Up in Smoke -HINABN
Summary: when the world is falling apart around you, somebody's got to hold the seams together. Plot heavy, I think. Warning, this product may contain Conworth- don't get your hopes too high though. Preslash is preslashy at most
Doc Worth lights himself a cigarette. His fingers are cold, but they don't fumble with the gears. The movement is perfected by more than a decade of practice, and the sweet little snick is the only thing that's right these days. He looks up at the stars—so much brighter tonight, there's got to be more stars in the sky than there were pages in all his college textbooks combined. He can see a stripe of dust across the center of the sky, every goddamn star in the galaxy spiraling off into space. He doesn't like them. They're pretty and they remind him of things he'd rather forget, all different kinds of things at once, ghosts of memories that press in on him from every side and turn the sky into a massive blue and gray blur.
So he thinks ab
tag: "A little fantasy never hurt anybody, right? Yes, that's rich coming from the psychology major."
Some more strange-ass comedy and romance.
It's funny how once you know somebody, suddenly you start seeing them everywhere.
One weekend about mid-march, Edgar Vargas—psychology teacher and all around Nice Guy—ran into his most infuriating student in the food court of the local mall. It was actually a funny story, because he'd just spent the Friday afternoon before lecturing the kid about the ethics concerned with hitting on your teachers (specifically, the ethics against that practice) and why it was really a Bad Idea to turn in assignments that included a multitude of creative euphemisms for male anatomy.
Of course Jimmy didn't pay a cent of attention, as per usual, and spent the next hour hanging around and dropping yet more blatant hints. And that had been their Friday, which was sadly quite usual also.
Saturday, however, found Edgar hanging around the food cour
Coca-Cola and Ash
His kisses taste like ash and coke
Complex and sweet and gritty lips
Like shadowed alleys, when I woke
And found his fingers on my hips
I've followed him and found the wind
That whispered through abandoned yards-
He'll attack but not defend
And fill his hands with losing cards
We were caught between the sun
And crumbling bricks in burgundy
Though long ago our chase begun
In shadowed doorsteps, but for me
I know I'll trace these streets again
For the taste of hope and gritty sin
The Skies are Wide"For the land is wide and the skies are tall and before I die, I will see them all!"
You can't see the sun just yet.
This time of morning, the sky is white and it seems to be backlit like a TV screen, saturated with light and energy. He supposes that it's just like him to compare nature to a television, but it's all he can think of. The atmosphere itself seems to glow.
They're lying in a field. It's cold outside now, especially where morning dew has seeped into his sweater and sunk its chilly fingers into his shoulders and neck, but as the sun rises he knows that it'll get warmer again because it's too early in the year for real cold. It's hardly October. He remembers a friend who once told him this was dove season, when the hunters flocked out to the fields like the birds they hunted and turned death into a sport. He never got the concept.
He runs idle fingers through the grass, picking up bits of dead grass and freezing dew, and he wonders where the water comes from
Love StoryIt's not about love-
Seems strange to say
Because love is always the Answer,
Love will save the day
But it's not about love.
No secret kisses in the halls,
Trading tokens like we were spies
Always walking in the darkness,
Hiding dreams in lies
That's not the story.
No clandestine meetings in the hours
Before the dawn, when children sleep,
On top of silk and burning low
Secret oceans sinking deep
That wasn't the point.
This is not the tale of romance,
Ours is not the tale of skin
Or lips or eyes that glow like gold
This is not a tale of sin
Nor a tale of modesty.
It's not about love; no seduction,
Nor passion, drives this dream,
Where life and death in stark contrast
Meet to make the seam
This, the tale of triumph,
This, the tale of misery,
This tale of ideas given form
Of human hope in victory
This is all.
This is no love's account,
Save Romeo was once a king,
And Juliet was once a sage-
Then was the play the thing.
(as it always is)
Our tale is secul