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rainbowfic2015-08-03 07:34 pm
novel_machinist) wrote in rainbowfic2015-08-03 07:34 pm
The Devil is a Gentleman Literary / Octarine 10
Author: novel_machinist
Story: The Devil is a Gentleman
Theme: Literary / Octarine 10. Just because it's not nice doesn't mean it's not miraculous.
Word Count: 774
Summary: He's already missing work, who cares about the rest of the day
Rating: PG13
Warnings: None
Notes: Rough draft of The Devil is a Gentleman continues. Any encouragement is appreciated. Questions and comments are also adored.
The weather outside had dipped colder than Alan had expected. Around the lake it could vary over 10 degrees at any given time but he had gotten good at predicting it. Today, however, the air was crisp and cold in a way that made the bright sunlight seem sharper. He jammed his fists into his pockets and looked down the street.
Minor traffic made its way past him and he could hear the hum of the interstate that wrapped about the city. These things felt distant in the way that abstract concepts like God or Love were. The trees that were bravely clinging to their few leaves here and there felt much more real. Alan felt as though the city were his. He could actually hear the lost leaves rustle along the sidewalk. It had been years since he felt this sort of last man standing freedom.
Automatically he lifted his hand to hail a taxi but stopped halfway. Instead he thumbed the twenty dollars he'd left in his pocket, picked a direction, and started walking. The sun was bright and almost harsh in the moments the rolling clouds let it go to lash upon the pavement. Though the day was sharp it wasn't entirely uncomfortable.
Why not walk? It wasn’t as though he hadn’t skipped work.
A familiar smell wafted up one of the side streets in his direction. Soft and comforting and heady; a hookah bar. Alan stopped and considered. When he had been new to the workforce, Alan used to go for hookah to write. The job that he'd now been at for 15 years had started as something to do 'so I can afford to write'. Once he got published and started making money, he'd be done with that. Travel the world like his friends who joined the military did. Just with better pay, nicer accommodations, and less possibility of injury.
His novel was never finished and disappeared into a digital wasteland three hard drives ago.
The door jingled at his entrance. In contrast to the street, the hookah bar was much more crowded than he'd expected. Young faces were focused on work or discussion. A particularly loud group of well-to-do looking white kids were yammering on about the outreach to, as one with a very annoying voice dubbed 'urban' youth.
Alan sighed a bit loudly, but when they noticed him the volume of conversation dipped to a rather familiar 'we don't want to be called out on our issues' level. Figuring that their conversation was going to annoy him regardless, Alan opted to take over a couch on the opposite side of the room. He had enough on his mind without wanting to box some over-invested, under-experienced college kid around the ears.
He thought about leaving even as he ordered an orange creamsicle flavor and some cake with tea. This sort of place was for the up and coming writer, for the person who still had plans and dreams. When was the last time that Alan really did anything more than coast through other people’s lives? Lately he'd been downright introverted and that simply wasn't him. Alan had always been reserved and shy, but he truly did like people. There was a time that he enjoyed talking to strangers. He’d go to airports and sit in the bars just to converse with people. Segments of lives were important to aspiring writers.
"Hey, you okay?" Alan hadn't noticed the waitress. She had boldly painted red lips that went well with her draped top and golden bangles.
"Sorry...just..you know, lost in thought."
When she smiled, it seemed very genuine. "A friend?" She asked, the simple word sounded strangely intimate.
"A brother." He didn't know why he'd said that. "The idiot has cancer and still smokes a pack a day." Accepting the pipe he took a long draw. "It's like chasing death will somehow make it less frightening."
"Death is no one to be afraid of." She said as if it were fact. "People don't fear death, they fear judgment."
"Always figured death brought judgment along with it."
She fluffed his coal absently and shrugged. "Is anyone really so self important to think they are evil? Honest men have nothing to fear from death, and punishment cannot last forever." With that, she adjusted the coal once more to her satisfaction and smiled at him one last time. "If you need anything, let me know."
Maybe he would start writing again. Alan turned as she left "what was your name, miss?"
"Kali." She winked and turned, long hair tossing slightly, getting lost here and there in the smoke.
novel_machinistStory: The Devil is a Gentleman
Theme: Literary / Octarine 10. Just because it's not nice doesn't mean it's not miraculous.
Word Count: 774
Summary: He's already missing work, who cares about the rest of the day
Rating: PG13
Warnings: None
Notes: Rough draft of The Devil is a Gentleman continues. Any encouragement is appreciated. Questions and comments are also adored.
The weather outside had dipped colder than Alan had expected. Around the lake it could vary over 10 degrees at any given time but he had gotten good at predicting it. Today, however, the air was crisp and cold in a way that made the bright sunlight seem sharper. He jammed his fists into his pockets and looked down the street.
Minor traffic made its way past him and he could hear the hum of the interstate that wrapped about the city. These things felt distant in the way that abstract concepts like God or Love were. The trees that were bravely clinging to their few leaves here and there felt much more real. Alan felt as though the city were his. He could actually hear the lost leaves rustle along the sidewalk. It had been years since he felt this sort of last man standing freedom.
Automatically he lifted his hand to hail a taxi but stopped halfway. Instead he thumbed the twenty dollars he'd left in his pocket, picked a direction, and started walking. The sun was bright and almost harsh in the moments the rolling clouds let it go to lash upon the pavement. Though the day was sharp it wasn't entirely uncomfortable.
Why not walk? It wasn’t as though he hadn’t skipped work.
A familiar smell wafted up one of the side streets in his direction. Soft and comforting and heady; a hookah bar. Alan stopped and considered. When he had been new to the workforce, Alan used to go for hookah to write. The job that he'd now been at for 15 years had started as something to do 'so I can afford to write'. Once he got published and started making money, he'd be done with that. Travel the world like his friends who joined the military did. Just with better pay, nicer accommodations, and less possibility of injury.
His novel was never finished and disappeared into a digital wasteland three hard drives ago.
The door jingled at his entrance. In contrast to the street, the hookah bar was much more crowded than he'd expected. Young faces were focused on work or discussion. A particularly loud group of well-to-do looking white kids were yammering on about the outreach to, as one with a very annoying voice dubbed 'urban' youth.
Alan sighed a bit loudly, but when they noticed him the volume of conversation dipped to a rather familiar 'we don't want to be called out on our issues' level. Figuring that their conversation was going to annoy him regardless, Alan opted to take over a couch on the opposite side of the room. He had enough on his mind without wanting to box some over-invested, under-experienced college kid around the ears.
He thought about leaving even as he ordered an orange creamsicle flavor and some cake with tea. This sort of place was for the up and coming writer, for the person who still had plans and dreams. When was the last time that Alan really did anything more than coast through other people’s lives? Lately he'd been downright introverted and that simply wasn't him. Alan had always been reserved and shy, but he truly did like people. There was a time that he enjoyed talking to strangers. He’d go to airports and sit in the bars just to converse with people. Segments of lives were important to aspiring writers.
"Hey, you okay?" Alan hadn't noticed the waitress. She had boldly painted red lips that went well with her draped top and golden bangles.
"Sorry...just..you know, lost in thought."
When she smiled, it seemed very genuine. "A friend?" She asked, the simple word sounded strangely intimate.
"A brother." He didn't know why he'd said that. "The idiot has cancer and still smokes a pack a day." Accepting the pipe he took a long draw. "It's like chasing death will somehow make it less frightening."
"Death is no one to be afraid of." She said as if it were fact. "People don't fear death, they fear judgment."
"Always figured death brought judgment along with it."
She fluffed his coal absently and shrugged. "Is anyone really so self important to think they are evil? Honest men have nothing to fear from death, and punishment cannot last forever." With that, she adjusted the coal once more to her satisfaction and smiled at him one last time. "If you need anything, let me know."
Maybe he would start writing again. Alan turned as she left "what was your name, miss?"
"Kali." She winked and turned, long hair tossing slightly, getting lost here and there in the smoke.
no subject
I've been out on days like that and it made me so nostalgic reading about Alan. Plus, you really nailed being in a hookah bar in the city, something I also miss. I have such feels and Alan love! And I adore his "brother" instead of friend there.
Thank you for posting!
(I think a coal instead of coat snuck into the third to last paragraph is all.)
no subject
(And ACTUALLY I did mean coal. You know when you tap it out... fluffing is totally the wrong word tho. XD)
no subject