As there is no way I could participate in NaNoWriMo and stay sane, this seemed like a good meme to flex my mental muscle with.
Writing Meme
1. Pick a character, pairing, or fandom you like.
2. Turn on your music player and put it on random/shuffle.
3. Write a drabble related to each song that plays. You only have the time frame of the song to finish the drabble; you start when the song starts, and stop when it's over. No lingering afterward!
4. Do ten of these, then post them
(I only had time for four today as I am at work and need to do work type things…but here you go.)
Impressions – John Coltrane (14:30)
Into the mesh of nearly dead daylight, concrete and headlights, he hits the pavement at stride. His thoughts race ten feet in front of his brisk walk, already where he should be instead of where he is. At the corner, engulfed in the smell of hair product and cologne and winter wool pulled from storage and various qualities of human breath, he’s just part of the horde waiting for the light to change. It’s a heaving, noisy black mass where everyone is talking but not to each other. People on cell phones talking loud and louder to be heard over one another are only outdone by people who appear to be having conversations with themselves, loud animated conversations;
“I don’t give a fuck what she says, I passed on that so we could do her thing and now the whore wants me to pay her way? *pause* I know, I should have! Big surprise there right? A rude awakening! I…yeah…that’s what I was thinking. I dunno, 20 minutes maybe?”
These people would have been taken away in a white jacket a mere 30 years ago but today they are spared that trip to the loony bin by technology and the little blue light shining on the headset wrapped over one ear and pressed to the cheekbone.
The lights change and the herd moves en masse. Black coats, black pants, black skirts, black boots, black bags, black briefcases. “Fuckin’ New York” he thinks with a grim grin for probably the millionth time. He’s one of them now though, in his black business suit and jacket. He’s been here for fifteen years but he figures he’s been a New Yorker since he stepped off the plane. He passes one of those trying-oh-so-hard-to-be-European coffee/bread shops and without stopping, clocks himself in the window’s reflection. Not too bad. He’s still slim, average height, good hair, a bit pale but not unusually so.
One more block, up the steps and into his building…elevator out of service again, fantastic. He races up the three flights and lets himself into his apartment of brick walls and exposed beams and crap urban chic. He doesn’t care. He knows he’s a joke, a self-parody but who cares if you’ve got the money and the means to keep making it. Standing for a brief moment at the open fridge that only holds bottled water, a shriveled lime, a jar of olives and a rather questionable bit of cheese wrapped in waxed paper. The phone rings and wakes him from his moment of refrigerated meditation.
“Mark! Where are you?”
“Just got in, getting ready to change and head back out”
“But mostly everyone is here. We’re waiting on you!”
“I’ll be there in less than a half hour, you can time me.”
She knows he’s lying and that he might make it to the restaurant in time for dessert but probably not. She says “Fine” and hangs up.
He jumps in the shower with the full intention of getting to dinner, getting to her, being the guy. THAT guy. The one she needs him to be. Fifteen minutes later he’s washed, dressed, combed and standing at the door with keys and coat in hand.
He’s just standing in the doorway like a toy with its batteries run down. He needs to get to the restaurant, to be THE GUY. Through the open door to the bedroom he sees his shaving bag under the bedside table. His mind, already down the stairs and out the front door calls back “There isn’t time!”.
He steps back in and shuts the door, his door, his life outside, his mind left without him. His coat is on the floor and the keys end up…somewhere, wherever…he just wants to get to the bedroom.
He hears the voice that isn’t there the one that strokes him like nothing else does.
“Oh honey…there’s ALWAYS time.”
As he takes out the bag and sets to work, as he ties the tube around his arm, he doesn’t even notice that he’s repeating the phrase “always time” over and over.
He’s not going to make it to dinner…but oh honey…that’s just, just fiiiine.
Nashville – Indigo Girls (3:58)
Man was she relived. She scuffed down the gravely side of the road from the place where the school bus usually drops her off.
I mean, it was cool and all. The kissing part especially. That was really good, even if she wasn’t sure what to do or where to put her arms or if she should breathe. Grown ups just keep saying to wait, “wait until you’re ready, wait until you’re married, wait until you’re older…just wait.” Makes you wonder if they’ve ever really kissed someone. You feel those lips and everything is so slick and soft and warm. Then it’s teeth and pressure and your brain turns off and your heart is beating so loud that you can’t tell whether that was you who just made that sound deep in your throat or them.
Wait my ass.
The other part, it was ok, she supposed. It was a little strange and she wasn’t entirely certain that was how it was supposed to feel but she couldn’t say for sure how it WAS supposed to feel anyway. It made the whole command to wait into a puzzle though. If they just told people that the fun part was the kissing and the rest was kind of a drag they wouldn’t have to tell them to wait. No body would be interested. Either way, she’s glad to be back on her own for a bit. That room was making her feel crowded even with just the two of them in there. Listening to crunch under her sneakers, the promise of a cherry Coke and a Kit Kat bar from the convenient store on the way home pulling her forward. She wonders if she can get her sister to wash the dishes tonight instead, she’s a little sore and there’s sure to be a vocab quiz tomorrow. She should study.
High Water – Bob Dylan (4:04)
He reckoned it seemed like just about everything always felt better once you stopped doing whatever it is you were doing. Everything he wanted and got he didn’t want anymore and wanted something else. Always moving on to the next best thing and the greener grass. The road goes on forever that way and that suited him just fine. He was young enough and strong enough and could get another job and a different girl. They always came along eventually. Something to be said about getting to wipe that slate clean time and time and time again.
In his book nothing was irreplaceable. People and things and money were expendable and time, well. Time was one of those things that just keeps on moving until it doesn’t anymore. Maybe someday he’ll have to settle down, get a house that will do and a wife that will do and have some kids that will do. That’s all people ever do anyway, don’t they? Freak out, look around, grab onto the nearest sucker and take, and keep on taking what will do. “Everything is temporary and you all know it” he thinks. “Ya’ll just lie to yourself saying this or that or the other thing is forever. Every emotion you ever had expires with your last breath and if you’re all honest with yourselves, you’ll know that they probably all expired years before that. But that’s ok, you all go be complacent…I’m gonna rest here a spell, then I’ll be moving on.”
He thinks everyone is like him, just waiting for one thing to end so they can start on to the next shiny thing.
Hear My Train A’Comin’ – Jimi Hendrix (9.49)
Rhys was her man. She said it every morning. She said it every time he made her laugh. She said it every night at dinner. She loved him. He was her family and her life. They’d been together since school. She didn’t want to think about why she felt the need to tell herself these things over and over again. She didn’t want to but, sitting in the hub, she always knows. Rhys is good and safe and loving and warm. He’s predictable and comforting. He’ll always be there for her.
Owen…on the other hand.
He made her feel weak and restless. He baited her and crashed wits with her. He insulted and ignored her. Except when he didn’t. Except when he stared. She remembered the nights in his bed, the front seat of the truck, the drawer for god’s sake. Everything with Owen was angles and edges, attack and retreat. It left her off balance and excited.
But she loves Rhys, She’s with Rhys. Rhys is her man.
Damnit.
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cold![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
tired
cheerful