of the others had noticed what he'd done before he flopped back to whatever soft thing it was they were laying on now.
Smoke curled again into the sky, winding away.