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rainbowfic2015-03-28 01:29 am
starphotographs) wrote in rainbowfic2015-03-28 01:29 am
Clean Again 9, Chestnut
Name: starphotographs
Story: Corwin and Friends
Characters: Corwin, mostly
Colors: Clean Again 9 (Color Me Happy), Chestnut
Supplies and Styles: Miniature Collection, Saturation.
Word Count: 998
Rating: PG (?)
Warnings: Choose not to warn.
Summary: A young man enjoys the simple pleasures of life.
Note: Questions, comments, concrit, whatevs!
World of Hidden Things
I have a distinct memory of being ten years old, watching an airplane draw a bright white line across the sky. Me so far away, but still watching so closely, until that tiny, distant thing almost seemed to fill my vision. Until I could see that the line was made of thousands of tiny clouds that fell from the wings in pieces. I've stared at hundreds of contrails in my life, but this is the only one that left such an impression. You never forget them, those moments when you notice some new complexity. Right in front of your eyes.
*****
The way that water carves out canyons, and the very smallest parts of our world draw chaotic spirals in the nothingness around them, I leave trails that let the world know that wherever I've walked, I'll always have walked, even long after I'm dead. I don't always leave them, but I've left them in the places that meant the most to me, and that's what matters. These are the paths I've walked so many times that my shoes wore away the grass and hardened the Earth. Me wandering the same circuit over and over, satisfying some mysterious urge to move.
*****
Early in life, I learned how to essentially skip a boring class while fooling everyone into thinking you're there. What you do is, you take a good fresh pen, open your notebook, pick a page, and cover it with all kinds of intersecting lines. If you write so hard it almost counts as carving, watch your hand, and focus on the gritty back-and-forth feeling, you can imagine anything. Your hand, working on its own, scratches out a texture. And when the sun hits the page just right, the ink turns shiny. You think, "this is my great work."
*****
For about a year in high school, I had a blue highlighter that I used for everything. The felt tip had the best glide, and the cap made a cool noise when you popped it on and off. Even when I wasn't doing my schoolwork regularly, I used it for other stuff. Until the ink ran out. But, it still had that loud cap, so I carried it around until I lost it while moving a few years back. The cap was the important thing, really. Martin used to punch me in the arm when I clicked it too fast.
*****
The bus stop I used to use had a sign with a really good pole. That strange gritty metal that feels almost like concrete and stays cool all year, as long as the sun isn't shining right on it. The bus was muggy with everyone's body heat, so when I got off, I would always touch my forehead to the pole for a few seconds before moving on. The same people watched me do this every day for a year, but no one ever said anything. I only stopped because I moved, and the pole at the new stop sucked.
*****
I was counting quarters for the laundromat, which was so satisfying that I decided to sort and stack all the change I had. When I was finished, looking down at the piles I'd made, I felt a twinge of sadness. A sense of loss of purpose, too much awareness of my not-busy hands. So I went digging. Couch, backpack, both coats, everywhere I could think of. By the time I was done, I'd found about thirty dollars. It was too late to do laundry. So I went to class in a dirty shirt and jeans I'd found on the floor.
*****
I used to have this weird jacket with an interesting texture. I think it was trying and failing to be corduroy. Well, anyway, I ripped a huge flap out of one of the arms while I was trying to get over a fence. I kept wearing for longer than I think most people would have, but I did eventually have to buy a new jacket, and when I did, I ripped the old flap clean off and jammed it in the new pocket. And it was like I'd never had to give up the old one in the first place.
*****
Martin could've bragged about study-buddying with a grad student, but he never did. I was just a regular friend and didn't count. I also didn't spend much of that time "studying." We'd head to the woods behind the school, with all our papers and shit, and I'd immediately get to breaking sticks and ripping up leaves. Thinking the same six thoughts over and over, none of which had to do with school. I always thought I "needed that time alone." Turns out, I just needed that time, period. And a real friend, who never seemed to mind me needing it.
*****
Sometimes, when I'm reading at a certain time of day, the sun catches my hand just right. I pause. The reminder that all of us are see-through and everything inside is shining red stops my brain in place. I notice my dark veins and picture chemicals running on rails, following some ancient map to exactly where they need to be. I will the sun to shine brightly enough to let me glimpse my bones. I stand in awe of everything that made me, and the knowledge that I wasn't really made at all. This world built itself. So did I.
*****
There's no better feeling than waking up and not having to go anywhere, free at long last to let myself drift. For that precious hour or two, I'm not lurching my brain from task to task, sticking and unsticking. On those mornings when I'm finally freed, I can watch the shadows on my ceiling. I can go anywhere in my head, so deep in thought that I almost forget my body until the moment I float back into it. Then I open my eyes and sigh with relief. Because, if I wanted, I could go back. And I always do.
starphotographsStory: Corwin and Friends
Characters: Corwin, mostly
Colors: Clean Again 9 (Color Me Happy), Chestnut
Supplies and Styles: Miniature Collection, Saturation.
Word Count: 998
Rating: PG (?)
Warnings: Choose not to warn.
Summary: A young man enjoys the simple pleasures of life.
Note: Questions, comments, concrit, whatevs!
I have a distinct memory of being ten years old, watching an airplane draw a bright white line across the sky. Me so far away, but still watching so closely, until that tiny, distant thing almost seemed to fill my vision. Until I could see that the line was made of thousands of tiny clouds that fell from the wings in pieces. I've stared at hundreds of contrails in my life, but this is the only one that left such an impression. You never forget them, those moments when you notice some new complexity. Right in front of your eyes.
The way that water carves out canyons, and the very smallest parts of our world draw chaotic spirals in the nothingness around them, I leave trails that let the world know that wherever I've walked, I'll always have walked, even long after I'm dead. I don't always leave them, but I've left them in the places that meant the most to me, and that's what matters. These are the paths I've walked so many times that my shoes wore away the grass and hardened the Earth. Me wandering the same circuit over and over, satisfying some mysterious urge to move.
Early in life, I learned how to essentially skip a boring class while fooling everyone into thinking you're there. What you do is, you take a good fresh pen, open your notebook, pick a page, and cover it with all kinds of intersecting lines. If you write so hard it almost counts as carving, watch your hand, and focus on the gritty back-and-forth feeling, you can imagine anything. Your hand, working on its own, scratches out a texture. And when the sun hits the page just right, the ink turns shiny. You think, "this is my great work."
For about a year in high school, I had a blue highlighter that I used for everything. The felt tip had the best glide, and the cap made a cool noise when you popped it on and off. Even when I wasn't doing my schoolwork regularly, I used it for other stuff. Until the ink ran out. But, it still had that loud cap, so I carried it around until I lost it while moving a few years back. The cap was the important thing, really. Martin used to punch me in the arm when I clicked it too fast.
The bus stop I used to use had a sign with a really good pole. That strange gritty metal that feels almost like concrete and stays cool all year, as long as the sun isn't shining right on it. The bus was muggy with everyone's body heat, so when I got off, I would always touch my forehead to the pole for a few seconds before moving on. The same people watched me do this every day for a year, but no one ever said anything. I only stopped because I moved, and the pole at the new stop sucked.
I was counting quarters for the laundromat, which was so satisfying that I decided to sort and stack all the change I had. When I was finished, looking down at the piles I'd made, I felt a twinge of sadness. A sense of loss of purpose, too much awareness of my not-busy hands. So I went digging. Couch, backpack, both coats, everywhere I could think of. By the time I was done, I'd found about thirty dollars. It was too late to do laundry. So I went to class in a dirty shirt and jeans I'd found on the floor.
I used to have this weird jacket with an interesting texture. I think it was trying and failing to be corduroy. Well, anyway, I ripped a huge flap out of one of the arms while I was trying to get over a fence. I kept wearing for longer than I think most people would have, but I did eventually have to buy a new jacket, and when I did, I ripped the old flap clean off and jammed it in the new pocket. And it was like I'd never had to give up the old one in the first place.
Martin could've bragged about study-buddying with a grad student, but he never did. I was just a regular friend and didn't count. I also didn't spend much of that time "studying." We'd head to the woods behind the school, with all our papers and shit, and I'd immediately get to breaking sticks and ripping up leaves. Thinking the same six thoughts over and over, none of which had to do with school. I always thought I "needed that time alone." Turns out, I just needed that time, period. And a real friend, who never seemed to mind me needing it.
Sometimes, when I'm reading at a certain time of day, the sun catches my hand just right. I pause. The reminder that all of us are see-through and everything inside is shining red stops my brain in place. I notice my dark veins and picture chemicals running on rails, following some ancient map to exactly where they need to be. I will the sun to shine brightly enough to let me glimpse my bones. I stand in awe of everything that made me, and the knowledge that I wasn't really made at all. This world built itself. So did I.
There's no better feeling than waking up and not having to go anywhere, free at long last to let myself drift. For that precious hour or two, I'm not lurching my brain from task to task, sticking and unsticking. On those mornings when I'm finally freed, I can watch the shadows on my ceiling. I can go anywhere in my head, so deep in thought that I almost forget my body until the moment I float back into it. Then I open my eyes and sigh with relief. Because, if I wanted, I could go back. And I always do.
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Thank you for reading!
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I love this. I love how complex it is beneath the simplicity. I love the way it moves and the smiles and the sadness and the fucking glorious piles of change.
Thank you!
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*super intense blush*
See, I just never expected anyone to really care about this. I just thought, "okay, you have a deadline, write 1000- words about sensory details from the POV of a character who brains more or less like you in most ways not involving numbers. Easy!"
My Id and I are just overjoyed that you seem to have liked it a lot, and thank you for reading! <3
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(Sorry for the late reply. D:)