Clowns

Sep. 10th, 2011 8:15 AM

"You know what they say about clowns…" Will says reflectively.
 
"They wear bad make up?" Ian shrugs heavily, holding his large glass.
 
"Their smiles are painted on." Will provides the oh-so familiar cliché.
 
"Why are you telling *me* this?" Ian cocks his head at Will, thinking he really is way too drunk for a serious conversation now - and where did Will pull that out from anyway?
 
 "I just wanted to know if you're alright I guess, although you seem to be doing good." Will says, and Ian has a flash of realizing that maybe Will used an all too beat up phrase, but he'd actually managed to get the point across rather well, the bastard.
 
Ian chuckles. "Seriously, Will, if you think you're going to get a confession out of me, you are sorely mistaken."
 
"I didn't think so." Will says frankly, and from that point on they haven't spoken to each other that night, Ian leaving with some girl, and Will getting another couple of drinks and then going back home to sleep.

Prompt 1: Moon

Aug. 2nd, 2011 at 9:06 PM

'Under blue moon I saw you, so soon you'll take me...'

Ian scribbles his words on the notepad, concentrating. In moments like this, he can almost feel some kind of presence next him, but he knows it's not real, so he ignores it.

Right now he's all alone, which is how he prefers it. This part - the writing - is all his, and with this one he felt compelled to write the lyrics before the music, so he can properly devote himself to it and not just rely on his quick wit - which was still in good condition, thank you very much.

He can feel now, more than just Pete's drums clanking in his ears, Will's soaring or twiddling guitar parts, and Les' rhythmic bass. Rest assured, they would all have a time and a place - as he contemplates the structure of the verses, the length of each syllable, the right feel for this song - he has more or less of an idea of what this baby would sound like, and he hopes his friends won't let him down on that one. Each time he picks up a phrase, a melodic idea, a wordplay - he can feel his toes curl up. He feels his back slumped heavily over the brick wall outside where he's standing, the weight abstractly shifting from his lower back to his feet and back up - still leaning, but his legs are dangling forward in an angle. He curls his lips along the metallic end of his pencil, seemingly absent-mindedly - but he sucks gently and bites it in order to grasp onto *something* now, to know his words are coming from within, and not by any outside source. The image in his head is so striking, but clear, like gazing at your reflection in the water. 

The paper sheet is darkening before his eyes, and he needs to strain them to look at the words. He knows he's been hanging around for hours, and the night's beginning to fall. There's no use of trying to read what he'd written, everything he sees is just a smudge of greys now, and he's trying to shake off that feeling, that there are just things in life that you have no control of, and you can't will them away.

All he has left now are those images in his head, and some of his words, though he forgets them, so now his visual memory takes over, captivating him on a different level - before the night falls down and takes his soul away - No, wait, why would the night consume him? Where did that thought come from?

He shuffles his feet and moves down, until he sits with his back at the wall. Just a little dark figure crumpled over the wall at night, and if someone gives him hassle he would say he's looking for his muse, people often just think he's weird and leave him alone.

He can't be bothered to keep his eyes open - he often doesn't - and in-between dreaming about home-made cooking and football, he dreams about the moon over the Mersey river, and how magical it seemed to him when he was a kid; How gorgeous and mysterious it was to him. He could hear it call for him, whatever it means. He's sure it would call him again one day.

He wakes feeling a lot calmer, though in his mind, he estimates he hasn't been dosing off for long - his biological clock is never wrong on these things. As he puts his notepad under his arm and gets ready to leave, he can feel someone touching his shoulder, but he turns around and sees no one. He shrugs it off, huddling because he's gotten colder.

Be My Baby?...

[Feb. 14th, 2011|10:57 pm]

"Happy Valentine's Day," Nicky read out his card, which was nothing but a piece of cut-out cardboard, lovingly decorated by its sender. He even drew a glittery heart, the cheeky imp! "Love, James." written in his handwriting. That round, girlish handwriting Nicky would normally tease him about.

"Thank you." Nicky said, thinking how he can't possibly accept this valentine, and actually feeling worse about this day than he already had, a dark cloud hanging over his head.

"I thought, you know, that you might appreciate the gesture." James shrugs, grinning self-consciously. As if playing it off as a gesture between friends who deeply care about each other - and love each other, yes, but not in a more than friendly way -  would make Nicky's rejection - or worse, lack or acknowledgement - easier to deal with.

"Look, I know this day isn't easy for you, for any of us, but I thought it might cheer you up."

Nicky thanks James again, tucking the note in his handbag and smiling at James. He's got smiles from now until next year, but he'll be the first to admit 'it takes a lot these days', as Richey would say. It takes something extraordinary to make an adult smile...Nicky has his own way to make himself smile. He thinks about the last time he had a genuine Valentine's Day celebration. Not last year, of course, that's when Richey's car was recovered, two weeks after Richey had gone missing. That is also on Nicky's mind, and he doesn't want to ignore it, he wants to remember it. But there's also one of his happiest memories, from the year before. Valentine's Day 1994.


Nicky had skip-stepped into Richey's Cardiff flat, whistling one of his own favourite tunes, which he woke up to every day during his finals. 'The only one I know, has gone, to take me away...'  And he'd come to take Richey away, for the day. He got him out of his clothes first, fixing him a nice, long, bubblebath. And then he got Richey his jeans and a red tee, helping him with his hair and makeup - Richey even let him put some colourless glitter, for once.  And Nicky made Richey's hair nice and fluffy, the way he likes it, not flat or drawn back like Richey'd do. Then he grabbed Richey and took him to the park, to ride one of these peddling-boats that's shaped like a swan. Richey made faces the entire time and giggled about how 'Valentine's Day is shit', but Nicky thinks Richey had a good day that day. Nicky did it because he wanted to give Richey a chance to enjoy Valentine's Day.

Maybe next year, Nicky'll get his chance to enjoy it. Then, maybe in a couple of years, or more. Maybe never.

Another now, again

A tidal wave, 
I’m lost in you.
I repeat myself,
I’m lost in you.

At another place and time,
When there was ‘I and you’,
And we were one with the night skies of dark,
One with the stars that shimmer so brightly,
I have a distant memory of how we used to dream.
Now I’m only dying in my sleep.

I can’t speak, 
And what I see I don’t contain.
So I should shut myself away again today, 
To look at the world through my clear glass windows,
My eyes,
My immovable vision of apathy.

Denied me of reality,
I’m losing all ability.

You flew, grown wings and left me the broken parts.
I guess one of us had to end in pieces-
And you were too beautiful to be destroyed.

December 15th, 2002