Stroganoff
Second Wheel: Garlic
Disclaimer: Run away from me boys, or I'll cook you and eat you. Yum.
Hm, 2 reviews only. I really don't know what the people want so I'm surrendering to the plots that catch me unawares in the shower and then demand incessantly that I write them out. sf: Thank you for reviewing. Longer? Well, I tried to in this chapter. labrynth: Hey, you're from the CF forum! Glad that you like my fics and DAs. Enjoy this chapter.
***
Pinched lips, blue-tinged from the cold but so quick to give a smile. Pinched from caressing cigarette butts and a childhood of repression. He was loved--or had been. That must be it. How could a person temper hatred and humility? Only the divine found it humanly possible. How incredibly ironic.
He must be no more than seventeen. Fresh-faced but the stain of brutality early in life shows in the lavender shadows that skirt the hollows of his eyes and the gauntness moulding the features. Darkened with regular abuse of bedtimes, drink and smoke but incomparable to the blackness that resided in his pupils. Fearful, perhaps forgotten but unforgettable even in his youth.
Old women would be hushed, children would be mesmerized, grown men--grown men?--laughably, unbelievably stunned. Not by just the unmistakable hints of celestial favour that blessed the physical form but by the unusual, almost peculiar carriage that jostled for attention as well. He was just a boy (understandably) and acutely aware that he was in possession of a girlishly small frame. Nevertheless lean, flat muscle accessorized what would have been an embarrassing physique to flaunt in what seems an erroneous interpretation of a priest's garments. Of course, practiced practicality demanded that he drape the sutra in his possession across his shoulders--or was it just to make him look bigger?
Wandering dark streets; preaching enlightenment suited to the wounded in a voice broken into premature maturity. Unaware of time or the systems used to control and comprehend it and give people a sense of its form. Anchored to nothing in the tossing seas of consciousness--maybe except: beer, cigarettes and empty memories turned into pillows for gentle repose. Intelligence means nothing to him, you are sure. Yet he cannot fully release himself from the prison of the knowledge ad affirmation of mortality.
Purposeless in his purpose to rid himself of . . . guilt?--loss?--anger?-- naiveté? Ritual embracing of habits detested persisting until that day. That day--
So clearly: you can experience the dazzling sunlight that blossomed from a frail winter sky. Blinding you with snowdrift when he first glimpsed that treasure . . . .
Torn and tattered but framed by other more precious objects (in an entrepreneur's eye) like the fabled doggie in the window. Obviously, he could have--what?--begged for money, sold his golden hair, given up on cigarettes? All: choices that he says, you make, not let others make for you.
So it was desperation that drove him to shoot the window, shield his face from the glittering shower and then reach in to catch the roll of cloth (preaching the exact admonishment of his very act and various punishments) lying in the bed of powdered glass. He doesn't know why, as he examines the contraband results of the exercise, the packet of (crystal) bullets.
Was it their untraceable origin when fired? Or was it their spectacular efficacy in delivering the kill? No, none at all, he tells you with a point- blank range smile.
"It just makes the violet of my eyes look better."
Second Wheel: Garlic
Disclaimer: Run away from me boys, or I'll cook you and eat you. Yum.
Hm, 2 reviews only. I really don't know what the people want so I'm surrendering to the plots that catch me unawares in the shower and then demand incessantly that I write them out. sf: Thank you for reviewing. Longer? Well, I tried to in this chapter. labrynth: Hey, you're from the CF forum! Glad that you like my fics and DAs. Enjoy this chapter.
***
Pinched lips, blue-tinged from the cold but so quick to give a smile. Pinched from caressing cigarette butts and a childhood of repression. He was loved--or had been. That must be it. How could a person temper hatred and humility? Only the divine found it humanly possible. How incredibly ironic.
He must be no more than seventeen. Fresh-faced but the stain of brutality early in life shows in the lavender shadows that skirt the hollows of his eyes and the gauntness moulding the features. Darkened with regular abuse of bedtimes, drink and smoke but incomparable to the blackness that resided in his pupils. Fearful, perhaps forgotten but unforgettable even in his youth.
Old women would be hushed, children would be mesmerized, grown men--grown men?--laughably, unbelievably stunned. Not by just the unmistakable hints of celestial favour that blessed the physical form but by the unusual, almost peculiar carriage that jostled for attention as well. He was just a boy (understandably) and acutely aware that he was in possession of a girlishly small frame. Nevertheless lean, flat muscle accessorized what would have been an embarrassing physique to flaunt in what seems an erroneous interpretation of a priest's garments. Of course, practiced practicality demanded that he drape the sutra in his possession across his shoulders--or was it just to make him look bigger?
Wandering dark streets; preaching enlightenment suited to the wounded in a voice broken into premature maturity. Unaware of time or the systems used to control and comprehend it and give people a sense of its form. Anchored to nothing in the tossing seas of consciousness--maybe except: beer, cigarettes and empty memories turned into pillows for gentle repose. Intelligence means nothing to him, you are sure. Yet he cannot fully release himself from the prison of the knowledge ad affirmation of mortality.
Purposeless in his purpose to rid himself of . . . guilt?--loss?--anger?-- naiveté? Ritual embracing of habits detested persisting until that day. That day--
So clearly: you can experience the dazzling sunlight that blossomed from a frail winter sky. Blinding you with snowdrift when he first glimpsed that treasure . . . .
Torn and tattered but framed by other more precious objects (in an entrepreneur's eye) like the fabled doggie in the window. Obviously, he could have--what?--begged for money, sold his golden hair, given up on cigarettes? All: choices that he says, you make, not let others make for you.
So it was desperation that drove him to shoot the window, shield his face from the glittering shower and then reach in to catch the roll of cloth (preaching the exact admonishment of his very act and various punishments) lying in the bed of powdered glass. He doesn't know why, as he examines the contraband results of the exercise, the packet of (crystal) bullets.
Was it their untraceable origin when fired? Or was it their spectacular efficacy in delivering the kill? No, none at all, he tells you with a point- blank range smile.
"It just makes the violet of my eyes look better."