Phantasmagoria - Flash Challenge - We Thirst At First
So, the Flash Challenge over at Phantasmagoria this week, is related to the episode, 'Never Kill A Boy On The First Date'. Our instructions? Use a line from Emily Dickinson in a drabble.
This isn't a drabble. I think I'm congenitally incapable of writing a drabble. But it's just under 400 words, which is pretty short...
Author : Jo
Feedback : Pretty please. At LJ or to thelibrarian2003@yahoo.com
Rating : General
Summary : Emily Dickinson and Angel.
We Thirst At First
WE thirst at first,-’t is Nature’s act;
He’s reading Emily Dickinson, and hoping that Buffy is, too. And he’s come to poem CXXXIV. His fist clenches as the succulent taste of fresh blood fills his mouth.
We do, indeed, thirst at first. He remembers it well...
++++
He lies in his coffin, sleeping, but even in that sleep of death, he has dreams. In those dreams of horror and hunger and blood, he can hear the distant thunder of heartbeats above him. He recognises each one, as if he’s heard them before, subconsciously; as though, unknowing, he’s lived with their rhythms all his life. The one that he can pick out most easily is his mother’s. He might be back in her belly, surrounded by the sounds of her life.
It isn’t just heartbeats. He can hear the blood coursing through their veins, from the powerful rush of the largest vessels to the soft, wet sigh of the tiniest, marred only by the murmuring of voices. Then, the voices stop speaking, and he hears them leaving, a woman softly weeping. Just one remains. It’s the strong, steady heartbeat of his father.
Above him, the shadows lengthen, and his eyes open. His dreams were confusing, but he’s filled with fear as he understands where he is. This isn’t Heaven. Or Hell. Or... But what else is there?
There’s just the heartbeat, and it’s making him very, very thirsty.
He thinks that it’s a thirst that might never be assuaged.
He runs his tongue over his lips, and there’s a sharpness he hasn’t known before. He hasn’t enough strength to do more, but he can feel that growing, as the sun falls towards the western horizon. Still, it’s hours before his father leaves; impatient hours, in which he’s tormented by the burgeoning need to drink.
And then, there’s a different presence. She’s silent, but he knows she’s there. Her presence is a call to him, and he starts to fight his painful way out of this wooden womb and into his new world.
++++
Angel flinches in recollection, and he closes the book of poems. We thirst at first... Yes, he thinks, we do. But it’s got nothing to do with an act of Nature. And we never, ever stop.
The End
August 2008
Author’s Notes
1 My chosen poem was CXXXIV
Emily Dickinson (1830-86). Complete Poems. 1924.
Part Four: Time and Eternity
CXXXIV
WE thirst at first,-’t is Nature’s act;
And later, when we die,
A little water supplicate
Of fingers going by.
It intimates the finer want,
Whose adequate supply
Is that great water in the west
Termed immortality.
Hope you enjoy it
Jo
This isn't a drabble. I think I'm congenitally incapable of writing a drabble. But it's just under 400 words, which is pretty short...
Author : Jo
Feedback : Pretty please. At LJ or to thelibrarian2003@yahoo.com
Rating : General
Summary : Emily Dickinson and Angel.
We Thirst At First
WE thirst at first,-’t is Nature’s act;
He’s reading Emily Dickinson, and hoping that Buffy is, too. And he’s come to poem CXXXIV. His fist clenches as the succulent taste of fresh blood fills his mouth.
We do, indeed, thirst at first. He remembers it well...
++++
He lies in his coffin, sleeping, but even in that sleep of death, he has dreams. In those dreams of horror and hunger and blood, he can hear the distant thunder of heartbeats above him. He recognises each one, as if he’s heard them before, subconsciously; as though, unknowing, he’s lived with their rhythms all his life. The one that he can pick out most easily is his mother’s. He might be back in her belly, surrounded by the sounds of her life.
It isn’t just heartbeats. He can hear the blood coursing through their veins, from the powerful rush of the largest vessels to the soft, wet sigh of the tiniest, marred only by the murmuring of voices. Then, the voices stop speaking, and he hears them leaving, a woman softly weeping. Just one remains. It’s the strong, steady heartbeat of his father.
Above him, the shadows lengthen, and his eyes open. His dreams were confusing, but he’s filled with fear as he understands where he is. This isn’t Heaven. Or Hell. Or... But what else is there?
There’s just the heartbeat, and it’s making him very, very thirsty.
He thinks that it’s a thirst that might never be assuaged.
He runs his tongue over his lips, and there’s a sharpness he hasn’t known before. He hasn’t enough strength to do more, but he can feel that growing, as the sun falls towards the western horizon. Still, it’s hours before his father leaves; impatient hours, in which he’s tormented by the burgeoning need to drink.
And then, there’s a different presence. She’s silent, but he knows she’s there. Her presence is a call to him, and he starts to fight his painful way out of this wooden womb and into his new world.
++++
Angel flinches in recollection, and he closes the book of poems. We thirst at first... Yes, he thinks, we do. But it’s got nothing to do with an act of Nature. And we never, ever stop.
The End
August 2008
Author’s Notes
1 My chosen poem was CXXXIV
Emily Dickinson (1830-86). Complete Poems. 1924.
Part Four: Time and Eternity
CXXXIV
WE thirst at first,-’t is Nature’s act;
And later, when we die,
A little water supplicate
Of fingers going by.
It intimates the finer want,
Whose adequate supply
Is that great water in the west
Termed immortality.
Hope you enjoy it
Jo