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fellowshippers2003-12-03 07:27 pm
rulinian.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2003-12-03 07:27 pm
Erm, newbie here?
Heart the community. I don't even know if this fanfic would be allowed to be posted here, seeing as there is really no actor in it per se ...
Title: Edited edition.
Author: Rulinian Wexile.
Genre: Ficlet.
Summary: Peter Jackson angsts over editing RotK. Things go downhill.
Archive: Was posted in my journal previously. Any other archives are fine, just let me know.
Rating: R for ... gruesome line of thoughts?
Feedback: Comment, or e-mail me at adiemus_forsettle@yahoo.com
Author's Notes: Peter Jackson/Howard Shore slash. Nothing explicit, so don't you worry yourself sick.
Disclaimer: GODDAMN, this didn't happen! Shouldn't. If it does, then it's not my fault in any way. All the events are made-up, FICTIONAL! And I am paranoid. Howard Shore and Peter Jackson belong to themselves.
-------------------------
Cut cut. Hack hack. Snip snip snip.
Murder.
Cold. It's cold. Goddamn editing room. It's bright. Too bright.
Too bright and too cold.
The airconditioner switch is too far away.
Snip snip. Razor sharp scissors.
Shiny, sharp blades. Bright and cold. Just like the blasted room.
Cutting. Snipping. Murdering.
Everything is always beyond normal capacity. Too much. You can take too much. You can't cut it off. You must not.
Three minutes is apparently too much. Editing, cutting, slaying.
My film is bleeding.
More murder.
I don't want to be involved in this. It's like being made to dismember my own children, it's like slicing them into pieces as they cry on in silent fear, skinned and hacked to pieces alive. By my own hand, my own blood from my progeny splattering on myself in some form of condemned ritual rite.
My film is still bleeding.
Extended version. Like the coffin of my mutilated children, whose bodies have been embalmed with wax in a discreet morgue. Transparent wax, showing the scarred flesh and clotted, encrusted blood through. Badly set glass eyes staring forlornly out of the empty sockets.
Never perfect. The Extended Edition will never be perfect. A mockery of which that was. Like Tolkien noted, evil cannot create, it can only mock.
Evil is not a term I would use to define myself. I did not create, I did not mock. I envisioned, I cloned. Perhaps not a perfect clone, but a clone nevertheless, which I made out of a part of myself, my blood, sweat, tears, and most of all, emotional attachment. Which now, I have to destroy by my own hand.
The razor skims through the celluloid. Cutting one inch of tape --- a meter of film seperates from the rest of the entire reel. I shove the piece aside.
Cutting, murdering. Another foot of tape.
Bleeding. Brightly red, just as everything else glaring in my face. My film is bleeding to death.
A soft gasp from the person near me on the sofa. This should probably reawaken me out of this reverie, but it fails to. Everything is still two-dimensional, a ridicule of sentience.
"Peter!" The same person, now grasping my hand. Frantic? "What the hell are you doing? God - !"
I drop the scissors as the full effect of the situation hits me in its full strength, in the form of pain. Racking pain in my left hand. In the first two fingers of my left hand.
Shit, I'm bleeding.
"I told you to be careful!" Howard's voice sounds almost pained. "Goddamn, shall I find you -- shall I find you a tissue?"
I nod as I clutch my fingers, trying to stanch the blood. Howard's hands falter as he looks around for a tissue -- which I know he doesn't have much chance of finding in this blasted editing room. Although I admit I didn't expect him to quickly wrap my hand up in his coat, eyes wide with panic.
"Really, I'm okay," I murmur. "It's just a cut."
"You almost chopped your fingers r-right off," Howard looks highly uncomfortable and somewhat lightheaded. "Sh-should I call the ambulance? God, I'm calling the ambulance!"
"Shit, it's just a slightly deep cut. I'm fine," I sigh, remembering Howard's queasiness of blood. "I'm not going to die of blood loss or anything." I unravel my hand from his coat.
"A-are you sure?" Howard blinks, eyes slightly unfocused. "I really could - you know, call the ambulance ... "
He now looks at me, worried and intense, both hands on my shoulders. "Don't ever do that again, please."
"Do what the hell?" I ask, truly bewildered, my fingers now stinging in pain.
"Hack away pieces of yourself!" Howard gushes. "Dear lord!"
I smile bitterly, this is oddly amusing. "Whatever the hell gave you the idea I was doing that?"
"It looked like it," whimpers Howard. This is now too farcical for me to remain calm.
"Of course it looked like it, I was wondering if I should lose a finger or two .. y'know, just to show people I bled into this movie," I drawl, adding considerably to Howard's sheer horror. "And perhaps bleed away with the film. A part of me for every edited part, if you understand my meaning."
I then grab a length of film - this was probably some essential scene. But damning all sentiment away I snip it into diminutive pieces, affection sliced into a thousand irretrievable portions.
Another reel of tape - this I do not waste time with actually using the scissors, and pull it apart with my hands, the sharp edges slashing against my skin. The sooner this ordeal is finished, mercifully ending their agony, the better. They wanted scenes edited, didn't they?
Look at me, I'm editing them.
"PETER!" Howard cries, recoiling in fear. "G-get a hold of yourself!"
Those words should not have this impact on me. I actually stop.
"Ohmylordohmylord ... " mutters Howard, eyes wide in terror.
My hands are shaking as I gingerly place the scissors on the table.
"You - you destroyed about forty minutes of tape," he stammers. Then once again acting how I wouldn't expect him to, he throws his arms around me in a tight hug, knocking my glasses askew.
And whimpers.
Good lord.
"Howard ... " I pause, fumbling to re-adjust my glasses. "I'm sorry."
He buries his face in my shoulder, only sobbing more. I tell myself I did not do this just to frighten him. I also tell myself that I have no idea why I did this, otherwise. Not that he seems to ask for an explanation - he does nothing more than hold onto me tightly, trembling.
Goddamn, please don't have a blood pressure problem, Howard. We all know what happened at your first concert, and there is no need to repeat such an event.
I put my hands around him comfortingly. "I just lost my senses. For a little while. I'm okay."
In a response Howard tightens his grasp, and I try to squirm into a comfortable posture on the sofa, supporting Howard's weight upon myself. "Listen, it's over now - oh, I bled on you ... I'm sorry about that."
This remark doesn't lighten things. Way to go, Peter Jackson. I decide to let silence do its own remedies.
Could have been hours, I still don't know. The faint sunlight leaking through the venetian blinds dimmed to a dull orange and then faded out. It is still extremely bright in this room, white with white contrasting against the sable black sky, lined through the interstices between the blinds. It's still cold, although the chill is somewhat reduced by the added warmth of another person held so close. Howard's hitched breathing finally evens, his tense grasp loosening a little. Almost relaxed.
I exhale deeply, faintly staining his hair with nearly-dried blood as I run my fingers through them. "Howard ... "
"... Mhm?"
"We should go home," I blink blearily at my watch. "It's eight-thirty."
"In the morning?" His voice sounds muffled against my shirt.
"P.M."
"Can't we stay here tonight?" Howard shifts lightly. "But ... I'll probably regret this, though."
I smile genuinely for the first time that day, moving into a reclining position. Howard nestles up next to me with a contented sigh.
"Goodnight, Howard," I say, before reaching over to the lightswitch and turning it off, wondering why I hadn't installed the airconditioner's power outlet somewhere near it.
I'm warm, though. I snuggle up to Howard, watching the stripes of light falling on the walls, the city lights shining through the blinds. Despite the room being located on the seventh floor, you can still hear the hustle of the traffic outside, now and then the sound of a tyre screeching or a horn honking. Or if you listened really closely, you could hear a woman arguing shrilly over a parking ticket. Smiling to myself again, I lower my gaze from the walls and to the table -- where lie the shards and fragments of a self-destructed vision. Pieces of celluloid, scattered all over the table and the floor. Some pieces still glued to the scissors with dried blood.
I realize then I was overreacting. I have multiple copies of this - my film. I might have utterly demolished forty minutes worth, but only on this copy. I might have to work on this reel again, but nothing that cannot be repaired in time. There were a few soundtracks that had been composed specifically, but nothing Howard cannot remake. Nothing I cannot recreate.
Just as infinitely cruel as taking my tormented dying children to the hospital and reviving them, only to assault them with more gruesome injury again.
But commercial values will compel me to recreate. I sigh despondently, clasping Howard's hand in mine, gently enough not to awaken him. For a moment I feel a selfish pride - before he composed for my movies, not many people even knew who Howard Shore was. He might have had the talent, but I made it shine through. My movies did.
Perhaps he should be thankful for me, almost grateful. But I cannot deny we're now both caught up in the hype, tens of thousands of fans badgering us to finish the third film. Yes, the corporate hype will ensure that I recreate.
But, I stare wonderingly at Howard. They can't ensure that he will.
But would be stop? Cease and desist on his path to magnificent fame just because his director associates film reels with dead and rotting children? I highly doubt that. No matter whatever amount of love, respect and loyalty he might have for me, he wouldn't. Nobody would.
Pieces of film still lie on the table. Things I cut, hacked, snipped.
Shiny, sharp scissors, smeared with my blood.
I turn to look at Howard again, who's sleeping peacefully.
Hmmm.
Cut cut. Hack hack. Snip snip snip.
Murder.
-------------------------
Title: Edited edition.
Author: Rulinian Wexile.
Genre: Ficlet.
Summary: Peter Jackson angsts over editing RotK. Things go downhill.
Archive: Was posted in my journal previously. Any other archives are fine, just let me know.
Rating: R for ... gruesome line of thoughts?
Feedback: Comment, or e-mail me at adiemus_forsettle@yahoo.com
Author's Notes: Peter Jackson/Howard Shore slash. Nothing explicit, so don't you worry yourself sick.
Disclaimer: GODDAMN, this didn't happen! Shouldn't. If it does, then it's not my fault in any way. All the events are made-up, FICTIONAL! And I am paranoid. Howard Shore and Peter Jackson belong to themselves.
-------------------------
Cut cut. Hack hack. Snip snip snip.
Murder.
Cold. It's cold. Goddamn editing room. It's bright. Too bright.
Too bright and too cold.
The airconditioner switch is too far away.
Snip snip. Razor sharp scissors.
Shiny, sharp blades. Bright and cold. Just like the blasted room.
Cutting. Snipping. Murdering.
Everything is always beyond normal capacity. Too much. You can take too much. You can't cut it off. You must not.
Three minutes is apparently too much. Editing, cutting, slaying.
My film is bleeding.
More murder.
I don't want to be involved in this. It's like being made to dismember my own children, it's like slicing them into pieces as they cry on in silent fear, skinned and hacked to pieces alive. By my own hand, my own blood from my progeny splattering on myself in some form of condemned ritual rite.
My film is still bleeding.
Extended version. Like the coffin of my mutilated children, whose bodies have been embalmed with wax in a discreet morgue. Transparent wax, showing the scarred flesh and clotted, encrusted blood through. Badly set glass eyes staring forlornly out of the empty sockets.
Never perfect. The Extended Edition will never be perfect. A mockery of which that was. Like Tolkien noted, evil cannot create, it can only mock.
Evil is not a term I would use to define myself. I did not create, I did not mock. I envisioned, I cloned. Perhaps not a perfect clone, but a clone nevertheless, which I made out of a part of myself, my blood, sweat, tears, and most of all, emotional attachment. Which now, I have to destroy by my own hand.
The razor skims through the celluloid. Cutting one inch of tape --- a meter of film seperates from the rest of the entire reel. I shove the piece aside.
Cutting, murdering. Another foot of tape.
Bleeding. Brightly red, just as everything else glaring in my face. My film is bleeding to death.
A soft gasp from the person near me on the sofa. This should probably reawaken me out of this reverie, but it fails to. Everything is still two-dimensional, a ridicule of sentience.
"Peter!" The same person, now grasping my hand. Frantic? "What the hell are you doing? God - !"
I drop the scissors as the full effect of the situation hits me in its full strength, in the form of pain. Racking pain in my left hand. In the first two fingers of my left hand.
Shit, I'm bleeding.
"I told you to be careful!" Howard's voice sounds almost pained. "Goddamn, shall I find you -- shall I find you a tissue?"
I nod as I clutch my fingers, trying to stanch the blood. Howard's hands falter as he looks around for a tissue -- which I know he doesn't have much chance of finding in this blasted editing room. Although I admit I didn't expect him to quickly wrap my hand up in his coat, eyes wide with panic.
"Really, I'm okay," I murmur. "It's just a cut."
"You almost chopped your fingers r-right off," Howard looks highly uncomfortable and somewhat lightheaded. "Sh-should I call the ambulance? God, I'm calling the ambulance!"
"Shit, it's just a slightly deep cut. I'm fine," I sigh, remembering Howard's queasiness of blood. "I'm not going to die of blood loss or anything." I unravel my hand from his coat.
"A-are you sure?" Howard blinks, eyes slightly unfocused. "I really could - you know, call the ambulance ... "
He now looks at me, worried and intense, both hands on my shoulders. "Don't ever do that again, please."
"Do what the hell?" I ask, truly bewildered, my fingers now stinging in pain.
"Hack away pieces of yourself!" Howard gushes. "Dear lord!"
I smile bitterly, this is oddly amusing. "Whatever the hell gave you the idea I was doing that?"
"It looked like it," whimpers Howard. This is now too farcical for me to remain calm.
"Of course it looked like it, I was wondering if I should lose a finger or two .. y'know, just to show people I bled into this movie," I drawl, adding considerably to Howard's sheer horror. "And perhaps bleed away with the film. A part of me for every edited part, if you understand my meaning."
I then grab a length of film - this was probably some essential scene. But damning all sentiment away I snip it into diminutive pieces, affection sliced into a thousand irretrievable portions.
Another reel of tape - this I do not waste time with actually using the scissors, and pull it apart with my hands, the sharp edges slashing against my skin. The sooner this ordeal is finished, mercifully ending their agony, the better. They wanted scenes edited, didn't they?
Look at me, I'm editing them.
"PETER!" Howard cries, recoiling in fear. "G-get a hold of yourself!"
Those words should not have this impact on me. I actually stop.
"Ohmylordohmylord ... " mutters Howard, eyes wide in terror.
My hands are shaking as I gingerly place the scissors on the table.
"You - you destroyed about forty minutes of tape," he stammers. Then once again acting how I wouldn't expect him to, he throws his arms around me in a tight hug, knocking my glasses askew.
And whimpers.
Good lord.
"Howard ... " I pause, fumbling to re-adjust my glasses. "I'm sorry."
He buries his face in my shoulder, only sobbing more. I tell myself I did not do this just to frighten him. I also tell myself that I have no idea why I did this, otherwise. Not that he seems to ask for an explanation - he does nothing more than hold onto me tightly, trembling.
Goddamn, please don't have a blood pressure problem, Howard. We all know what happened at your first concert, and there is no need to repeat such an event.
I put my hands around him comfortingly. "I just lost my senses. For a little while. I'm okay."
In a response Howard tightens his grasp, and I try to squirm into a comfortable posture on the sofa, supporting Howard's weight upon myself. "Listen, it's over now - oh, I bled on you ... I'm sorry about that."
This remark doesn't lighten things. Way to go, Peter Jackson. I decide to let silence do its own remedies.
Could have been hours, I still don't know. The faint sunlight leaking through the venetian blinds dimmed to a dull orange and then faded out. It is still extremely bright in this room, white with white contrasting against the sable black sky, lined through the interstices between the blinds. It's still cold, although the chill is somewhat reduced by the added warmth of another person held so close. Howard's hitched breathing finally evens, his tense grasp loosening a little. Almost relaxed.
I exhale deeply, faintly staining his hair with nearly-dried blood as I run my fingers through them. "Howard ... "
"... Mhm?"
"We should go home," I blink blearily at my watch. "It's eight-thirty."
"In the morning?" His voice sounds muffled against my shirt.
"P.M."
"Can't we stay here tonight?" Howard shifts lightly. "But ... I'll probably regret this, though."
I smile genuinely for the first time that day, moving into a reclining position. Howard nestles up next to me with a contented sigh.
"Goodnight, Howard," I say, before reaching over to the lightswitch and turning it off, wondering why I hadn't installed the airconditioner's power outlet somewhere near it.
I'm warm, though. I snuggle up to Howard, watching the stripes of light falling on the walls, the city lights shining through the blinds. Despite the room being located on the seventh floor, you can still hear the hustle of the traffic outside, now and then the sound of a tyre screeching or a horn honking. Or if you listened really closely, you could hear a woman arguing shrilly over a parking ticket. Smiling to myself again, I lower my gaze from the walls and to the table -- where lie the shards and fragments of a self-destructed vision. Pieces of celluloid, scattered all over the table and the floor. Some pieces still glued to the scissors with dried blood.
I realize then I was overreacting. I have multiple copies of this - my film. I might have utterly demolished forty minutes worth, but only on this copy. I might have to work on this reel again, but nothing that cannot be repaired in time. There were a few soundtracks that had been composed specifically, but nothing Howard cannot remake. Nothing I cannot recreate.
Just as infinitely cruel as taking my tormented dying children to the hospital and reviving them, only to assault them with more gruesome injury again.
But commercial values will compel me to recreate. I sigh despondently, clasping Howard's hand in mine, gently enough not to awaken him. For a moment I feel a selfish pride - before he composed for my movies, not many people even knew who Howard Shore was. He might have had the talent, but I made it shine through. My movies did.
Perhaps he should be thankful for me, almost grateful. But I cannot deny we're now both caught up in the hype, tens of thousands of fans badgering us to finish the third film. Yes, the corporate hype will ensure that I recreate.
But, I stare wonderingly at Howard. They can't ensure that he will.
But would be stop? Cease and desist on his path to magnificent fame just because his director associates film reels with dead and rotting children? I highly doubt that. No matter whatever amount of love, respect and loyalty he might have for me, he wouldn't. Nobody would.
Pieces of film still lie on the table. Things I cut, hacked, snipped.
Shiny, sharp scissors, smeared with my blood.
I turn to look at Howard again, who's sleeping peacefully.
Hmmm.
Cut cut. Hack hack. Snip snip snip.
Murder.
-------------------------
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But the story was much fun to read!
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Thank you!
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Your style is quite interesting and I hope that you write more in the future. Creative plot as well. Reminds me of authors when they are asked which of their books they think is the best.
Cut cut. Hack hack. Snip snip snip.
Murder.
Whoa.
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