(no subject)
The Suitcase, Nine/Rose, pg.
Fic hidden in narrative poetry. I don't even know where this came from.
He offers her his umbrella.
“Would you mind?” As if he's asking her if it's okay if they share it., 450 words.
He offers her his umbrella.
“Would you mind?” As if he's asking her if it's okay if they share it.
Smiles kindly at the first bout of thunder applause,
and the first light tears of the oncoming bawl
begin to drop.
They share shelter for two blocks. Strangers.
His briefcase keeps hitting his shin. Pulls his arms in tight,
to allow her more room.
Their steps nod and agree with each other.
She doesn't speak but he can hear traces of her lovely voice,
in the way
the wind hits
the indentations
of her lips.
There are places in his mind he'll have to clear out.
When he returns home.
Hair the opposite color of the sky on this day.
Skin like a lost memory of a day at the beach.
Her secrets keep hitting him in the shin.
Invitation in the way she leaves her door open as she steps inside.
“I feel as if I know you.”, the second she says it --
No, before she says it, he knows her.
She tells him she lives alone and doesn't know why,
over the brewing pot of tea and biscuits too soft to be from his market.
He marks
the places her fingers touch them
to bite into later.
Brushes of flour stick to her fingertips.
It's then he notices the powder white polka dotted décor of the room.
She makes his tea exactly as he takes it.
The maple sunlight colored,
amber liquid in his cup.
He knows it will burn his throat,
but he swallows it all in one deathly gulp.
She smiles,
for the first time in his history.
And at once, he knows this isn't true.
“I want to tell you a story.”
Just a statement, not a beginning.
“I already know how it ends.”
His lips still burn from the tea when
she soothes them,
with the soft kiss touch of her mouth.
It's only beneath her that he learns,
as she presses her hands to his chest and glows,
bright orange in the monochrome wash of the lightening colored world,
that he was a walking dead man
before.
“I bring --”
Life on her lips,
a gasp of his breath.
He comes and he lives.
She comes and she laughs.
Wolf calls, but then. That might just be the thunder.
Outside, the world catches on fire.
So this is where men who live forever,
go to die.
He asks her how she came to find herself here.
Soft breasts shake
laughter in her chest.
Bad magic, she says.
She asks him what's in his suitcase.
One last thunderclap
hearts beating in his chest.
Eight dead men, he says.
--
Fic hidden in narrative poetry. I don't even know where this came from.
He offers her his umbrella.
“Would you mind?” As if he's asking her if it's okay if they share it., 450 words.
He offers her his umbrella.
“Would you mind?” As if he's asking her if it's okay if they share it.
Smiles kindly at the first bout of thunder applause,
and the first light tears of the oncoming bawl
begin to drop.
They share shelter for two blocks. Strangers.
His briefcase keeps hitting his shin. Pulls his arms in tight,
to allow her more room.
Their steps nod and agree with each other.
She doesn't speak but he can hear traces of her lovely voice,
in the way
the wind hits
the indentations
of her lips.
There are places in his mind he'll have to clear out.
When he returns home.
Hair the opposite color of the sky on this day.
Skin like a lost memory of a day at the beach.
Her secrets keep hitting him in the shin.
Invitation in the way she leaves her door open as she steps inside.
“I feel as if I know you.”, the second she says it --
No, before she says it, he knows her.
She tells him she lives alone and doesn't know why,
over the brewing pot of tea and biscuits too soft to be from his market.
He marks
the places her fingers touch them
to bite into later.
Brushes of flour stick to her fingertips.
It's then he notices the powder white polka dotted décor of the room.
She makes his tea exactly as he takes it.
The maple sunlight colored,
amber liquid in his cup.
He knows it will burn his throat,
but he swallows it all in one deathly gulp.
She smiles,
for the first time in his history.
And at once, he knows this isn't true.
“I want to tell you a story.”
Just a statement, not a beginning.
“I already know how it ends.”
His lips still burn from the tea when
she soothes them,
with the soft kiss touch of her mouth.
It's only beneath her that he learns,
as she presses her hands to his chest and glows,
bright orange in the monochrome wash of the lightening colored world,
that he was a walking dead man
before.
“I bring --”
Life on her lips,
a gasp of his breath.
He comes and he lives.
She comes and she laughs.
Wolf calls, but then. That might just be the thunder.
Outside, the world catches on fire.
So this is where men who live forever,
go to die.
He asks her how she came to find herself here.
Soft breasts shake
laughter in her chest.
Bad magic, she says.
She asks him what's in his suitcase.
One last thunderclap
hearts beating in his chest.
Eight dead men, he says.
--