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greenling) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
rainbowfic2013-08-10 01:26 am
greenling) wrote in rainbowfic2013-08-10 01:26 am
Harvest Gold #9
Name: Greenling
Story: Still untitled...
Colors: Harvest Gold #9 (fall back)
Supplies and Styles: Graffiti (Midsummer Night's Dream prompt, Canvas (snippets of Jaymie's backstory)
Word Count: 997
Rating: G
Warnings: None.
Summary: So I thought to myself, "I think that's a mouse being chased by faeries, what am I going to do with that?" and then I thought to myself "self, you are really slow on the intake today, why don't you take a nap and do this tomorrow".
Comments, criticism, and questions are all appreciated.
He found himself wandering under the sky, looking for stars in the flat gray glow. Sometimes the glow would part and some light could be seen, but the stars' messages were jumbled into awkward, meaningless shapes that led him nowhere. He had been travelling for as long as he could remember, running from something or to somewhere, and the moment he found himself in was like the edge of a dream, the first few moments after waking when whatever you thought you were doing slipped through your brain and was replaced with something else.
He flexed his hands, and realized he had stopped walking. The ground underneath him was hard, and his legs ached; there was a slight breeze in the air, wonderfully warm. His skin was heated, and sweat dripped down his back, his clothing sticking to his skin. It was a strange feeling, faraway familiar, and a sense of elation bubbled up in his chest.
The lights in the distance were houses, scattered over a hillside; they sat in neat little rows, tall houses and long houses, houses trying to hide behind trees. On all sides were buildings, and people were scattered all around, walking up and down the sidewalk (avoiding him) or going in and out of buildings or sitting on the corners or leaning against walls.
He tapped one foot and the ground was solid. He jumped into the air and landed. He pinched himself and it hurt, not too much or too little. He shouted out loud and punched the air.
It was loud, and it echoed, and a hundred (or some number of) eyes turned to look at him, and he ran.
He found himself again in a foul-smelling corner between two walls, surrounded by the dark, but this time, he remembered.
He was (home) in a city, in a real city that felt familiar. It felt safe, but only in a relative way, and it felt real, but not in a way he could be sure of. Some part of him kept expecting, kept not exactly seeing, wisps of things slipping out of corners, figures dancing in the middle distance, and he knew somewhere in his bones that it meant something, though he could put no words to it. He clenched his fists until it hurt, then flexed his fingers back the other way. It could be anything.
He took a while there, sitting and organizing his thoughts, slowly remembering the different sensations of being alive and real. What exactly had happened, or even where he was or had been, was nothing but a blank space in his mind ringed with what he eventually realized was fear, and so he backed off from it. The last thing he could remember, before that, was being at home, in a little apartment somewhere in New York, finishing something or other before he was supposed to go somewhere. That wasn't very useful, but it gave him a start; for one thing, he was pretty certain he wasn't in New York. It felt like summer, but it was a different kind of heat, dry and stifling, and when he managed to drag himself out of the darkness and look up, there weren't as many skyscrapers as he would associate with New York. Good job, he thought to himself, we've progressed to making logical deductions based on vague memories of something that might be real life. At this rate I'll be on the right track by pickle dishcloth engine.
And I see I've discovered sarcasm, he thought back irritably, because that's totally more useful.
Shut up. He rubbed his eyes and took a few more steps back out onto the sidewalk. I smell like I've been sleeping in a pile of everything bad for about a week and I want to fix that. Think goal-oriented: I need to figure out where I am, find a safe place, and get clean. What am I supposed to do in this situation?
A thought occurred to him, and he was about to angrily dismiss it, but a moment's reflection had him doubting: whatever had happened, it was something very strange. If he had to ask himself (and he did) what someone did when they showed up in the middle of some unnamed city at some undiscovered time, grubby and amnesiac and full of odd thoughts, he'd say something about a newspaper stand. And then a number of other somethings about superpowers and time travel, but he was pretty certain those were just stories. The fact that he didn't see any kind of newspaper stand on the street actually bothered him a little for a reason he couldn't place, but it was irrelevant.
It was a stupid idea, but it was the only one he had, and so he walked down the street, looking for someplace that offered the news, or at least something like it.
There was a store on the corner with its lights on and papers and magazines in the window, and so he bustled in; a man standing by the counter made a face at him and started muttering something under his breath. He passed by, ignoring it, and picked up the first paper he could see. The Los Angeles Times proclaimed, along with a dozen other papers, that it was in fact early July, that the date was something unrecognizable, and that people were just as interested in stupid political crap as ever. This was not helpful to him either, outside of realizing the date no longer meant anything to him, and he groaned deeply.
He was about to leave when something familiar caught his eye. He turned, and narrowed his eyes at a picture on a tabloid; some woman in flattering clothing had gotten into trouble with drugs, but that wasn't the interesting bit. There was a girl on the cover with her, maybe ten or maybe thirteen, thin and sad, with long blonde hair. There was something familiar about that, too.
A black car pulled up outside, and a man got out of the passenger's side.
Story: Still untitled...
Colors: Harvest Gold #9 (fall back)
Supplies and Styles: Graffiti (Midsummer Night's Dream prompt, Canvas (snippets of Jaymie's backstory)
Word Count: 997
Rating: G
Warnings: None.
Summary: So I thought to myself, "I think that's a mouse being chased by faeries, what am I going to do with that?" and then I thought to myself "self, you are really slow on the intake today, why don't you take a nap and do this tomorrow".
Comments, criticism, and questions are all appreciated.
He found himself wandering under the sky, looking for stars in the flat gray glow. Sometimes the glow would part and some light could be seen, but the stars' messages were jumbled into awkward, meaningless shapes that led him nowhere. He had been travelling for as long as he could remember, running from something or to somewhere, and the moment he found himself in was like the edge of a dream, the first few moments after waking when whatever you thought you were doing slipped through your brain and was replaced with something else.
He flexed his hands, and realized he had stopped walking. The ground underneath him was hard, and his legs ached; there was a slight breeze in the air, wonderfully warm. His skin was heated, and sweat dripped down his back, his clothing sticking to his skin. It was a strange feeling, faraway familiar, and a sense of elation bubbled up in his chest.
The lights in the distance were houses, scattered over a hillside; they sat in neat little rows, tall houses and long houses, houses trying to hide behind trees. On all sides were buildings, and people were scattered all around, walking up and down the sidewalk (avoiding him) or going in and out of buildings or sitting on the corners or leaning against walls.
He tapped one foot and the ground was solid. He jumped into the air and landed. He pinched himself and it hurt, not too much or too little. He shouted out loud and punched the air.
It was loud, and it echoed, and a hundred (or some number of) eyes turned to look at him, and he ran.
He found himself again in a foul-smelling corner between two walls, surrounded by the dark, but this time, he remembered.
He was (home) in a city, in a real city that felt familiar. It felt safe, but only in a relative way, and it felt real, but not in a way he could be sure of. Some part of him kept expecting, kept not exactly seeing, wisps of things slipping out of corners, figures dancing in the middle distance, and he knew somewhere in his bones that it meant something, though he could put no words to it. He clenched his fists until it hurt, then flexed his fingers back the other way. It could be anything.
He took a while there, sitting and organizing his thoughts, slowly remembering the different sensations of being alive and real. What exactly had happened, or even where he was or had been, was nothing but a blank space in his mind ringed with what he eventually realized was fear, and so he backed off from it. The last thing he could remember, before that, was being at home, in a little apartment somewhere in New York, finishing something or other before he was supposed to go somewhere. That wasn't very useful, but it gave him a start; for one thing, he was pretty certain he wasn't in New York. It felt like summer, but it was a different kind of heat, dry and stifling, and when he managed to drag himself out of the darkness and look up, there weren't as many skyscrapers as he would associate with New York. Good job, he thought to himself, we've progressed to making logical deductions based on vague memories of something that might be real life. At this rate I'll be on the right track by pickle dishcloth engine.
And I see I've discovered sarcasm, he thought back irritably, because that's totally more useful.
Shut up. He rubbed his eyes and took a few more steps back out onto the sidewalk. I smell like I've been sleeping in a pile of everything bad for about a week and I want to fix that. Think goal-oriented: I need to figure out where I am, find a safe place, and get clean. What am I supposed to do in this situation?
A thought occurred to him, and he was about to angrily dismiss it, but a moment's reflection had him doubting: whatever had happened, it was something very strange. If he had to ask himself (and he did) what someone did when they showed up in the middle of some unnamed city at some undiscovered time, grubby and amnesiac and full of odd thoughts, he'd say something about a newspaper stand. And then a number of other somethings about superpowers and time travel, but he was pretty certain those were just stories. The fact that he didn't see any kind of newspaper stand on the street actually bothered him a little for a reason he couldn't place, but it was irrelevant.
It was a stupid idea, but it was the only one he had, and so he walked down the street, looking for someplace that offered the news, or at least something like it.
There was a store on the corner with its lights on and papers and magazines in the window, and so he bustled in; a man standing by the counter made a face at him and started muttering something under his breath. He passed by, ignoring it, and picked up the first paper he could see. The Los Angeles Times proclaimed, along with a dozen other papers, that it was in fact early July, that the date was something unrecognizable, and that people were just as interested in stupid political crap as ever. This was not helpful to him either, outside of realizing the date no longer meant anything to him, and he groaned deeply.
He was about to leave when something familiar caught his eye. He turned, and narrowed his eyes at a picture on a tabloid; some woman in flattering clothing had gotten into trouble with drugs, but that wasn't the interesting bit. There was a girl on the cover with her, maybe ten or maybe thirteen, thin and sad, with long blonde hair. There was something familiar about that, too.
A black car pulled up outside, and a man got out of the passenger's side.
no subject
no subject
If that made any sense. Thank you.