Omens
Rating: PG13, language kids!
Written: End of March - Early April 2004
Category: I really don't know this one for once.
Summary: It's just a thing about Mark, two days before the play actually starts, then it transitions into the beginning. Did that make sense?
Author's Notes: I heart RENT. I heart Superstition stuff. End.
Another Note: I get to see RENT twice within the next two weeks ::jump:: That inspired me to write RENT fics again.
Disclaimer: Now, I'm not nearly creative enough to have thought/written RENT or come up with the superstitions. THOSE were thanks to silly people many years ago. I just own the plot. Wait, is there even a plot to this crap of a story?
Feedback: I'd love you forever! Cowspots999@aol.com
~*~*~*~*~
Omens
By: Megan
~*~*~*~*~
Mark stood in the bustling crowd of this particular East Village street, looking at the flickering i and é in the neon Life Café sign. His fingers were fidgeting with the crumpled bills in his coat pocket from the welfare cheques he had just cashed. He wanted to go in and eat, but this money was hardly cover Roger's AZT. Maybe, he could just go in an warm up, it was a rather cold December's night.
"Can I help you, sir? Mark looked up at the man who just spoke, and sheepishly smiled. "Oh, it's you."
"Can I get a table?"
"Seat yourself." was his mock-kind reply. Mark had to laugh. He loved how goddamn nice the employees were to them here, yet it remained their favorite gathering place.
Before he knew it, Mark placed an order with his waiter for a tea. It was just a tea, right? Couldn't be that expensive. It felt pleasantly warm against his expressive hands. His emerald eyes watched the loose pieces of Earl Gray tea leaves dance around in the bag floating against the side of his ceramic up. His right index finger played in the twisting attached string. It was still too hot to drink yet.
The Life Café grew more and more busy as time went on. Mark was drinking his tea, when a hurried bus boy bumped his table, spilling salt and tea on the table. "Shit!" Mark exclaimed to no one in particular. Without thinking, he took a pinch of the salt and threw it over his left shoulder, before cleaning the mess up with a jumble of napkins. By the time, he was finished, his waiter had stopped by again, with the bill. "I-I can't pay." Mark shakily lied. "I don't have any money." His wide eyes glanced back and forth between the waiter, the bill, and the door. His hand holding on to the cash inside his pocket. He then took to the door, running from whoever might be chasing him for not paying.
He then realized he was late for his ex Maureen's rehearsal. Then he realized he was going the wrong way. Upon righting this, he began mentally filming people. With or without his camera, a director is always observing. In an local antique shop, he spied a mirror hanging in the window. It was without a doubt an antique with its elaborate trimming. But one thing was odd, it was a broken mirror. Leave it to the East Village to sell broken things to broken people.
Walking down the street, customers at his heels as always, was the main drug dealer of Avenue A. Roger used to be clinging to him, waving money as they did, wanting his Smack and X. Thank God he finally gave that up. Now he needed a different kind of drug, thanks to the raging disease inside of up that he had received due to his first drug, HIV-infected needle. Oh, the irony.
Of course, he would've been better off not doing drugs in the first place. They would've saved money, which would've gone to a better life. They even would've saved April, who got the disease from an unknowing Roger.
During all this thought, Mark realized he had walked under a painter's ladder against the wall. "What the hell?" he commented. Hey, at least he didn't believe in superstition.
He arrived at Maureen's apartment after much delay, only to find Maureen and Joanne rehearsing. He had never talked to Joanne before, but he didn't like her. Maureen dumped him and turned lesbian for her. Thanks. "Oh Mark! You're here." Maureen greeted. "We won't need you anymore. Joanne's my new production manager" She kissed the new said manager.
"Oh, well, great." He left.
~*~*~*~*~
"She bumped you?"
"Yesterday, you were sleeping. Here's your AZT." Mark tossed Roger his bottle of AZT, catching up on the past day's events. He never went out anymore, not for the past six months. He never answered the phone, never read the newspaper. Mark was his only connection to the outside world from this cold steel hell which he kept himself in. He didn't even play his guitar anymore.
"Take it. You need it. I'm going to bed now." Mark nodded towards the bottle in Roger's calloused hands, before promptly leaving the room.
He was awoken the next day by the sounds of god-awful strumming. Wait, strumming? He rubbed his eyes, before placing his square glasses back on. His watch said 9pm, but it couldn't be that late. In the front room, next to their illegal wood-burning stove, was Roger playing his guitar. His horribly out of tune, neglected Fender guitar. "Good morning. Remember this?" Roger spoke.
"Yeah." This picture before him clicked in his mind. Where was his camera? "What came over you?"
Roger smiled. "It's December 24th. Merry Christmas, Mark."
Rating: PG13, language kids!
Written: End of March - Early April 2004
Category: I really don't know this one for once.
Summary: It's just a thing about Mark, two days before the play actually starts, then it transitions into the beginning. Did that make sense?
Author's Notes: I heart RENT. I heart Superstition stuff. End.
Another Note: I get to see RENT twice within the next two weeks ::jump:: That inspired me to write RENT fics again.
Disclaimer: Now, I'm not nearly creative enough to have thought/written RENT or come up with the superstitions. THOSE were thanks to silly people many years ago. I just own the plot. Wait, is there even a plot to this crap of a story?
Feedback: I'd love you forever! Cowspots999@aol.com
~*~*~*~*~
Omens
By: Megan
~*~*~*~*~
Mark stood in the bustling crowd of this particular East Village street, looking at the flickering i and é in the neon Life Café sign. His fingers were fidgeting with the crumpled bills in his coat pocket from the welfare cheques he had just cashed. He wanted to go in and eat, but this money was hardly cover Roger's AZT. Maybe, he could just go in an warm up, it was a rather cold December's night.
"Can I help you, sir? Mark looked up at the man who just spoke, and sheepishly smiled. "Oh, it's you."
"Can I get a table?"
"Seat yourself." was his mock-kind reply. Mark had to laugh. He loved how goddamn nice the employees were to them here, yet it remained their favorite gathering place.
Before he knew it, Mark placed an order with his waiter for a tea. It was just a tea, right? Couldn't be that expensive. It felt pleasantly warm against his expressive hands. His emerald eyes watched the loose pieces of Earl Gray tea leaves dance around in the bag floating against the side of his ceramic up. His right index finger played in the twisting attached string. It was still too hot to drink yet.
The Life Café grew more and more busy as time went on. Mark was drinking his tea, when a hurried bus boy bumped his table, spilling salt and tea on the table. "Shit!" Mark exclaimed to no one in particular. Without thinking, he took a pinch of the salt and threw it over his left shoulder, before cleaning the mess up with a jumble of napkins. By the time, he was finished, his waiter had stopped by again, with the bill. "I-I can't pay." Mark shakily lied. "I don't have any money." His wide eyes glanced back and forth between the waiter, the bill, and the door. His hand holding on to the cash inside his pocket. He then took to the door, running from whoever might be chasing him for not paying.
He then realized he was late for his ex Maureen's rehearsal. Then he realized he was going the wrong way. Upon righting this, he began mentally filming people. With or without his camera, a director is always observing. In an local antique shop, he spied a mirror hanging in the window. It was without a doubt an antique with its elaborate trimming. But one thing was odd, it was a broken mirror. Leave it to the East Village to sell broken things to broken people.
Walking down the street, customers at his heels as always, was the main drug dealer of Avenue A. Roger used to be clinging to him, waving money as they did, wanting his Smack and X. Thank God he finally gave that up. Now he needed a different kind of drug, thanks to the raging disease inside of up that he had received due to his first drug, HIV-infected needle. Oh, the irony.
Of course, he would've been better off not doing drugs in the first place. They would've saved money, which would've gone to a better life. They even would've saved April, who got the disease from an unknowing Roger.
During all this thought, Mark realized he had walked under a painter's ladder against the wall. "What the hell?" he commented. Hey, at least he didn't believe in superstition.
He arrived at Maureen's apartment after much delay, only to find Maureen and Joanne rehearsing. He had never talked to Joanne before, but he didn't like her. Maureen dumped him and turned lesbian for her. Thanks. "Oh Mark! You're here." Maureen greeted. "We won't need you anymore. Joanne's my new production manager" She kissed the new said manager.
"Oh, well, great." He left.
~*~*~*~*~
"She bumped you?"
"Yesterday, you were sleeping. Here's your AZT." Mark tossed Roger his bottle of AZT, catching up on the past day's events. He never went out anymore, not for the past six months. He never answered the phone, never read the newspaper. Mark was his only connection to the outside world from this cold steel hell which he kept himself in. He didn't even play his guitar anymore.
"Take it. You need it. I'm going to bed now." Mark nodded towards the bottle in Roger's calloused hands, before promptly leaving the room.
He was awoken the next day by the sounds of god-awful strumming. Wait, strumming? He rubbed his eyes, before placing his square glasses back on. His watch said 9pm, but it couldn't be that late. In the front room, next to their illegal wood-burning stove, was Roger playing his guitar. His horribly out of tune, neglected Fender guitar. "Good morning. Remember this?" Roger spoke.
"Yeah." This picture before him clicked in his mind. Where was his camera? "What came over you?"
Roger smiled. "It's December 24th. Merry Christmas, Mark."