The Autumn Child (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sharpeningthebones) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
rainbowfic2013-03-07 04:09 am
sharpeningthebones) wrote in rainbowfic2013-03-07 04:09 am
Quill Grey
Name: Charley
Story: Ad The Devil Makes Three
Colors: Quill Grey: I try to leave out the parts that people skip. - Elmore Leonard
Word Count: 253
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Notes: Yand back to the old reliable verse.
Percival sat, curled in a chair with a notebook in hand. Words are scratched on the page, whole sentences lost in the inky darkness. He was having trouble with them, the words, they wouldn’t do what he wanted them to.
There were always days like this, days where he had the desire to write, the ideas in his head but lacked the ability to strong the words together. Something in his brain didn't work quite right, didn't allow him to put the pieces together the way that he should.
Every word felt tedious, every sente3nce laboured and wrong. Nothing flowed the away he wanted it to, nothing fit right. So he's left staring at a page with scratched out text, frustration in ever swipe of the pen.
He wanted to write, to make people care about his words, to show them that he could tell a story but all he could do now is stare at his words and long for something more. Something that made snese, that came easily to him, that worked the way that writing worked for those maial hours when you knew exactly what was going on and had the exact words for the situation.
It was like magic, those few moments, they came and went so quickly but they were beautfiul.
And now Percival is left longing for it, hoping that, if he can't get it, then he could at least get enough apathy to be able to put words down and not care what they felt like.
Story: Ad The Devil Makes Three
Colors: Quill Grey: I try to leave out the parts that people skip. - Elmore Leonard
Word Count: 253
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Notes: Yand back to the old reliable verse.
Percival sat, curled in a chair with a notebook in hand. Words are scratched on the page, whole sentences lost in the inky darkness. He was having trouble with them, the words, they wouldn’t do what he wanted them to.
There were always days like this, days where he had the desire to write, the ideas in his head but lacked the ability to strong the words together. Something in his brain didn't work quite right, didn't allow him to put the pieces together the way that he should.
Every word felt tedious, every sente3nce laboured and wrong. Nothing flowed the away he wanted it to, nothing fit right. So he's left staring at a page with scratched out text, frustration in ever swipe of the pen.
He wanted to write, to make people care about his words, to show them that he could tell a story but all he could do now is stare at his words and long for something more. Something that made snese, that came easily to him, that worked the way that writing worked for those maial hours when you knew exactly what was going on and had the exact words for the situation.
It was like magic, those few moments, they came and went so quickly but they were beautfiul.
And now Percival is left longing for it, hoping that, if he can't get it, then he could at least get enough apathy to be able to put words down and not care what they felt like.
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Been there. Done that. Pardon my empathy all over your words and Percival's.
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Yeah, I know that some people think you shouldn't write about writing but fuck that, I love Percival and the fact that he totally gets us.
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Wonderfully written! ^^