Imaginary Gardens

A/N: This is just a drabble I wrote in lieu of an entry for Blog Like It's the End of the World Day.


The poor bastard stabbed me, what with I didn't find out until later. It was a screwdriver, one of those flat ones with a yellow and black striped handle. My chest made a little hissing sound when I pulled it out, like an air mattress being squeezed flat. He must've hit a lung - the right one because he'd been left-handed.

I tugged down the neck of my shirt and squinted at the wound, a jagged horizontal line just off-center, making me look like some sort of coin-operated mannequin. It wasn't bleeding. I prodded it, digging in a little and feeling the air flow out. I chewed on a fingernail. I'd like to say I did so thoughtfully, at least, but my mind was pretty blank at that point.

Somewhere to my right I heard a crash and a shout - broken window, probably. I turned and shuffled in the direction of the comotion, stepping over the screwdriver and its owner. I couldn't help a gurgling sort of moan as I walked - my right lung's death rattle. I chewed on a finger as I went, wondering if maybe I should've gotten the man's right hand instead.


Deleted Lines:

This, more than the absence of pain, finally cemented in my mind what had happened to me, made me revise and accept the new self-image.

Lost

"So, how’s the island been since I left?"

Crossover:

Sherlock Homes / Iron Man / House: Eliminate the Impossible (See also: Completed Fics)

Sometimes I write short dialogue exchanges which aren't set in any sort of story or with any specific characters in mind, although they do have a very specific context in my mind. Perhaps some of these exchanges will find their way into a story, or give way to one. ( Read more... )

What does it mean when no one misses you or gives you the time of day? ( Read more... )

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Sean staggered, the stranger limp and heavy in his arms. ( Read more... )

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The goat of Doom (Frank, to his friends, if he ever had any) was really getting tired of marauding the forest. ( Read more... )

The first few seconds of the Fish Out of Water: Trapped in TV Land syndrome:

Everyone, at one point or other, has had the experience of falling whilst lying snuggly in their beds. One startled jerk later, and you sigh in relief to find yourself in bed.

But when the falling sensation is real, when instead of waking up to smooth sheets you wake up to gravel and mud, the burning sting of scraped skin and bruised limbs, a sigh of relief is that last thing on your mind.

The first thing on Constance’s mind, for example, was surprise at having fallen off the bed for the first time in her life. That’s the waking human mind for you. The thought didn’t last very long, being dashed by the sudden rush of sensory input – mainly pain – that washed over her. That woke her up the rest of the way. Constance pushed herself up from the ground, hissing sharply as her skinned palms pressed against the gravel.

Well-Worn Hand (Track 10)
A/N: Something I wish I had.

Being friends, we took turns holding each others hands, took turns falling or pulling the other up, dusting each other off and telling reassuring lies. Our hands were always outstretched, gripped, fingers and life-lines melding into the other, curling and resting in time-honoured places, my thumb resting just so, your index pressing there, always the same. We've been holding hands for so long, one would think they'd be immune to the passage of time and blunders, wrapped up in mutual gloves of friendship. But our childhood grips gain strength and subtlety with experience, turn paper-dry or slippery-wet, callouses and scars decorating familiar skin. Still, it is your hand, your well-worn hand, in mine, and I'll keep holding it for the rest of our time.

When Anger Shows (Track 5)

There were scuff marks on the floor, deep gouges on the table, smeared footprints on the wall. Pens lay strewn on the ground like an abandoned game of pick-up sticks. The duvet lay in crumpled restlessness at the foot of the bed, a pillow half-consumed beneath it. The figure standing in the doorway took the room at a glance, a practiced reader of such cryptography, and quietly shut the door again.

Smokers Outside Hospital Doors (Track 1)
A/N: Sometimes you just need a break.

The smoke doesn't cover the ghost if the distinctly medical smell - all tepid green and listless blue - and the nicotine rush harly soothes the right nerves. They stand aroud, in twos or threes, swaying pendulously from one foot to the other or pacing slowly with great sweeping steps, feet hovering endlessly before coming down in defeat. Their faces are inexpressive beyond the basics of exhaustion, closed off and focued entirely on the column of ash, the column of smoke and the pillar at their backs. A couple minutes' peace, a moment of respite in which they give themselves entirely over to their bodies, their small habits and rituals done without thought, canceling out the need for thought. They put time at a standstill even as it burns, because some things will never wait for you, wait for you to be ready, to be strong, to be willing, to be there. They come outside and cup these small offerings of time, time spent not-waiting that might have instead been spent waiting, watching, hoping or breaking. These white cylinders of measured time, modern incense sticks, have no god in mind, but the prayer is clear: "Please", they whisper as they burn, "just give me a minute."