RP: Picture (Perfect?)
Characters: Sam Kennerly, Luna Lovegood
Date: May 23nd, 2000
Location: Diagon Alley
Status: Private
Summary: Sam likes drawing because he knows his pictures can't talk back.
Completion: Incomplete
The scratch of graphite on rough paper added a gentle hush to the sounds of the Alley as Sam narrowed his eyes at the bright paper, almost too white to look at. Echoes of his nightmare lingered, forcing him to retreat to appreciating his own art, because at least he knew it wouldn't talk back. The subject in question that afternoon was, as always, a memory--Emma lying on the grass of Hyde Park with her blazer under her shoulders, one arm draped over her belly the other shielding her eyes and a soft but jaunted smile playing across her lips.
Absently, Ingrid's words returned to Sam as he started to shade Emma's tumbling locks, caught forever in time by the worn tip of the pencil: 'It's...it's never easy, Sam, but it doesn't stay difficult forever.' As the pencil weaved it's way across the page, Sam could almost remember the feel of that hair tickling his cheeks, making him sneeze and laugh moments apart. That memory melded seamlessly into fishing aboard the deck of The Gallagher and wrapping trembling arms around Fenrir upon waking from a nightmare.
All the while, Sam continued to draw, and when he glanced at the sketch again, a lock of hair had been transformed into a dark stream of blood dripping from the back of Emma's head. Disgusted, he turned the pencil in his hand and erased frantically, but he had been pressing so hard a pale gray blotch remained. With a soft curse, Sam turned to another blank page in the sketchbook--when a cloud passed over the sun and hovered there.
Date: May 23nd, 2000
Location: Diagon Alley
Status: Private
Summary: Sam likes drawing because he knows his pictures can't talk back.
Completion: Incomplete
The scratch of graphite on rough paper added a gentle hush to the sounds of the Alley as Sam narrowed his eyes at the bright paper, almost too white to look at. Echoes of his nightmare lingered, forcing him to retreat to appreciating his own art, because at least he knew it wouldn't talk back. The subject in question that afternoon was, as always, a memory--Emma lying on the grass of Hyde Park with her blazer under her shoulders, one arm draped over her belly the other shielding her eyes and a soft but jaunted smile playing across her lips.
Absently, Ingrid's words returned to Sam as he started to shade Emma's tumbling locks, caught forever in time by the worn tip of the pencil: 'It's...it's never easy, Sam, but it doesn't stay difficult forever.' As the pencil weaved it's way across the page, Sam could almost remember the feel of that hair tickling his cheeks, making him sneeze and laugh moments apart. That memory melded seamlessly into fishing aboard the deck of The Gallagher and wrapping trembling arms around Fenrir upon waking from a nightmare.
All the while, Sam continued to draw, and when he glanced at the sketch again, a lock of hair had been transformed into a dark stream of blood dripping from the back of Emma's head. Disgusted, he turned the pencil in his hand and erased frantically, but he had been pressing so hard a pale gray blotch remained. With a soft curse, Sam turned to another blank page in the sketchbook--when a cloud passed over the sun and hovered there.