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rainbowfic2012-09-17 11:10 pm
shadowsong26) wrote in rainbowfic2012-09-17 11:10 pm
Entry tags:
- author: shadowsong26 supreme whumpmaster,
- color: electric purple,
- color: heart gold,
- color: shadow,
- story: feredar,
- style: miniature collection,
- style: photography,
- style: pointillism,
- style: reimagining,
- supply: acrylic,
- supply: canvas,
- supply: chalk,
- supply: feathers,
- supply: glitter,
- supply: oils,
- supply: seed beads
Heart Gold #6, Electric Purple #16, Shadow #6
Name: shadowsong26
Story: The Thief
'Verse: Feredar
Colors: Heart Gold #6. Love is a beautiful dream. - William Sharp, Electric Purple #16. I have stood here before inside the pouring rain/With the world turning circles running 'round my brain/I guess I'm always hoping that you'll end this reign/But it's my destiny to be the king of pain (The Police- King of Pain), Shadow #6. theft
Supplies and Materials: pointillism, photography, miniature collection, reimaging (of Good Cop, Bad Cop, the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth ones), canvas (from about 978 FY through 984 FY), acrylic, oils, feathers, chalk, seed beads, glitter
Word Count: 413
Rating: R
Characters: Selmid, "Shura," Deshell, Fesha
Warnings: Homelessness, nonviolent death of a child, references to witnessed murder with mutilation, Eye Scream, brief implication of child prostitution
Notes: Constructive criticism welcome, as always. Could I get a Shadow color tag, please?
He dreams about it sometimes, a life where he wasn't alone, a tuneless humming rocking him to sleep, whispering a name that must be his.
He watches others, other kids like him, drifting in and out of the neighborhood, and knows how lucky he is to be alive.
He teams up with a little girl who never talks much--she's cute and sad with big eyes to distract people while he takes food or money or whatever he can find out of their pockets and bags, to supplement what they give her out of pity.
It isn't until she dies, coughing so hard she can't catch her breath between spasms, that he realizes they'd never told each other their names.
He thinks long and hard, and while he's not absolutely sure he remembers, Selmid feels right.
Stealing is harder when the girl--he calls her Shura in his head--is gone; the method they worked out requires two pairs of eyes.
He learns how to open windows on his own from the outside, without breaking them and cutting himself, and that's enough to keep him going, at least for a while.
It's harder sometimes, especially when it's cold--harder to get the windows open, harder to creep about when there's more people at home to hear him--so he sells things, everything he's collected, everything he has, everything except his name; and when that isn't enough, he picks through garbage and refuses to starve.
There's a warehouse he's set up his own locks for, a safe place he can hide and sleep and try and chase the dreams of a better place he hardly thinks is real.
He can't move, hearing the choking, sobbing breaths and that chillingly pleasant murmur, smelling the blood and sweat and then something rolls to his feet and it's only his years of stealing that keeps him still and quiet, staring down at the homeless eye staring up at him.
Someone's shouting after him and he tries to run--almost gets away, he knows these alleys better than just about anyone--but he's grabbed from behind and dragged to the police and Selmid can't keep himself from crying anymore.
It's not often he gets something cold and sweet, like the ice cream, and this policeman maybe isn't so bad.
The pretty red-haired lady comes into his room when he wakes up screaming, and she takes his hand and rocks back and forth, humming tunelessly and whispering his name.
Story: The Thief
'Verse: Feredar
Colors: Heart Gold #6. Love is a beautiful dream. - William Sharp, Electric Purple #16. I have stood here before inside the pouring rain/With the world turning circles running 'round my brain/I guess I'm always hoping that you'll end this reign/But it's my destiny to be the king of pain (The Police- King of Pain), Shadow #6. theft
Supplies and Materials: pointillism, photography, miniature collection, reimaging (of Good Cop, Bad Cop, the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth ones), canvas (from about 978 FY through 984 FY), acrylic, oils, feathers, chalk, seed beads, glitter
Word Count: 413
Rating: R
Characters: Selmid, "Shura," Deshell, Fesha
Warnings: Homelessness, nonviolent death of a child, references to witnessed murder with mutilation, Eye Scream, brief implication of child prostitution
Notes: Constructive criticism welcome, as always. Could I get a Shadow color tag, please?
He dreams about it sometimes, a life where he wasn't alone, a tuneless humming rocking him to sleep, whispering a name that must be his.
He watches others, other kids like him, drifting in and out of the neighborhood, and knows how lucky he is to be alive.
He teams up with a little girl who never talks much--she's cute and sad with big eyes to distract people while he takes food or money or whatever he can find out of their pockets and bags, to supplement what they give her out of pity.
It isn't until she dies, coughing so hard she can't catch her breath between spasms, that he realizes they'd never told each other their names.
He thinks long and hard, and while he's not absolutely sure he remembers, Selmid feels right.
Stealing is harder when the girl--he calls her Shura in his head--is gone; the method they worked out requires two pairs of eyes.
He learns how to open windows on his own from the outside, without breaking them and cutting himself, and that's enough to keep him going, at least for a while.
It's harder sometimes, especially when it's cold--harder to get the windows open, harder to creep about when there's more people at home to hear him--so he sells things, everything he's collected, everything he has, everything except his name; and when that isn't enough, he picks through garbage and refuses to starve.
There's a warehouse he's set up his own locks for, a safe place he can hide and sleep and try and chase the dreams of a better place he hardly thinks is real.
He can't move, hearing the choking, sobbing breaths and that chillingly pleasant murmur, smelling the blood and sweat and then something rolls to his feet and it's only his years of stealing that keeps him still and quiet, staring down at the homeless eye staring up at him.
Someone's shouting after him and he tries to run--almost gets away, he knows these alleys better than just about anyone--but he's grabbed from behind and dragged to the police and Selmid can't keep himself from crying anymore.
It's not often he gets something cold and sweet, like the ice cream, and this policeman maybe isn't so bad.
The pretty red-haired lady comes into his room when he wakes up screaming, and she takes his hand and rocks back and forth, humming tunelessly and whispering his name.
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Yeah. In some ways, he was lucky to witness the murder--it brought him to Deshell's attention and got him to a better life.
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He will, yeah. At least there's that.