Disclaimer:
This is probably a good point to mention that I don't own anything anybody recognizes--the characters belong to Dick Wolf, Rene Balcer (woohoo, fellow Montréalais!) and the show's other producers. The actors belong to themselves (can I borrow Vincent...please? please?) I'm not making money off of this.
Author's notes:
This is a very, very strange little fic I'm writing; please bear with me. It's basically a series of snapshots, pictures being described, which outline a series of events; each snapshot has its own tempo and direction, and is a movement in the rhapsody--a symphony of words. The whole thing was inspired by this quote from Brian Jacques, the author of the Redwall series:
"No, no, no. It was just a sound thing. You know, the music thing. Words have their own music. They can be like rocks breaking on a shore or a still deep pool or like an express train going over 100 mph, or like a leaf just easing along on the breeze. Each word has its own music. When you connect them together you can make a long opera."
Dedicated with much love and gratitude to Emily. *g*
~*~*~*~*~*~
Pietoso: to play in a pitifully, pleadingly manner
Her white face is stained with tears--her eyes swollen and red-ringed, her mouth a thin, hard line. Her long red hair, frizzy and wispy, lies loose about her slumped shoulders. Her short legs are curled underneath her; her arms are limp at her sides. Her right hand crunches into a fist. The red cardigan she wears is splattered with blood, dark smudges staining the cotton; the black skirt and white blouse are still spotless.
She sits on the tiled floor, near the table; the plates and glasses are still set for dinner, the forks and knives laid out. The kitchen door stands open, swinging gently on its battered hinges. A pot bubbles on the stove, a kettle hisses, the sink overflows with dirty dishes. The clean flowered tile is muddied with a track of wet footprints; traces of melting snow clump by the doorway.
The smell of gunpowder drifts in the air--acrid, bitter fumes. Spots and streaks of blood are splashed all over the floor, staining her hands. A man lies beside her, outstretched on the tiles; his bulky sweater has a huge gash in it, a jagged dash of dark red against the soft blue wool. His grizzled face is speckled with blood, and his eyes are closed. He stopped breathing two minutes ago. The ambulance will come too late.
Her left hand rests on his face, her fingertips brushing his cold cheek. It is a tender touch, a simple caress. Stars are glittering in her eyes, and then they shower down her cheeks. She cries silently in the quiet of the empty kitchen.
~*~*~*~*~*~
This is probably a good point to mention that I don't own anything anybody recognizes--the characters belong to Dick Wolf, Rene Balcer (woohoo, fellow Montréalais!) and the show's other producers. The actors belong to themselves (can I borrow Vincent...please? please?) I'm not making money off of this.
Author's notes:
This is a very, very strange little fic I'm writing; please bear with me. It's basically a series of snapshots, pictures being described, which outline a series of events; each snapshot has its own tempo and direction, and is a movement in the rhapsody--a symphony of words. The whole thing was inspired by this quote from Brian Jacques, the author of the Redwall series:
"No, no, no. It was just a sound thing. You know, the music thing. Words have their own music. They can be like rocks breaking on a shore or a still deep pool or like an express train going over 100 mph, or like a leaf just easing along on the breeze. Each word has its own music. When you connect them together you can make a long opera."
Dedicated with much love and gratitude to Emily. *g*
~*~*~*~*~*~
Pietoso: to play in a pitifully, pleadingly manner
Her white face is stained with tears--her eyes swollen and red-ringed, her mouth a thin, hard line. Her long red hair, frizzy and wispy, lies loose about her slumped shoulders. Her short legs are curled underneath her; her arms are limp at her sides. Her right hand crunches into a fist. The red cardigan she wears is splattered with blood, dark smudges staining the cotton; the black skirt and white blouse are still spotless.
She sits on the tiled floor, near the table; the plates and glasses are still set for dinner, the forks and knives laid out. The kitchen door stands open, swinging gently on its battered hinges. A pot bubbles on the stove, a kettle hisses, the sink overflows with dirty dishes. The clean flowered tile is muddied with a track of wet footprints; traces of melting snow clump by the doorway.
The smell of gunpowder drifts in the air--acrid, bitter fumes. Spots and streaks of blood are splashed all over the floor, staining her hands. A man lies beside her, outstretched on the tiles; his bulky sweater has a huge gash in it, a jagged dash of dark red against the soft blue wool. His grizzled face is speckled with blood, and his eyes are closed. He stopped breathing two minutes ago. The ambulance will come too late.
Her left hand rests on his face, her fingertips brushing his cold cheek. It is a tender touch, a simple caress. Stars are glittering in her eyes, and then they shower down her cheeks. She cries silently in the quiet of the empty kitchen.
~*~*~*~*~*~