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fellowshippers2004-03-26 09:23 pm
v-greyson.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2004-03-26 09:23 pm
sunflower sutra
Of Death and Human Locomotives
He comes for the glamour of inevitability.
Elijah/Orlando, Elijah/Dominic
PG-13
I claim naught and not.
In the dream Elijah is never alone. And he would be grateful to have escaped chaos (because alone he feels blinded by the adoration and the flashbulbs, the popping of the screams and cameras flickering frantically behind his eyes) except he is crying like something that wants out, dripping salt on the neat suits of his companions - anonymous beings ignoring the hysterics of the crowd, instead watching fireworks messily and drowning in magnetic instinct behind each others’ eyelashes.
and he is never alone but cold in a crowd full of lovers
The phone rings too late for it to still be Wednesday, and when Elijah rolls over to snatch the receiver and sees the clock he realizes first that it is already the morning after and second that the electronic Bach is not what his phone uses to chime into a conversation. Orlando stumbles from between the sheets and gropes on the floor for a discarded pocket, working sleep numbed hands into crumpled denim and coaxing the little blinking blue light out. “Three, four, five, six, seven,” he mumbles, “no, four hours, wait, must be six there,” he presses a button and drags the sleep from his voice, “Good morning, love, are you in London?” Elijah groans and disentangles himself from a pillow to jam it over his head.
“Yeah? No, I just guessed, I mean, it’s midnight in LA,” he hears, distantly. Pause. Sigh. “No, I’m not home. Stateside.” Rustle. “New York.” Elijah exhales against the cotton and feels the reflection of too many cigarettes on the inside of his throat. “Did you just get in, then?” He needs to cough but he feels balanced and invisible and moving seems like it might crack him in two. “You can stay at my place, if you want. I’ll be . . .” The mattress protests being harassed by Orlando’s movement. “I’ll be back on Sunday. Yeah.” Yawn. “Right. Love you too.” Elijah lets the rush of stale air shake his throat dry, lets his lungs pull tight and open and hacks until his eyes burn. “Bye, Kate.”
Grasping fingers get the pillow away and the cold air on his face divides his throat between gasping and swallowing. He is drowning in too many empty nights and too many phone calls like that. He is frozen by Orlando scolding him back into silence with sharpened exhales (shh, shh) and the space between his lips and Orlando’s.
The first kiss is like death and the second is like a guilty verdict.
In Los Angeles the sweat gets under his nails and crawls off his fingers to bite the canvas of his duffel. He comes to Dominic with the sand in his pockets that Orlando always deposits in the apartment and the truth in the stifling recess of his collarbone, scarred by the memory of Orli’s mouth. He comes for the glamour of inevitability, for the knowledge they will fuck and fight and fuck and part. He comes because even if there isn’t enough nicotine in the world for Dom to get Billy out of his lungs Elijah has a nice lighter and an extra pack of fags.
When the door opens in an air-conditioned swoosh he drops his cigarette and his bag and throws himself against Dom and apologizes for being uninvited. Dom slides his hands around Elijah’s back and works his fingers between the knobs of Elijah’s spine and promises that it’s all right. Elijah doesn’t believe him and only goes inside because forge is one letter away from forget.
Dominic is mourning for bad tea and kilts but Elijah is quick enough to get behind the shadows in his eyes and unravel the zipper on his jeans before nostalgia can rush either of them onto the beach of guilt like an overwhelming tide. All waters must recede, Elijah thinks and presses the base of his palm against the Sharpie doodles on the back of Dom’s hand, his ribcage against the fluently swept angles of Dom’s shoulder blades and his lips into the void at the base of Dom’s skull. They are standing in Dom’s kitchen, Dominic’s sweaty palms braced against the edge of the Formica. The window is open and the heat is dictating oppression and pressure. We will all go under in the end.
Neglected things are haunted ones and Elijah blames his addiction to nightmares and black coffee on Orlando’s nonchalance about his existence. On the map to his insomnia the bridge Billy has reconstructed between Glasgow and Los Angeles is highlighted because Dom doesn’t need to intertwine lies and legs with Elijah anymore. At night Elijah sits in the bath and smokes, drinks cheap wine and drops the cig in the glass if he starts to fall asleep. When Elijah dreams it is from cigarette to ashes and from second hand sand to dust.
and always he wants to scream until he drowns the footsteps of defeat
Orlando appears with no suitcase and a key card for a hotel in his pocket as the summer curls up with the stars and evaporates. “I came to say hello,” he says. Elijah lounges against the doorframe in his bathrobe with a glass of Merlot in one hand and a fading cigarette in the other.
“Hello,” Elijah says, and kicks the door closed.
He sits at the kitchen table and puts his fag out on a food stain and rests his one palm flat on the table and the other along his forearm and waits.
“What’s wrong?” Orlando asks, and slides his key along the table until it collides with the base of the glass. The floorboards protest as he pulls a chair back. “Hmm?”
“You are here because you are already gone,” Elijah mutters, and rests his forehead on his stacked wrists. “I can’t make you leave because you are never here.”
“Can’t hear you, love.”
Elijah rolls his temple onto his knuckles and thinks about the stains on Dom’s hands and wonders if the words don’t wash off but sink in. He looks up at Orlando and imagines all those microcosmic truths banished to the cradle beneath Dom’s palm. “Nothing,” he says, and lets Orli push the hair off his forehead and coax his chin off the table.
On his aging mattress he breathes slowly and tries not to think. He stares through the shock of glass in the wall and watches the lights of the ambitious buildings stretching to drown the sky and listens to the blood taking heavy steps through Orlando’s veins. “You smoke too much,” Orlando murmurs, with his lips against Elijah’s neck. His fingers spread like water on Elijah’s chest. “I wish you wouldn’t.” Elijah inhales against the cool weight whispering between his ribs and frees the air in one loose sigh.
You are like smoke when you leave, he thinks, and lets the water beneath his eyelids coax them shut. I wish you wouldn’t go.
=33=
Title taken from "Sunflower Sutra" by Allen Ginsberg
For the "Sharpie" challenge, between myself and![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aliasverve
He comes for the glamour of inevitability.
Elijah/Orlando, Elijah/Dominic
PG-13
I claim naught and not.
In the dream Elijah is never alone. And he would be grateful to have escaped chaos (because alone he feels blinded by the adoration and the flashbulbs, the popping of the screams and cameras flickering frantically behind his eyes) except he is crying like something that wants out, dripping salt on the neat suits of his companions - anonymous beings ignoring the hysterics of the crowd, instead watching fireworks messily and drowning in magnetic instinct behind each others’ eyelashes.
and he is never alone but cold in a crowd full of lovers
The phone rings too late for it to still be Wednesday, and when Elijah rolls over to snatch the receiver and sees the clock he realizes first that it is already the morning after and second that the electronic Bach is not what his phone uses to chime into a conversation. Orlando stumbles from between the sheets and gropes on the floor for a discarded pocket, working sleep numbed hands into crumpled denim and coaxing the little blinking blue light out. “Three, four, five, six, seven,” he mumbles, “no, four hours, wait, must be six there,” he presses a button and drags the sleep from his voice, “Good morning, love, are you in London?” Elijah groans and disentangles himself from a pillow to jam it over his head.
“Yeah? No, I just guessed, I mean, it’s midnight in LA,” he hears, distantly. Pause. Sigh. “No, I’m not home. Stateside.” Rustle. “New York.” Elijah exhales against the cotton and feels the reflection of too many cigarettes on the inside of his throat. “Did you just get in, then?” He needs to cough but he feels balanced and invisible and moving seems like it might crack him in two. “You can stay at my place, if you want. I’ll be . . .” The mattress protests being harassed by Orlando’s movement. “I’ll be back on Sunday. Yeah.” Yawn. “Right. Love you too.” Elijah lets the rush of stale air shake his throat dry, lets his lungs pull tight and open and hacks until his eyes burn. “Bye, Kate.”
Grasping fingers get the pillow away and the cold air on his face divides his throat between gasping and swallowing. He is drowning in too many empty nights and too many phone calls like that. He is frozen by Orlando scolding him back into silence with sharpened exhales (shh, shh) and the space between his lips and Orlando’s.
The first kiss is like death and the second is like a guilty verdict.
In Los Angeles the sweat gets under his nails and crawls off his fingers to bite the canvas of his duffel. He comes to Dominic with the sand in his pockets that Orlando always deposits in the apartment and the truth in the stifling recess of his collarbone, scarred by the memory of Orli’s mouth. He comes for the glamour of inevitability, for the knowledge they will fuck and fight and fuck and part. He comes because even if there isn’t enough nicotine in the world for Dom to get Billy out of his lungs Elijah has a nice lighter and an extra pack of fags.
When the door opens in an air-conditioned swoosh he drops his cigarette and his bag and throws himself against Dom and apologizes for being uninvited. Dom slides his hands around Elijah’s back and works his fingers between the knobs of Elijah’s spine and promises that it’s all right. Elijah doesn’t believe him and only goes inside because forge is one letter away from forget.
Dominic is mourning for bad tea and kilts but Elijah is quick enough to get behind the shadows in his eyes and unravel the zipper on his jeans before nostalgia can rush either of them onto the beach of guilt like an overwhelming tide. All waters must recede, Elijah thinks and presses the base of his palm against the Sharpie doodles on the back of Dom’s hand, his ribcage against the fluently swept angles of Dom’s shoulder blades and his lips into the void at the base of Dom’s skull. They are standing in Dom’s kitchen, Dominic’s sweaty palms braced against the edge of the Formica. The window is open and the heat is dictating oppression and pressure. We will all go under in the end.
Neglected things are haunted ones and Elijah blames his addiction to nightmares and black coffee on Orlando’s nonchalance about his existence. On the map to his insomnia the bridge Billy has reconstructed between Glasgow and Los Angeles is highlighted because Dom doesn’t need to intertwine lies and legs with Elijah anymore. At night Elijah sits in the bath and smokes, drinks cheap wine and drops the cig in the glass if he starts to fall asleep. When Elijah dreams it is from cigarette to ashes and from second hand sand to dust.
and always he wants to scream until he drowns the footsteps of defeat
Orlando appears with no suitcase and a key card for a hotel in his pocket as the summer curls up with the stars and evaporates. “I came to say hello,” he says. Elijah lounges against the doorframe in his bathrobe with a glass of Merlot in one hand and a fading cigarette in the other.
“Hello,” Elijah says, and kicks the door closed.
He sits at the kitchen table and puts his fag out on a food stain and rests his one palm flat on the table and the other along his forearm and waits.
“What’s wrong?” Orlando asks, and slides his key along the table until it collides with the base of the glass. The floorboards protest as he pulls a chair back. “Hmm?”
“You are here because you are already gone,” Elijah mutters, and rests his forehead on his stacked wrists. “I can’t make you leave because you are never here.”
“Can’t hear you, love.”
Elijah rolls his temple onto his knuckles and thinks about the stains on Dom’s hands and wonders if the words don’t wash off but sink in. He looks up at Orlando and imagines all those microcosmic truths banished to the cradle beneath Dom’s palm. “Nothing,” he says, and lets Orli push the hair off his forehead and coax his chin off the table.
On his aging mattress he breathes slowly and tries not to think. He stares through the shock of glass in the wall and watches the lights of the ambitious buildings stretching to drown the sky and listens to the blood taking heavy steps through Orlando’s veins. “You smoke too much,” Orlando murmurs, with his lips against Elijah’s neck. His fingers spread like water on Elijah’s chest. “I wish you wouldn’t.” Elijah inhales against the cool weight whispering between his ribs and frees the air in one loose sigh.
You are like smoke when you leave, he thinks, and lets the water beneath his eyelids coax them shut. I wish you wouldn’t go.
=33=
Title taken from "Sunflower Sutra" by Allen Ginsberg
For the "Sharpie" challenge, between myself and
aliasverve
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You write with such a fuildity that thoughts just, flow into each other and you use all of these brilliant words, brillant adjectives. I'm a bit in shock here, just from the way you write. It's a wonderful style, and I don't know if you'll understand what I mean when I say it's almost elusive.
I love Elijah's thought process in this, because it wasn't clear. Thoughts are never clear, they just come up on you, and it fit perfectly.
Elijah rolls his temple onto his knuckles and thinks about the stains on Dom’s hands and wonders if the words don’t wash off but sink in.
Liek, ohmigawd.
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I love Elijah's thought process in this, because it wasn't clear. Thoughts are never clear
i hate hate hate when people in stories have coherent inner monologues. no one really thinks properly. wouldn't it be boring if we did? i mean, really, who in times of crisis and intoxication and heartbreak (ie, life) has a perfectly linear and understandable thought process?
This is one of the best fics I've read in a longgg time.
why thank you. *bows* your feedback was wonderful, thankee for stopping by.
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Elijah doesn’t believe him and only goes inside because forge is one letter away from forget.
Whoo that line slayed me dead. :)
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:) thank you for the lovely feedback!
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“Can’t hear you, love.”
methinks you need to be on painkillers *much* more often. wow. your writing always makes me want to read over and over and over, because i'm afraid that i missed something vital and i need to find out what it is.
stories are like onionsyour coherently incoherentness is a breath of fresh air, m'dear.and i also forgot to give a date for the next one. *facepalm* hows about... may 1st? nice long time to think something up. *grin*
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so i'm glad you liked it. i like it too, turns out. it's easier to like your writing when you don't remember doing the writing. more like reading someone else's story. therefore less self hatred.
also: your writing always makes me want to read over and over and over <-- am amused, because god only knows how many times i've actually read this. (over and over and over, i'd guess.)
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that's really interesting. i should make a note to myself to write a story the next time i'm all drugged up. *blink* or something like that.
damnit. *is regretting setting the date so far in the future*
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no matter what you say you are getting better, because this is fucking incredible, in a way that a lot of your writing from last year was not. filled with tiny moments of beauty, so sharp and defined they're like glass: and he is never alone but cold in a crowd full of lovers, The first kiss is like death and the second is like a guilty verdict, Elijah doesn’t believe him and only goes inside because forge is one letter away from forget, We will all go under in the end, Neglected things are haunted ones.
like, fuck. this is possibly the best thing of yours i have read, ever.
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repeat after me: NOTHING VERONICA WROTE LAST YEAR FALLS EVEN CLOSE TO THE CATEGORY OF INCREDIBLE. don't talk to me about last year. *headdesk*
yashi anyone? with some mikal on the side?this is possibly the best thing of yours i have read, ever.
like, fuck. idon'tevenremeberdoingthis omg wtf i am apparently only a good writer on painkillers. omgdeadiam. ack. well - i'm glad it's good. i think it's good too. which, as you know, is rare. so fuck.
this is why some writers become drug addicts. because in reality our breed of writers can't write. it's just the crack talking.
also you were praised obscenely this morning at contract sharing. thought you should know.
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and, yah, well, all i can say is.. um.. find drugs?
no, shut up, just write more. you don't need drugs, you just need loooots of caffeine, it'll probably have the same effect.
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haha. to counteract for the lack of blue scenes, i do tend to get a bit purple with my prose. sorry bout that.
but glad you liked the rest of it. thank you for commenting!
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I love the way you worded that.
You are like smoke when you leave, he thinks, and lets the water beneath his eyelids coax them shut. I wish you wouldn’t go.
Again, lovely. I really enjoyed this story. It is perfect.
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thank you v much for the lovely feedback!
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My favorite line:
He comes because even if there isn’t enough nicotine in the world for Dom to get Billy out of his lungs Elijah has a nice lighter and an extra pack of fags.
So much encapsulated in that one sentence, and beyond that, the pleasure of reading what is essentially a perfect conceit. And, of course, some bitter Orlijah, like black coffee and smoke. Love it.
<3
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tinhat*(that line gave me hell. so i'm v. pleased to hear it worked!) you give wonderful feedback, darling, just wonderful, and i heart it every time. <3
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really.
i think you found words that are more than proper, love.
(also thank you for reccing this.)
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(i hate to be a shameless whore like this, but this story is listed under my name for "best writing style" at the starless night awards. http://enchanted-isles.net/awards/pollingbooth.html
it's the first one under "best writing style" if you're so inclined, if not, sorry to be an arse like this.)
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this was. beautiful in that aching, twisting way and i've never empathized with elijah so clearly before. thank you.
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(now i'm obligated to whore myself to you. this story is listed under my name for "best writing style" at the starless night awards. http://enchanted-isles.net/awards/pollingbooth.html
it's the first one under "best writing style" if you feel like you might wanna vote. if you don't, that's fine, and my apologies for bothering you.)
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oh wow. just WOW. this is a phenomenal piece of work. took all of my breath away. <33
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(now i'm gonna whore myself to you, because i'm lame like that. this story is under my name for "best writing style" at the starless night awards. http://enchanted-isles.net/awards/pollingbooth.html
it's the first one under "best writing style" if you feel like you voting. if not, that's cool, and my apologies for bothering you.)
declaration of love. (from eons ago, haha.)
and i'm in love.
you're seriously one of the best writers i know. and not like i know you, really, but you know my soul somehow. and i know this is really old and i keep commenting randomly and messaging really old shit but i remember this in high school and how i was so excited to be making friends that were poets and artists and dreamers. and how even if i didn't know you in real life, i counted you as one of them. just for stories like these.
i guess the point is that i wish i knew you in person. your words have been such a gift to me; i don't know if you know. i don't think i ever tell writers that inspire me that they inspire me, so this is a first. you inspire me.
anyways i'm getting ridiculous and sappy haha. i hope you don't find this too weird. (i'm just another college kid from california, one of many of your fans i'm sure) but i just wanted to say thank you. because so many years ago, your work made me want to write. and i still hold a soft spot for my old inspirations.
okay, too much -- hope to get to know you sometime, and for now, i wish you all the best.
-allie
Re: declaration of love. (from eons ago, haha.)
what you said means a lot to me, seriously, especially with provenance of this particular story. i was so proud when i wrote it, and the eljay feedback was good, and i loved it so much. the story was really important to me, and then i made a terrible, terrible mistake with it.
when i wrote this, i was in a creative writing program at colorado's competitive arts public school. i submitted this story for our program's yearly critique session, and while my peers in the department had both legitimate, constructive criticism, and praise for the things i had done well, the head of our program tore this story, and me, to shreds. she said things like, "if i had paid money for this, i would have taken it back to the bookstore and demanded a refund," and admitted to everyone that she had not even read the whole thing because she had thrown it down in disgust halfway through. the only good thing about the story, she said, was that it ended. her rant was ten minutes of useless vitriol.
that critique was the worst thing that ever happened to me, creatively speaking, and was the beginning of my walk away from writing. the department head, publicly humiliated me again the next year at critiques, and then simultaniously eviscerated and outed me on stage at our senior presentations in front of the entire department, all of my friends, and my family. in four years, i went from being this wide eyed kid who was in love with writing to a really angry, fucked-up adult who couldn't stand her own words, and this story is ground zero.
so to know this story is worth something to someone, after i have spent all this time convinced that it is nothing, that my writing is nothing - it's a lot. especially now, as i am peeking my writerly head out and starting to produce things again, at long last.
ultimately, i have nothing articulate to say besides thank you. this is - it is a lot, your words really do light up something that has been cold and dark , and for it to be here, for you to give me this amazing thing where everything started to come down around me, it's amazing.
so thanks.
<3
Re: declaration of love. (from eons ago, haha.)
i feel old (ha). but really, a big fuck-you to that woman from five years ago. the worst critiques are the dislikes for no reason - and at what, 15? that shit can kill.
for what it's worth, i'm so sorry that happened to you. and i understand, a little bit, what it is to walk away from writing because someone drove you out. for me, it was my ex and his family and his suicide attempts and his ruination of my self-esteem at 16. there's something that breaks inside you when you get to that point, when nothing could ever be as important or heavy and writing fails in the face of reality...and for me, i just dealt with it by trying to find stability - i've been crawling back to writing ever since.
(now i'm at ucla film, trying to be creative around people who write to breathe and feeling like i've got to sprint to catch up, or to even get back to writing on a regular basis, but that's another story for another time)
anyways. this has been a long time coming. you should write. i should write. but you should really really write because your writing is NOT nothing. it's fucking great. it's like... if my soul was really really good, it would write like you. (and my soul would also sing like regina spektor, so. high regard :) )
your writing has probably changed. but it's there. it really is. it's just rusty and fuzzy and kind of creaky, but it just needs a little oil and love and time. again, i don't know you, but i believe you can do it. something tells me.
(and whatever happened to that original thing you did forever ago...? i downloaded it and read the first 10 pages but got distracted, but i remember liking it a lot. christopher and michael? did you ever revisit it?)
talking too much again. haha. all my energy comes out in words. basically, you're very very welcome. i'm glad i could lift you up. and i hope to see something from you soon.
<3!