Stroganoff
First Wheel: Onion
Disclaimer: Every incarnation of Saiyuki escapes from my clutches. Dang.
Alternatives for the boys. I know this is overused but give it a shot. Not your usual--as usual.
Meant to be ruminated upon like beef stroganoff and savoured in every bite. Enjoy it as much as I did writing it.
***
Glass.
There was blood on the floor. The thief didn't get away so easily then. Desperate . . . or desperately frustrated by the absence of the object of his material desire.
The officer is a youthful, sparkling specimen of society: neat, polite, well mannered; and everything of marriageable quality. The glass ring on his finger ties him down to (quite surely) another equally worthy candidate.
Decorum is a part of him. Indispensable; like the little black notebook he carries to capture more than just notes, but life itself. Like his smile that appears and disappears together with the notebook: in one effortless flourish. Fluid scrawls-almost indecipherable-decorate the yellowing pages with artistry unusually resigned to such a medium.
Ink dances with a clickable ballpoint pen hinting at the merest shadows of the workings of a mind. A fussy tool for only the very meticulous that detest blots and smudges. A triumphant pas de deux comes to an end with a confidently placed full stop to mark the end of a carriage of musings. Glancing once to read--scribblings made in passing?--peppered only by the occasional stray diagram or telephone number that seems to have accidentally wandered into the maze that is his mind.
He notes the spray, trajectory of the glassy rain now powdering the floor. Made with a gun. The bullets must have disintegrated then.
Notebook disappears. Opaque glass, like a small moon, covers his right eye.
Wrinkle just above the eyelid-just enough to be charming yet not enough to disarm. Satisfaction on his face is still in infancy. Like something he has longed for but dares not.
Doctor's fingers tamed by precision search the shelves. Dry murmurs and acquiescing nods punctuate his observation. He seems pleased. His eyes dart like fish among the glittering pieces of gold, blue, orange, red, green.
Hand slips. Just a passing overlook that draws blood.
Thank yous. Unflappable. Refusing bandages and tea. Blotting absentmindedly at the red fingers unfurling on his handkerchief. Muddled smile matching a muddied notebook, yet foolish enough to finger a shard; banked by curiosity.
"He was blonde, wasn't he? Violet eyes? Ambidextrous? Dressed in an irreverent interpretation of priest's robes?"
He wanted crystal bullets then: this shop's speciality. So does the officer.
Leaving, promising a return--when?--today, maybe tomorrow. He will accept a cup of tea then.
First Wheel: Onion
Disclaimer: Every incarnation of Saiyuki escapes from my clutches. Dang.
Alternatives for the boys. I know this is overused but give it a shot. Not your usual--as usual.
Meant to be ruminated upon like beef stroganoff and savoured in every bite. Enjoy it as much as I did writing it.
***
Glass.
There was blood on the floor. The thief didn't get away so easily then. Desperate . . . or desperately frustrated by the absence of the object of his material desire.
The officer is a youthful, sparkling specimen of society: neat, polite, well mannered; and everything of marriageable quality. The glass ring on his finger ties him down to (quite surely) another equally worthy candidate.
Decorum is a part of him. Indispensable; like the little black notebook he carries to capture more than just notes, but life itself. Like his smile that appears and disappears together with the notebook: in one effortless flourish. Fluid scrawls-almost indecipherable-decorate the yellowing pages with artistry unusually resigned to such a medium.
Ink dances with a clickable ballpoint pen hinting at the merest shadows of the workings of a mind. A fussy tool for only the very meticulous that detest blots and smudges. A triumphant pas de deux comes to an end with a confidently placed full stop to mark the end of a carriage of musings. Glancing once to read--scribblings made in passing?--peppered only by the occasional stray diagram or telephone number that seems to have accidentally wandered into the maze that is his mind.
He notes the spray, trajectory of the glassy rain now powdering the floor. Made with a gun. The bullets must have disintegrated then.
Notebook disappears. Opaque glass, like a small moon, covers his right eye.
Wrinkle just above the eyelid-just enough to be charming yet not enough to disarm. Satisfaction on his face is still in infancy. Like something he has longed for but dares not.
Doctor's fingers tamed by precision search the shelves. Dry murmurs and acquiescing nods punctuate his observation. He seems pleased. His eyes dart like fish among the glittering pieces of gold, blue, orange, red, green.
Hand slips. Just a passing overlook that draws blood.
Thank yous. Unflappable. Refusing bandages and tea. Blotting absentmindedly at the red fingers unfurling on his handkerchief. Muddled smile matching a muddied notebook, yet foolish enough to finger a shard; banked by curiosity.
"He was blonde, wasn't he? Violet eyes? Ambidextrous? Dressed in an irreverent interpretation of priest's robes?"
He wanted crystal bullets then: this shop's speciality. So does the officer.
Leaving, promising a return--when?--today, maybe tomorrow. He will accept a cup of tea then.