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fellowshippers2004-08-13 02:38 pm
cloudlessclimes.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2004-08-13 02:38 pm
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lotrpschallenge #16
Title: Deeper Than All Roses
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cloudlessclimes
Rated: PG
Pairing: OB/EW
Disclaimer: This is purely a product of my diseased mind and has no bearing on reality what so ever, I own no one, I know no one
Summary: WARNING! Elijah’s dead in this one, sorry. Please don’t hate me.
Feedback: Is a wonderful thing
Notes: written forlotrpschallenge #16: Stranger’s pov . This thing needed a title, and this is my favourite poem, by ee cummings. Sort of obnoxious, but there you are.
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
Lou moved the broom across the pavement in short, sure strokes. Trapped in the dirt and dust and sand, the pastel brightness of a few wayward petals seemed a painful yet suiting contrast. He bent and touched the velvet softness of a desiccated rose bloom, stroking it with his thumb. Its fragile white beauty seemed the right kind of contrast for mourning. He shook his head. “Sad. So sad.” He said aloud, to no one in particular, as he clucked his tongue against his teeth.
The Kid had moved in only a few months ago. Maria—his oldest girl—had burst into the shop, overcome at the prospect of a real live movie star living in the long-for-sale brownstone at the end of the block. The only Big Shot Hollywood Type Lou cared about was Brando, and the skinny kid with the big eyes and the girly giggle certainly ain’t no Brando. But, he was hot shot enough to send Maria and her friends into a moony tizzy at the slightest glimpse of him.
The thing is, he was a nice kid. His Mama obviously raised him right. He came in every morning and got the same thing: The Times and a pack of the fancy smokes all the Park Avenue types seemed partial to. He greeted everyone by name, commented on the weather; the usual shoot the shit pleasantries. But, he also listened patiently when the twins told him about their new kitten, and he would comment on Maria’s new sweater; "Doesn't the colour bring out her eyes?" He shared his umbrella with strangers, and helped old Mrs. Morgenstern up the stairs with her bundle buggy. And, he was always happy to do so. The Kid was in on the secret: Life was good. And too short not to enjoy.
Lou always knew when The Other One was coming back. The usual Ball Parks and sloppy joe mix, and Slim Jims, and Dr. Pepper were replaced with tofu, and soy scramble, and apples, and Evian. The Kid’s smile got bigger. And he honest-to-god bounced into the store.
The first time Lou met The Other One--on the other side of the counter with a jumbo pack of Charmin in his hands—he’d taken in the inky curls, wide dark eyes and olive skin and addressed him in the machine-gun syllables of his homeland. The Other One blinked his confusion, and apologized in the prefect round tones Lou’d heard before on PBS, and when Maria had made him go see Romeo & Juliet in the park. The Other One seemed more embarrassed at not understanding than Lou was at assuming the lanky, oddly dressed man (wait ‘til his fashionista daughter got a load of this one—red striped shirt, yellow scarf and an ancient blue cardigan topped off his tear-away pants, and green plastic flip-flops) was a pizan.
He wouldn’t say The Other One was unkind, really. He was just very different from The Kid. Less open. More guarded. The few times he’d seen the young man without his sunglasses, his eyes showed he’d learned the hard way that being an open book made it easy for people to tear out the pages. For the most part The Other One was polite; a “yes”, a “please”, a curt nod, or a small smile. And then he was gone.
But, one day, looking out the graffiti-tagged front window, Lou had seen The Other One speak to his youngest, Violetta. He’d smiled and helped her make a posy chain with the mostly dead carnations she’d fished out of the plastic bucket by the door. And then, he’d held his hand over his heart and placed the wilting circlet upon the little girl’s head. Later she would tell her Father in rapt wonder how Bello had declared her a fairy queen, and he was from England so he knew all about kings and queens.
It had never occurred to Lou that The Kid was that way. One warm evening he’d been shaking his mop out back, just as the sun was sinking, and the sky was all purple and soft. He hadn’t meant to look. He never intended to stare. But, he’d heard soft voices and his natural inclination, standing in an alley way in Brooklyn at nightfall, had been to seek their origin. He followed the sound to the back porch of The Kid’s house, elevated and clearly visible above the fence line. From his spot below, Lou had the perfect view.
The two men stood close together. The Kid had his back to the wrought iron railing. He stared up into the beaming face of The Other One, whose long slim fingers were gently stroking a secret pattern against The Kid’s cheek. Lou swallowed and turned away. How many times had he looked at his beloved Carmel, God rest her soul, that same way? How often had he touched her with a simple gesture of affection? Lou stood the mop in the corner and opened the door to the shop. What did he care what others did behind their own doors? They were good people. Love was love. We should all be so lucky.
He would never say it out loud—the kids’d probably have him marching in a parade or something equally ridiculous—but it made Lou kind of sad that The Kid and The Other One would drop each other’s hand, or widen the distance between them, stopping just short of touching each other, the minute they entered the shop. But, the truth was there, burning between them. Anyone who looked could see it. In the way they completed each other’s sentences, or the thousand furtive glances each thought only the other could see.
Lou always knew when The Kid had gone away. The Other One would take their gaggle of garbage hounds on increasing numbers of walks each day. The circles under his eyes darkened, the lines around his mouth grew deeper. Too many six packs of cheap domestic beer would make the short trip between the store and the sandstone structure on the corner. And no matter what time of the night or early morning, when Lou looked out, the light in the back room of the brownstone was always on.
That light was never out, now. Lou shook his head again. “So sad.” So senseless--like that hippie singer over by the park all those years ago. Only the guy who did that actuallly was out to get Lennon. Now this, this was truly senseless. Gunned down less than 16 steps from home, for whatever was in his pockets. Anyone who knew The Kid knew he would’ve given whatever was asked for. There was no need to take.
Tipping the dirt into the gutter, Lou looked down the block. Two weeks, and still they came. Young girls clutching shiny movie magazine photos, home made cards, gas station bouquets, and each other’s hands. Weeping and wailing their displaced mourning. Brilliantly coloured flowers and their wrappings were piled high on the spot where it happened. Mixed into the clutter were candles, cards, stuffed animals, and prayers.
But today there were only two people surveying the unnaturally happy square of side-walk. The Other One stooped, gathering arms full of drooping blooms. The dark-haired woman--daughter of a rock star, Maria had told him when they’d watched the funeral on TV--kneeled beside him, stroking his hair and whispering something in his ear. He bent his head then, and his thin shoulders began to shake under the weight of all he’d lost. The bitter wind carried his words, and Lou heard The Other One say in a desperate rasp, ragged and lost, “But they’re so beautiful. It seems a shame to just leave them here to die.” Not wanting to intrude, Lou tapped the broom on the curb and then went back into the store, leaving them to their saddness.
Author:
cloudlessclimes Rated: PG
Pairing: OB/EW
Disclaimer: This is purely a product of my diseased mind and has no bearing on reality what so ever, I own no one, I know no one
Summary: WARNING! Elijah’s dead in this one, sorry. Please don’t hate me.
Feedback: Is a wonderful thing
Notes: written for
lotrpschallenge #16: Stranger’s pov . This thing needed a title, and this is my favourite poem, by ee cummings. Sort of obnoxious, but there you are.somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
Lou moved the broom across the pavement in short, sure strokes. Trapped in the dirt and dust and sand, the pastel brightness of a few wayward petals seemed a painful yet suiting contrast. He bent and touched the velvet softness of a desiccated rose bloom, stroking it with his thumb. Its fragile white beauty seemed the right kind of contrast for mourning. He shook his head. “Sad. So sad.” He said aloud, to no one in particular, as he clucked his tongue against his teeth.
The Kid had moved in only a few months ago. Maria—his oldest girl—had burst into the shop, overcome at the prospect of a real live movie star living in the long-for-sale brownstone at the end of the block. The only Big Shot Hollywood Type Lou cared about was Brando, and the skinny kid with the big eyes and the girly giggle certainly ain’t no Brando. But, he was hot shot enough to send Maria and her friends into a moony tizzy at the slightest glimpse of him.
The thing is, he was a nice kid. His Mama obviously raised him right. He came in every morning and got the same thing: The Times and a pack of the fancy smokes all the Park Avenue types seemed partial to. He greeted everyone by name, commented on the weather; the usual shoot the shit pleasantries. But, he also listened patiently when the twins told him about their new kitten, and he would comment on Maria’s new sweater; "Doesn't the colour bring out her eyes?" He shared his umbrella with strangers, and helped old Mrs. Morgenstern up the stairs with her bundle buggy. And, he was always happy to do so. The Kid was in on the secret: Life was good. And too short not to enjoy.
Lou always knew when The Other One was coming back. The usual Ball Parks and sloppy joe mix, and Slim Jims, and Dr. Pepper were replaced with tofu, and soy scramble, and apples, and Evian. The Kid’s smile got bigger. And he honest-to-god bounced into the store.
The first time Lou met The Other One--on the other side of the counter with a jumbo pack of Charmin in his hands—he’d taken in the inky curls, wide dark eyes and olive skin and addressed him in the machine-gun syllables of his homeland. The Other One blinked his confusion, and apologized in the prefect round tones Lou’d heard before on PBS, and when Maria had made him go see Romeo & Juliet in the park. The Other One seemed more embarrassed at not understanding than Lou was at assuming the lanky, oddly dressed man (wait ‘til his fashionista daughter got a load of this one—red striped shirt, yellow scarf and an ancient blue cardigan topped off his tear-away pants, and green plastic flip-flops) was a pizan.
He wouldn’t say The Other One was unkind, really. He was just very different from The Kid. Less open. More guarded. The few times he’d seen the young man without his sunglasses, his eyes showed he’d learned the hard way that being an open book made it easy for people to tear out the pages. For the most part The Other One was polite; a “yes”, a “please”, a curt nod, or a small smile. And then he was gone.
But, one day, looking out the graffiti-tagged front window, Lou had seen The Other One speak to his youngest, Violetta. He’d smiled and helped her make a posy chain with the mostly dead carnations she’d fished out of the plastic bucket by the door. And then, he’d held his hand over his heart and placed the wilting circlet upon the little girl’s head. Later she would tell her Father in rapt wonder how Bello had declared her a fairy queen, and he was from England so he knew all about kings and queens.
It had never occurred to Lou that The Kid was that way. One warm evening he’d been shaking his mop out back, just as the sun was sinking, and the sky was all purple and soft. He hadn’t meant to look. He never intended to stare. But, he’d heard soft voices and his natural inclination, standing in an alley way in Brooklyn at nightfall, had been to seek their origin. He followed the sound to the back porch of The Kid’s house, elevated and clearly visible above the fence line. From his spot below, Lou had the perfect view.
The two men stood close together. The Kid had his back to the wrought iron railing. He stared up into the beaming face of The Other One, whose long slim fingers were gently stroking a secret pattern against The Kid’s cheek. Lou swallowed and turned away. How many times had he looked at his beloved Carmel, God rest her soul, that same way? How often had he touched her with a simple gesture of affection? Lou stood the mop in the corner and opened the door to the shop. What did he care what others did behind their own doors? They were good people. Love was love. We should all be so lucky.
He would never say it out loud—the kids’d probably have him marching in a parade or something equally ridiculous—but it made Lou kind of sad that The Kid and The Other One would drop each other’s hand, or widen the distance between them, stopping just short of touching each other, the minute they entered the shop. But, the truth was there, burning between them. Anyone who looked could see it. In the way they completed each other’s sentences, or the thousand furtive glances each thought only the other could see.
Lou always knew when The Kid had gone away. The Other One would take their gaggle of garbage hounds on increasing numbers of walks each day. The circles under his eyes darkened, the lines around his mouth grew deeper. Too many six packs of cheap domestic beer would make the short trip between the store and the sandstone structure on the corner. And no matter what time of the night or early morning, when Lou looked out, the light in the back room of the brownstone was always on.
That light was never out, now. Lou shook his head again. “So sad.” So senseless--like that hippie singer over by the park all those years ago. Only the guy who did that actuallly was out to get Lennon. Now this, this was truly senseless. Gunned down less than 16 steps from home, for whatever was in his pockets. Anyone who knew The Kid knew he would’ve given whatever was asked for. There was no need to take.
Tipping the dirt into the gutter, Lou looked down the block. Two weeks, and still they came. Young girls clutching shiny movie magazine photos, home made cards, gas station bouquets, and each other’s hands. Weeping and wailing their displaced mourning. Brilliantly coloured flowers and their wrappings were piled high on the spot where it happened. Mixed into the clutter were candles, cards, stuffed animals, and prayers.
But today there were only two people surveying the unnaturally happy square of side-walk. The Other One stooped, gathering arms full of drooping blooms. The dark-haired woman--daughter of a rock star, Maria had told him when they’d watched the funeral on TV--kneeled beside him, stroking his hair and whispering something in his ear. He bent his head then, and his thin shoulders began to shake under the weight of all he’d lost. The bitter wind carried his words, and Lou heard The Other One say in a desperate rasp, ragged and lost, “But they’re so beautiful. It seems a shame to just leave them here to die.” Not wanting to intrude, Lou tapped the broom on the curb and then went back into the store, leaving them to their saddness.
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Fantastic...just...
I can't talk.
*wanders away quickly before starting to cry*
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And I am.
...his eyes showed he’d learned the hard way that being an open book made it easy for people to tear out the pages. This is about where the tears started rolling, and by the end, Dad came downstairs all concerned that my world was ending or something.
This was so beautiful, so carefully crafted, so heartrending. I love you.
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I think this line really caught at me though - That light was never out And effortless transition between scenes and Lou is such a sweetie, and I love this little thought the kids’d probably have him marching in a parade or something equally ridiculous
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This was one of the best short fics I have read in a long time!
It was great
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