Fic: Subtleties ["A Hanging", the Eurasian/Various, PG-13]
Otherwise known as "the rather odd first-person fic with the philosophical gore." Don't ask me why I decided to write GEORGE ORWELL fanfiction, of all things; I do not know myself. If I had any sort of self-control I would be working on the neverending Claire/Elle fic, or even that Brooke/Carson piece that's been floating around my subconcious forever, but NO, it had to be pyromaniacal, semi-necrophiliac fic for a non-existant fandom. Geeaah.
subtleties
the eurasian boy / various
george orwell's "a hanging"; pg-13.
In Burma it is cheaper to burn than to bury. In life, these sizzling bones belonged to a prisoner, and so smoke from the burning body drifts over the prison like mist. I picture the hairs of his long mustache, still fluttering in the breeze as I pushed through jungle-heat to cut the body down. He was a slight man; the force of his own drop had him swinging back and forth like a child's toy, limp but for the black shadow above his lips and the cloud of flies buzzing in and out of them, gossamer-blue. I used Francis' machete to hack at the rope. He dropped to the muddy ground with a smack. Instead of the neck bent like a stovepipe, I looked at the bottom of his brown feet and told myself in a moment he would rise and ask for a smoke, and I could delight in not giving him one.
His skin was the color of burnt cinnamon, and tight where prison had robbed him of muscle, fat. There's no other way to say this: I fell in love. Francis screeched like a spitting mongoose and I hauled the prisoner onto the donkey-cart, laid him facedown. Another guard would light the pyre. Be gentle, I wanted to tell him. The man's only sleeping, he'll wake soon.
Standing too close to the flames, I feel sweat creeping down my back, coating my body with a sticky veneer. His face sizzles and pops in the fire's sweet-orange embrace, and the air stinks of burning hair. I lit a cigarette from his funeral pyre and drink deeply of the smoke.
*
"Do you know, sir," very good sir, be friendly to this poor mixed-blood boy, sir, "our friend, when he heard his appeal had been dismissed, he pissed on the floor of his cell. From fright." And because one question did not seem enough (did not fill the air between us): "Kindly take one of my cigarettes, sir. Do you not admire my new silver case, sir? From the boxwallah, two rupees eight annas. Classy European style."
You are half of me, parts of me are all of you. Our blood comes from the same continent and I would swoon if the ground weren't so wet. Do you know your bamboo-colored eyes are shriveled with morality? Perhaps if you see them reflected in mine it will become clear. ½, take me away from this place where sleeping men are burned. I am so much better than all of them, for I am one-half of you. I am the bastard son of your countrymen, brothers-in-arms; I am kind, friendly, willing to please. I do not know how you can elevate me but I am sure you can. Two rupees, eight annas. I too can be classy European style.
*
If you have never been to a hanging I will say this: it can be a messy affair. Breaking a man's neck is not as easy as it looks; if the rope is too thin, it cuts through flesh&bone, their heads are ripped off their necks and their blood added to the humidity. If the rope is too thick, the prisoner will be strangled - might kick and gurgle and cry for help. When this happens, someone must go pull on their legs until they are dead. Sometimes it is their wives, or if they are young, their mothers; the women bribe the guards with glances from their black-velvet eyes and wear their most colorful saris. In Burma the women yank their men to death as if they are ringing a great temple bell.
*
Jabbering mouth, rolling eyes. The prisoner clings to the bars like a monkey even as the guards try to pry him away. It is his death-day and fear has lent him a portion of the strength it stole, with interest.
"My dear fellow," Francis starts. His voice bubbles up from within his chest, wiggles out his mouth. "Think of all the pain and trouble you are causing us." I stand to the side of this great white-capped mountain and watch as more guards are called, until there are four men straining against the desperation of one. Someone suggests to beat at his fingers and so one hefts his club and slams it against the bars, again and again, until two of the prisoner's fingers are broken and all the others bleed. "Help," he screams, still clinging. Two more guards go to pull him away. "Come now," Francis pleads. "My dear fellow, be reasonable." The sun glints off of Francis' spectacles and I open my eyes wider, to let in the light.
(Francis, dear Francis. You are a very fat man. I should like to see you burn.)
*
What is a man - valleys of muscle, streams of blue-blood, veins of bone? The prisoners here are better-fed than many of their countrymen but fear is like salt-and-sand, it pushes into the grooves, all the spaces between things, and turns even the most fertile country to desert. I do not know their minds or their hearts but I have seen the inner-layers of both: shriveled, blackened, hot to the touch. I love each and every one of them, for how could I not? Watching a man burn is like witnessing the ground being peeled away. It was terrifying, the first time: the blood-smell, the popping, the thick oily smoke. I cried with the knowledge that inside the body, the blood was boiling through its veins. Then like a black blossom the skin peeled away and I saw the secrets of the universe.
A man, I think, is his own country of flesh & blood & bone. When they die it is an island falling into the sea, and when they burn it is a strange land reduced to ash and bone-grit. In fire their parts and caverns are exposed for all to see; the temple of their ribs is opened to the faithful. Once I saw a man's heart still beating in the flames. He had not quite finished being strangled and we had burned him alive. As the rib-bones crumbled to dust, I took my shovel and scooped the heart up, carried it away from the pyre. I had been trying to save it but the thumping mass scorched my hands, and when I held it to my chest it caught my shirt alight.
Francis threw water on me and laughed, sss-sss, sss-sss. I looked down to see myself holding a chunk of bloody meat, hands bubbled with blisters like strings of raw pearls. "May truth be with you," I said, and threw the heart to the dogs.
subtleties
the eurasian boy / various
george orwell's "a hanging"; pg-13.
In Burma it is cheaper to burn than to bury. In life, these sizzling bones belonged to a prisoner, and so smoke from the burning body drifts over the prison like mist. I picture the hairs of his long mustache, still fluttering in the breeze as I pushed through jungle-heat to cut the body down. He was a slight man; the force of his own drop had him swinging back and forth like a child's toy, limp but for the black shadow above his lips and the cloud of flies buzzing in and out of them, gossamer-blue. I used Francis' machete to hack at the rope. He dropped to the muddy ground with a smack. Instead of the neck bent like a stovepipe, I looked at the bottom of his brown feet and told myself in a moment he would rise and ask for a smoke, and I could delight in not giving him one.
His skin was the color of burnt cinnamon, and tight where prison had robbed him of muscle, fat. There's no other way to say this: I fell in love. Francis screeched like a spitting mongoose and I hauled the prisoner onto the donkey-cart, laid him facedown. Another guard would light the pyre. Be gentle, I wanted to tell him. The man's only sleeping, he'll wake soon.
Standing too close to the flames, I feel sweat creeping down my back, coating my body with a sticky veneer. His face sizzles and pops in the fire's sweet-orange embrace, and the air stinks of burning hair. I lit a cigarette from his funeral pyre and drink deeply of the smoke.
*
"Do you know, sir," very good sir, be friendly to this poor mixed-blood boy, sir, "our friend, when he heard his appeal had been dismissed, he pissed on the floor of his cell. From fright." And because one question did not seem enough (did not fill the air between us): "Kindly take one of my cigarettes, sir. Do you not admire my new silver case, sir? From the boxwallah, two rupees eight annas. Classy European style."
You are half of me, parts of me are all of you. Our blood comes from the same continent and I would swoon if the ground weren't so wet. Do you know your bamboo-colored eyes are shriveled with morality? Perhaps if you see them reflected in mine it will become clear. ½, take me away from this place where sleeping men are burned. I am so much better than all of them, for I am one-half of you. I am the bastard son of your countrymen, brothers-in-arms; I am kind, friendly, willing to please. I do not know how you can elevate me but I am sure you can. Two rupees, eight annas. I too can be classy European style.
*
If you have never been to a hanging I will say this: it can be a messy affair. Breaking a man's neck is not as easy as it looks; if the rope is too thin, it cuts through flesh&bone, their heads are ripped off their necks and their blood added to the humidity. If the rope is too thick, the prisoner will be strangled - might kick and gurgle and cry for help. When this happens, someone must go pull on their legs until they are dead. Sometimes it is their wives, or if they are young, their mothers; the women bribe the guards with glances from their black-velvet eyes and wear their most colorful saris. In Burma the women yank their men to death as if they are ringing a great temple bell.
*
Jabbering mouth, rolling eyes. The prisoner clings to the bars like a monkey even as the guards try to pry him away. It is his death-day and fear has lent him a portion of the strength it stole, with interest.
"My dear fellow," Francis starts. His voice bubbles up from within his chest, wiggles out his mouth. "Think of all the pain and trouble you are causing us." I stand to the side of this great white-capped mountain and watch as more guards are called, until there are four men straining against the desperation of one. Someone suggests to beat at his fingers and so one hefts his club and slams it against the bars, again and again, until two of the prisoner's fingers are broken and all the others bleed. "Help," he screams, still clinging. Two more guards go to pull him away. "Come now," Francis pleads. "My dear fellow, be reasonable." The sun glints off of Francis' spectacles and I open my eyes wider, to let in the light.
(Francis, dear Francis. You are a very fat man. I should like to see you burn.)
*
What is a man - valleys of muscle, streams of blue-blood, veins of bone? The prisoners here are better-fed than many of their countrymen but fear is like salt-and-sand, it pushes into the grooves, all the spaces between things, and turns even the most fertile country to desert. I do not know their minds or their hearts but I have seen the inner-layers of both: shriveled, blackened, hot to the touch. I love each and every one of them, for how could I not? Watching a man burn is like witnessing the ground being peeled away. It was terrifying, the first time: the blood-smell, the popping, the thick oily smoke. I cried with the knowledge that inside the body, the blood was boiling through its veins. Then like a black blossom the skin peeled away and I saw the secrets of the universe.
A man, I think, is his own country of flesh & blood & bone. When they die it is an island falling into the sea, and when they burn it is a strange land reduced to ash and bone-grit. In fire their parts and caverns are exposed for all to see; the temple of their ribs is opened to the faithful. Once I saw a man's heart still beating in the flames. He had not quite finished being strangled and we had burned him alive. As the rib-bones crumbled to dust, I took my shovel and scooped the heart up, carried it away from the pyre. I had been trying to save it but the thumping mass scorched my hands, and when I held it to my chest it caught my shirt alight.
Francis threw water on me and laughed, sss-sss, sss-sss. I looked down to see myself holding a chunk of bloody meat, hands bubbled with blisters like strings of raw pearls. "May truth be with you," I said, and threw the heart to the dogs.