(no subject)
Well, since I'm new and completely inexperienced, I'm trying things out a bit. This is my first attempt on fiction and ... just read it, it's not that long, and mabe there'll be someone who likes it.
Carlos, the goatherd
There’s a small figure standing next to a rock and enjoying the view of the Alps. The faraway peaks are covered with snow; the countryside beneath him is green, with flowers looking like small colourful dots from the distance. The slight breeze is gently blowing his dark silky curls in his face to obscuring his view.
His dreamy gaze is directed towards the sky, while he’s considering life and its wicked ways, like he always does. He’d never thought that he, of all people, would end up as a goatherd in the Alps. When he was a child he always dreamt of London. He’d been there. For the most of his life and he’d liked. Loved the magic of that dirty old city, the history that took place there, in contrary to the young people there, their music, their energy, the live that shone from them. He loved all of that, was even part of it, but, clichéd as it sounds, it doesn’t seem to be meant to be. Because he couldn’t cope with all their assumptions, conclusions, solutions and, most of all, their expectations.
Everyone had an opinion of what he should do. And of what he shouldn’t do. No one agreed with the other. Some wanted them together, some didn’t. They said he was no good to him. How could the love of his life be no good to him?
What if he’d disappoint them? If they turned away from him because he’d made the wrong decision? If they found out about the real nature of their relationship? Well, it was just about time until they would. They had been hunting Pete, the junkie rocker, for ages. It would have been just another headline to them. But that’s not even, what had bothered him the most at the time.
He just seemed incapable of helping his Peter. They had made a lot of progress, yes, but Pete had always relapsed. It seemed hopeless. But he didn’t want to give up. Didn’t want to see the only person he ever really connected to killing himself with those stupid drugs. It makes him cry just to think about that possibility.
So getting far away from everything, leaving everything behind to be finally together just seemed the right solution to them both.
He’s tucks his hair behind his ear and turns around, focusing on the herd of goats, counting.
One seems to be nowhere to be found, so he wonders where his dog, a brown border collie called Gary, is; as that’d usually be his job.
At that moment he hears a bleat and; looking in the direction it came from; sees a goat pasturing dangerously close to a cliff. In order not to startle the goat, he is approaches it carefully, grabs it by the neck and manoeuvres it away from the cliff to where the other goats are pasturing, running around or just lying in the sun. Anthonia joins them.
She seems to be happy, like most animals in the great outdoors. Free, somehow. He never thought that possible, but now he’d found a freedom he feels comfortable with. As a child he was allowed to do as he liked, no boundaries, and quite soon he became bored of it. Being a teenager is no fun without rules to break. But here it is completely different. In theory he could do anything, there was no one to laugh at him or to punish him. But everything he did, would affect him directly, if not immediately then the next winter.
He’d really grown to like it, despite his doubts before. They were responsible for themselves and independent from others. Mostly. They had visitors from England brought them goodies, like, whiskey, bananas, condoms …
They made their own money by selling self-made cheese, pullovers knitted by Peter and sometimes goat meat. And yeah, Peter knits. He even likes it and after a bit of training and ruined wool, he’s really good at it. Lately he tries to do patterns and then he is planning on doing pictures. He wants to make pullovers with little guitars on them. Or cats, like their cat at home, John. He knows it’s rather strange to call their pets like their band mates, but it feels sometimes that they are really there with them in form of the animals.
Earlier that day, he’d climbed up higher to get the goats fine herbals and they’d eaten almost all day, so now most of them are sated. Except one, of course. Didz. But she always eats, so he’s not bothered about that, when he’s calling Gary, who finally answers his call with enthusiastic barks, and counts them one last time, before they head home.
Home. A relatively small cottage. And a waving Peter with a beautiful crocked smile across his pale face in front of it. Some might think it stupid to sale a nice house in Muswell Hill or a huge old house in Wiltshire for this, but in his opinion nothing can compare to the knowledge that Peter will be sleeping in his arms every night safely. When he arrives home, Peter and him will sit down and have supper together and talk about their day, the animals, what drew, the billy goat, did to the ladies, their plans and their ideas. Or about John and Gary; their band mates, not their pets, who are going to visit them. The last time, they’ve visited, when they jammed the days away, they all agreed on recording an album as soon as possible. Since then Peter and he discuss ideas for songs at their meals and when Peter joins him and the goats during the day. But with Peter there, they don’t always just talk, which slows the process of writing songs down a bit. But he is convinced they’ll accomplish it someday while Peter is sure it’s going to be great. Peter always was the confident one in their relationship.
As the herd finally began to move in the right direction and he has picked up his guitar, he turns his head for one last glimpse of today’s sky, which is now rosy because of the sunset that is to come.
Carlos, the goatherd
There’s a small figure standing next to a rock and enjoying the view of the Alps. The faraway peaks are covered with snow; the countryside beneath him is green, with flowers looking like small colourful dots from the distance. The slight breeze is gently blowing his dark silky curls in his face to obscuring his view.
His dreamy gaze is directed towards the sky, while he’s considering life and its wicked ways, like he always does. He’d never thought that he, of all people, would end up as a goatherd in the Alps. When he was a child he always dreamt of London. He’d been there. For the most of his life and he’d liked. Loved the magic of that dirty old city, the history that took place there, in contrary to the young people there, their music, their energy, the live that shone from them. He loved all of that, was even part of it, but, clichéd as it sounds, it doesn’t seem to be meant to be. Because he couldn’t cope with all their assumptions, conclusions, solutions and, most of all, their expectations.
Everyone had an opinion of what he should do. And of what he shouldn’t do. No one agreed with the other. Some wanted them together, some didn’t. They said he was no good to him. How could the love of his life be no good to him?
What if he’d disappoint them? If they turned away from him because he’d made the wrong decision? If they found out about the real nature of their relationship? Well, it was just about time until they would. They had been hunting Pete, the junkie rocker, for ages. It would have been just another headline to them. But that’s not even, what had bothered him the most at the time.
He just seemed incapable of helping his Peter. They had made a lot of progress, yes, but Pete had always relapsed. It seemed hopeless. But he didn’t want to give up. Didn’t want to see the only person he ever really connected to killing himself with those stupid drugs. It makes him cry just to think about that possibility.
So getting far away from everything, leaving everything behind to be finally together just seemed the right solution to them both.
He’s tucks his hair behind his ear and turns around, focusing on the herd of goats, counting.
One seems to be nowhere to be found, so he wonders where his dog, a brown border collie called Gary, is; as that’d usually be his job.
At that moment he hears a bleat and; looking in the direction it came from; sees a goat pasturing dangerously close to a cliff. In order not to startle the goat, he is approaches it carefully, grabs it by the neck and manoeuvres it away from the cliff to where the other goats are pasturing, running around or just lying in the sun. Anthonia joins them.
She seems to be happy, like most animals in the great outdoors. Free, somehow. He never thought that possible, but now he’d found a freedom he feels comfortable with. As a child he was allowed to do as he liked, no boundaries, and quite soon he became bored of it. Being a teenager is no fun without rules to break. But here it is completely different. In theory he could do anything, there was no one to laugh at him or to punish him. But everything he did, would affect him directly, if not immediately then the next winter.
He’d really grown to like it, despite his doubts before. They were responsible for themselves and independent from others. Mostly. They had visitors from England brought them goodies, like, whiskey, bananas, condoms …
They made their own money by selling self-made cheese, pullovers knitted by Peter and sometimes goat meat. And yeah, Peter knits. He even likes it and after a bit of training and ruined wool, he’s really good at it. Lately he tries to do patterns and then he is planning on doing pictures. He wants to make pullovers with little guitars on them. Or cats, like their cat at home, John. He knows it’s rather strange to call their pets like their band mates, but it feels sometimes that they are really there with them in form of the animals.
Earlier that day, he’d climbed up higher to get the goats fine herbals and they’d eaten almost all day, so now most of them are sated. Except one, of course. Didz. But she always eats, so he’s not bothered about that, when he’s calling Gary, who finally answers his call with enthusiastic barks, and counts them one last time, before they head home.
Home. A relatively small cottage. And a waving Peter with a beautiful crocked smile across his pale face in front of it. Some might think it stupid to sale a nice house in Muswell Hill or a huge old house in Wiltshire for this, but in his opinion nothing can compare to the knowledge that Peter will be sleeping in his arms every night safely. When he arrives home, Peter and him will sit down and have supper together and talk about their day, the animals, what drew, the billy goat, did to the ladies, their plans and their ideas. Or about John and Gary; their band mates, not their pets, who are going to visit them. The last time, they’ve visited, when they jammed the days away, they all agreed on recording an album as soon as possible. Since then Peter and he discuss ideas for songs at their meals and when Peter joins him and the goats during the day. But with Peter there, they don’t always just talk, which slows the process of writing songs down a bit. But he is convinced they’ll accomplish it someday while Peter is sure it’s going to be great. Peter always was the confident one in their relationship.
As the herd finally began to move in the right direction and he has picked up his guitar, he turns his head for one last glimpse of today’s sky, which is now rosy because of the sunset that is to come.