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rainbowfic2014-12-14 06:24 pm
starphotographs) wrote in rainbowfic2014-12-14 06:24 pm
Metallic Gold
Name: starphotographs
Story: Corwin and Friends
Characters: Spenser, assorted others
Colors: Metallic Gold
Supplies and Styles: Miniature Collection, Saturation.
Word Count: 883
Rating: R (?)
Warnings: Choose not to warn.
Summary: Some quick thoughts from Spenser about life, death, work, and friends.
Note: I’m a dork and love talking about my stories and characters, so all comments, questions, and concrit are cool with me!
The first time I met Corwin, he was a hostage. My hostage. And you think you‘d have to just write off a first impression like that, because how the fuck could you look at someone in that situation and even begin to extrapolate what they must be like in their usual setting? Turns out I didn‘t have to worry, because he‘s always like that. Like the whole world is holding him at knifepoint and he has absolutely no idea how he wandered into this situation or why he of all people is the one being menaced. Well, anyway, that’s Corwin.
*****
The first time I met Martin, he was passed out on the couch, so that didn’t count. But when I met him for real, one thing lead to another and we ended up having a screaming argument over that whole truism about not being able to read in dreams and whether it is or isn’t bullshit. Then he accidentally coughed in my face, and it smelled like a gas release from a bloated corpse. And since then, I’ve held a lot of things against him, but that isn’t one of them. So yeah. That’s Martin.
*****
I spent more than half a decade working on cars before being offered a chance to learn to work on humans. And I was pretty curious, but when I ran a current through that wet spine, the brain-dead meat puppet on the cold gleaming table clenched up in what probably only looked like unspeakable agony. So I sat on my hands and stared at the horizon the whole ride home. Hating myself for all I was capable of, and all I was letting myself miss. For my conscience, seemingly absent, and yet somehow laying itself down in front of me.
*****
I went to California to learn to weld, but the guy who was supposed to be teaching me had enough after about two weeks and wouldn’t let me be his apprentice anymore. So instead, I learned how to drive incredibly fast but not too well, and how to crawl under a buddy’s car and put the grimy parts in their places. How to find my lost glasses when my head is spinning with heatstroke and swimming in LSD. To never date girls who tell me that I’m nuts and they hate me. All knowledge is power.
*****
“God, you’re such a tool!”
I lob a screwdriver across the garage, aiming for Tyler’s head.
“What the fuck, man… You’re a bigger tool!”
Without missing a beat, Tyler picks up an enormous socket wrench and flings the fucking thing at me. I jump to the side, leaping back over the line between “horseplay” and “murder.” The wrench takes out a coffee can full of ancient hex nuts. The boss screamed at Tyler and I to pick them up, but we just flicked them at each other. The bastards drifted around the dirty floor until they shut the place down.
*****
I’m useful. I can fix your car, your computer, your watch, your television. I can draw you plans for something new that you’ll be holding by the end of the week. I never shut up, so I usually end up saying something funny. Even if I don’t, I’m always doing crazy stupid shit, so you’ll laugh eventually. I have a good pain tolerance and would be happy to demonstrate. I’ll murder literally anyone for five hundred bucks. So you see, I’m incredibly marketable. It’s just that everyone eventually decides I’m way more trouble than I’m worth. And I can’t disagree.
*****
Nothing gives me hope like seeing things that work with and against each other. Things that lock in to other things, or slide perfectly in to that one spot that the universe somehow shifted its entire being to create. Cogs and bolts and stones and atoms. Planets held apart, spinning along their tracks, safe in the arms of gravity. Solid things. Light and matter and time. Nothing makes me want to gut myself and come apart and be done with it like the reality of my own body, just a loose pile of slimy abstract shapes.
*****
The first time I killed someone, I just kind of flailed away at it. The last time I killed someone, and every time in between… Well, I did the exact same thing. You just kind of keep striking and zapping until something breaks or short-circuits and then you’re finally done. Sometimes, I think the main reason I haven’t offed myself by now is that I’ve seen how I work. Not that tearing myself apart hasn’t appealed to me in the past. It’s just that halfway through, I’d probably get too tired to die, which would be pretty fucking lame.
*****
It used to be that I had an idea of who I was to everyone I knew. Madman, scapegoat, life of the party, high-strung asshole, genius, moron, machine that tells funny stories when you turn the crank. I knew the expectations and I ran up to meet them. But lately, it hasn’t been so clear. I can never figure out what I’m supposed to be doing. And yeah, I guess I’ve finally found my real friends, who don’t expect me to be anything but Spenser. But where the fuck, exactly, am I supposed to go with this?
starphotographsStory: Corwin and Friends
Characters: Spenser, assorted others
Colors: Metallic Gold
Supplies and Styles: Miniature Collection, Saturation.
Word Count: 883
Rating: R (?)
Warnings: Choose not to warn.
Summary: Some quick thoughts from Spenser about life, death, work, and friends.
Note: I’m a dork and love talking about my stories and characters, so all comments, questions, and concrit are cool with me!
The first time I met Corwin, he was a hostage. My hostage. And you think you‘d have to just write off a first impression like that, because how the fuck could you look at someone in that situation and even begin to extrapolate what they must be like in their usual setting? Turns out I didn‘t have to worry, because he‘s always like that. Like the whole world is holding him at knifepoint and he has absolutely no idea how he wandered into this situation or why he of all people is the one being menaced. Well, anyway, that’s Corwin.
The first time I met Martin, he was passed out on the couch, so that didn’t count. But when I met him for real, one thing lead to another and we ended up having a screaming argument over that whole truism about not being able to read in dreams and whether it is or isn’t bullshit. Then he accidentally coughed in my face, and it smelled like a gas release from a bloated corpse. And since then, I’ve held a lot of things against him, but that isn’t one of them. So yeah. That’s Martin.
I spent more than half a decade working on cars before being offered a chance to learn to work on humans. And I was pretty curious, but when I ran a current through that wet spine, the brain-dead meat puppet on the cold gleaming table clenched up in what probably only looked like unspeakable agony. So I sat on my hands and stared at the horizon the whole ride home. Hating myself for all I was capable of, and all I was letting myself miss. For my conscience, seemingly absent, and yet somehow laying itself down in front of me.
I went to California to learn to weld, but the guy who was supposed to be teaching me had enough after about two weeks and wouldn’t let me be his apprentice anymore. So instead, I learned how to drive incredibly fast but not too well, and how to crawl under a buddy’s car and put the grimy parts in their places. How to find my lost glasses when my head is spinning with heatstroke and swimming in LSD. To never date girls who tell me that I’m nuts and they hate me. All knowledge is power.
“God, you’re such a tool!”
I lob a screwdriver across the garage, aiming for Tyler’s head.
“What the fuck, man… You’re a bigger tool!”
Without missing a beat, Tyler picks up an enormous socket wrench and flings the fucking thing at me. I jump to the side, leaping back over the line between “horseplay” and “murder.” The wrench takes out a coffee can full of ancient hex nuts. The boss screamed at Tyler and I to pick them up, but we just flicked them at each other. The bastards drifted around the dirty floor until they shut the place down.
I’m useful. I can fix your car, your computer, your watch, your television. I can draw you plans for something new that you’ll be holding by the end of the week. I never shut up, so I usually end up saying something funny. Even if I don’t, I’m always doing crazy stupid shit, so you’ll laugh eventually. I have a good pain tolerance and would be happy to demonstrate. I’ll murder literally anyone for five hundred bucks. So you see, I’m incredibly marketable. It’s just that everyone eventually decides I’m way more trouble than I’m worth. And I can’t disagree.
Nothing gives me hope like seeing things that work with and against each other. Things that lock in to other things, or slide perfectly in to that one spot that the universe somehow shifted its entire being to create. Cogs and bolts and stones and atoms. Planets held apart, spinning along their tracks, safe in the arms of gravity. Solid things. Light and matter and time. Nothing makes me want to gut myself and come apart and be done with it like the reality of my own body, just a loose pile of slimy abstract shapes.
The first time I killed someone, I just kind of flailed away at it. The last time I killed someone, and every time in between… Well, I did the exact same thing. You just kind of keep striking and zapping until something breaks or short-circuits and then you’re finally done. Sometimes, I think the main reason I haven’t offed myself by now is that I’ve seen how I work. Not that tearing myself apart hasn’t appealed to me in the past. It’s just that halfway through, I’d probably get too tired to die, which would be pretty fucking lame.
It used to be that I had an idea of who I was to everyone I knew. Madman, scapegoat, life of the party, high-strung asshole, genius, moron, machine that tells funny stories when you turn the crank. I knew the expectations and I ran up to meet them. But lately, it hasn’t been so clear. I can never figure out what I’m supposed to be doing. And yeah, I guess I’ve finally found my real friends, who don’t expect me to be anything but Spenser. But where the fuck, exactly, am I supposed to go with this?
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no subject
And thanks! He's one of my favorite characters to write for. :D
no subject
no subject
Me, I'd probably buy him a beer, but never ever ever never let him into my home. Goddamn bull in a china shop, that dude. XD