fic time!
Jan 4, 2007 22:06:02 GMT -5
Post by adurnaslytha on Jan 4, 2007 22:06:02 GMT -5
I feel bad about double-posting, but just editing a post wouldn't make this thing come alive.
and besides, here's promised fic. even though it's been so long people forgot about it. most likely.
but anyways, this one's Murtagh x Nasuada, if you squint enough. my writing style entails vagueness and never using names, so you would get confused. =w=;;; it also involves voice over grammar, so there's ridiculous run-ons everywhere, and less didactic, and more, um, "feelings". (Faulkner! FTW! and Romanticism is shiny! and my writing isn't! x_____X)
oh, and while reading, listen if you can to something that's a slow song with a heavy bass beat, or something jazz-like and slow, with a bass beat to it. or a tango.
or something like this.
but anyway, to the drabble. 'cos i have some strange inhibition that refuses to let me write anything longer than 500 words or so.
It’s quiet when she steps into the room.
She stands there and takes in the silence, listening, listening, until the silence isn’t really a silence, and the musicians bring out their delicate instruments, such as can only be heard in a silence that isn’t really a silence.
It’s time to perform.
There’s the gentle breath, in, out, of his slumber, and the crescendo thump, thump of her pulse, and you can hear his pulse too, going thump, thump, like the intro to something great.
Her feet tap, tap closer to him and he slumbers on, thump, thump, in, out, and soon their pulses meld together, beating in a harmony, and she stands there for a while, taking in the silence that isn’t really a silence.
It pauses when he rises, rustling the sheets and rustling the delicate tempo of the concerto, until he steps to her, feet beating out the bass against the stone floor. A beat is created, renewed; a beat that dances and stomps and goes all over, with her and his thumps laying the pulse, the heart of the symphony, and the rustle, rustle of her dress and the clink, clink of his armor and the hah, hah of their breaths.
It continues for a while, flowing and sparking, but is interrupted by a clink, clank out of place from their concert hall, and it brings them out of the silence that wasn’t really a silence into the same but different silence, because now the silence really is a silence, and the musicians have stopped their thrumming, their beating, their breaths of music.
The concert is over.
It’s quiet again, and her feet tap, tap out of the room, a poor ending for such a great duet.
and besides, here's promised fic. even though it's been so long people forgot about it. most likely.
but anyways, this one's Murtagh x Nasuada, if you squint enough. my writing style entails vagueness and never using names, so you would get confused. =w=;;; it also involves voice over grammar, so there's ridiculous run-ons everywhere, and less didactic, and more, um, "feelings". (Faulkner! FTW! and Romanticism is shiny! and my writing isn't! x_____X)
oh, and while reading, listen if you can to something that's a slow song with a heavy bass beat, or something jazz-like and slow, with a bass beat to it. or a tango.
or something like this.
but anyway, to the drabble. 'cos i have some strange inhibition that refuses to let me write anything longer than 500 words or so.
It’s quiet when she steps into the room.
She stands there and takes in the silence, listening, listening, until the silence isn’t really a silence, and the musicians bring out their delicate instruments, such as can only be heard in a silence that isn’t really a silence.
It’s time to perform.
There’s the gentle breath, in, out, of his slumber, and the crescendo thump, thump of her pulse, and you can hear his pulse too, going thump, thump, like the intro to something great.
Her feet tap, tap closer to him and he slumbers on, thump, thump, in, out, and soon their pulses meld together, beating in a harmony, and she stands there for a while, taking in the silence that isn’t really a silence.
It pauses when he rises, rustling the sheets and rustling the delicate tempo of the concerto, until he steps to her, feet beating out the bass against the stone floor. A beat is created, renewed; a beat that dances and stomps and goes all over, with her and his thumps laying the pulse, the heart of the symphony, and the rustle, rustle of her dress and the clink, clink of his armor and the hah, hah of their breaths.
It continues for a while, flowing and sparking, but is interrupted by a clink, clank out of place from their concert hall, and it brings them out of the silence that wasn’t really a silence into the same but different silence, because now the silence really is a silence, and the musicians have stopped their thrumming, their beating, their breaths of music.
The concert is over.
It’s quiet again, and her feet tap, tap out of the room, a poor ending for such a great duet.
