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Right, some of the writing I've been doing recently. Please read and comment, even if it just says "nice". Y'know, just let me know I'm still alive.
First up, the beginning of a Gundam fic I got randomly inspired for. If continued, will probably feature many of my original characters. Quatre-centric, few, if any pairings.
Interesting Times
Quatre tried to clear the sleep out of his eyes, to no avail. In the exhausted state he was in, he only suceeded in poking himself in the eye.
"Nadia," he called to his PA, also his fifteenth sister. "Can you get me some more coffee, please?" She bustled about him, putting the fragrant mixture in front of him and rubbing his shoulders.
"Honestly, brother dearest, you'll kill yourself. Take a break."
"I can't, these figures have to be in-"
"That was an order," she replied, gently squeezing his shoulders. "I may be professionally below you, but I'm pulling rank as your older sister."
Following his sister's orders, Quatre took himself and his mug of coffee to the library. It was a collection started by his grandfather and continued by his father, and although QUatre felt quite attatched to the place, he had yet to make any proper contribution to it. It smelled of old paper, varnished wood and wisdom in here, and Quatre still had the strange nervous feeling he'd had as a child; the library felt alive. Everything within it was so old, he couldn't help but feel it had acquired a spirit of its own. Wandering around, pausing to look at a few things, he noticed a dusty cabinet pinned between two bookcases. He vaguely remembered asking his father what was in it when he was small, and his father replying "You'll see when you're older."
Well, reflected Quatre, now I'm older. He looked at the lock of the cabinet, and wondered if the key to the library would fit it. He tried - it did - and QUatre couldn't help but feel a little bit of excitement as the door creaked grumpily open. He wasn't disappointed. Inside lay one of the most beautiful necklaces he had ever seen. Each stone was perfectly round and shimmered different colours in different lights, and their silver settings gleamed as bright as the day they were formed. He reached out to touch it, and saw suddenly that the centre jewel of the necklace was missing. He looked at it sadly, taking it in his hands. What a shame something so lovely was ruined, he thought, running his fingers over the empty sockets.
"NO! Quatre! Don't -" Nadia looked panicked, and she ran to Quatre, thinking only of dashing the necklace from his hands.
Too late. A mist arose from the necklace, an odd shimmer, vague and delicate at first, then growing in volume and density, taking on the form of a tall, austere arabic woman, her hair covered by a red bhurka, and a necklace identical to the one Quatre held about her neck.
"You are the heir of the Winner family?" she asked him. Or at least, her mouth moved, and Quatre's brain registered the words, but his ears swore they hadn't heard it.
"Yes," stuttered Quatre, far more suprised than afraid.
"And have you the offering, child?"
"I-no - What?" The genie - for so she must have been - held up her hand for silence.
"Then you shall inherit the curse of your forefathers, until such a time as you can find it and redeem their tresspass."
"Tresspass?" The genie looked down at him in surprise.
"You do not know? Three thousand years ago, your ancestor removed that necklace from it's resting place. Instead of showing the reverence he ought and recieving my services as a reward, he desecrated the necklace, and was cursed. You, to repay me and the makers of this glory, must find the missing jewel. Until then, you must live beneath this curse."
"What is the curse?" Quatre asked, his head spinning.
"Until you redeem your blood line," she gazed at him sternly, before breaking into a wide and throughly unnerving grin. "Until then, may you live in interesting times!"
Now, an angsty little piece I did for a Christmas thing
My Travelling Friend
It was Christmas when I forgot your name.
One year someone asked, and for the life of me, I couldn't think of your second name. I just stood there, with your face laughing in my head, and felt like an idiot.
But then, it's not like it was an insult, really. You've been walking in and out of my life ever since we were eighteen. Every now and again, that carefree grin and that hideous duffle bag would deposit themselves in my house. You'd stay just long enough for me to get used to you, and then you'd vanish once more.
Selfish bastard.
Yes, selfish. You always were the most self-centred person I knew. The last time you left was Christmas, wasn't it? Just one more thing for you to ruin for me. There wasn't even a present to soften the blow - I was alone again, with nothing but your heartbeat in my head, like always.
Two years on, and I'm not on my own anymore. I'm at home this year, with Mum and Dad. My sister's coming home later tonight, and I'll drive to the airport to pick her up; then we'll have a light meal, something to drink and head to bed, ready for Christmas Day. It'll be a real Christmas, not lonely like 2003, or like last year.
I never want another Christmas like last year. Never again do I want to open a letter like that instead of a present. No more do I want to look at your picture, tucked behind cards, frozen in the middle of your giggle and realise that I'll never hear it again. I don't ever want to face your tear-stained parents on Boxing Day again, hearing them say tremulously "He probably would have wanted you to have these...”
I'll never again take out the remnants of your life, the empty wallet with a picture of me, the battered old Nokia, a ripped, faded and familiar t-shirt and that awful old bag. Those are the only Christmas gifts you ever gave me. You idiot. You stupid, stupid, bloody idiot.
My God, I miss you.
And finally, a poem that I'm probably going to use in the River City Books.
The Spheres
Ask not for whom the bell tolls,
We are too many to name.
We are the ones who youth persuaded
To seek adventure and fame.
Alone between the nebulas,
It is to us the spheres sing.
When we were young our parents told us
"You are to see the greatest of things."
The stars they sang us different,
If only we had heard.
The cosmic cry to humankind -
"If only you would learn!
To stand on the shoulders of giants
Is just to have further to fall.
To hold your dreams between your hands
Means only to lose them all.
The heavens are a desert,
And the earth is cold and hard.
To venture into the harsh unknown
Is to be lost amongst the stars."
To our lives and loves we are dead now,
We fade with out a trace,
Like the half-remembered summer mist,
We drift about Deep Space.
Mourn us not, for our faces
Are as forgotten as our scars.
For our sins, we did win
A Requiem of stars.
First up, the beginning of a Gundam fic I got randomly inspired for. If continued, will probably feature many of my original characters. Quatre-centric, few, if any pairings.
Interesting Times
Quatre tried to clear the sleep out of his eyes, to no avail. In the exhausted state he was in, he only suceeded in poking himself in the eye.
"Nadia," he called to his PA, also his fifteenth sister. "Can you get me some more coffee, please?" She bustled about him, putting the fragrant mixture in front of him and rubbing his shoulders.
"Honestly, brother dearest, you'll kill yourself. Take a break."
"I can't, these figures have to be in-"
"That was an order," she replied, gently squeezing his shoulders. "I may be professionally below you, but I'm pulling rank as your older sister."
Following his sister's orders, Quatre took himself and his mug of coffee to the library. It was a collection started by his grandfather and continued by his father, and although QUatre felt quite attatched to the place, he had yet to make any proper contribution to it. It smelled of old paper, varnished wood and wisdom in here, and Quatre still had the strange nervous feeling he'd had as a child; the library felt alive. Everything within it was so old, he couldn't help but feel it had acquired a spirit of its own. Wandering around, pausing to look at a few things, he noticed a dusty cabinet pinned between two bookcases. He vaguely remembered asking his father what was in it when he was small, and his father replying "You'll see when you're older."
Well, reflected Quatre, now I'm older. He looked at the lock of the cabinet, and wondered if the key to the library would fit it. He tried - it did - and QUatre couldn't help but feel a little bit of excitement as the door creaked grumpily open. He wasn't disappointed. Inside lay one of the most beautiful necklaces he had ever seen. Each stone was perfectly round and shimmered different colours in different lights, and their silver settings gleamed as bright as the day they were formed. He reached out to touch it, and saw suddenly that the centre jewel of the necklace was missing. He looked at it sadly, taking it in his hands. What a shame something so lovely was ruined, he thought, running his fingers over the empty sockets.
"NO! Quatre! Don't -" Nadia looked panicked, and she ran to Quatre, thinking only of dashing the necklace from his hands.
Too late. A mist arose from the necklace, an odd shimmer, vague and delicate at first, then growing in volume and density, taking on the form of a tall, austere arabic woman, her hair covered by a red bhurka, and a necklace identical to the one Quatre held about her neck.
"You are the heir of the Winner family?" she asked him. Or at least, her mouth moved, and Quatre's brain registered the words, but his ears swore they hadn't heard it.
"Yes," stuttered Quatre, far more suprised than afraid.
"And have you the offering, child?"
"I-no - What?" The genie - for so she must have been - held up her hand for silence.
"Then you shall inherit the curse of your forefathers, until such a time as you can find it and redeem their tresspass."
"Tresspass?" The genie looked down at him in surprise.
"You do not know? Three thousand years ago, your ancestor removed that necklace from it's resting place. Instead of showing the reverence he ought and recieving my services as a reward, he desecrated the necklace, and was cursed. You, to repay me and the makers of this glory, must find the missing jewel. Until then, you must live beneath this curse."
"What is the curse?" Quatre asked, his head spinning.
"Until you redeem your blood line," she gazed at him sternly, before breaking into a wide and throughly unnerving grin. "Until then, may you live in interesting times!"
Now, an angsty little piece I did for a Christmas thing
My Travelling Friend
It was Christmas when I forgot your name.
One year someone asked, and for the life of me, I couldn't think of your second name. I just stood there, with your face laughing in my head, and felt like an idiot.
But then, it's not like it was an insult, really. You've been walking in and out of my life ever since we were eighteen. Every now and again, that carefree grin and that hideous duffle bag would deposit themselves in my house. You'd stay just long enough for me to get used to you, and then you'd vanish once more.
Selfish bastard.
Yes, selfish. You always were the most self-centred person I knew. The last time you left was Christmas, wasn't it? Just one more thing for you to ruin for me. There wasn't even a present to soften the blow - I was alone again, with nothing but your heartbeat in my head, like always.
Two years on, and I'm not on my own anymore. I'm at home this year, with Mum and Dad. My sister's coming home later tonight, and I'll drive to the airport to pick her up; then we'll have a light meal, something to drink and head to bed, ready for Christmas Day. It'll be a real Christmas, not lonely like 2003, or like last year.
I never want another Christmas like last year. Never again do I want to open a letter like that instead of a present. No more do I want to look at your picture, tucked behind cards, frozen in the middle of your giggle and realise that I'll never hear it again. I don't ever want to face your tear-stained parents on Boxing Day again, hearing them say tremulously "He probably would have wanted you to have these...”
I'll never again take out the remnants of your life, the empty wallet with a picture of me, the battered old Nokia, a ripped, faded and familiar t-shirt and that awful old bag. Those are the only Christmas gifts you ever gave me. You idiot. You stupid, stupid, bloody idiot.
My God, I miss you.
And finally, a poem that I'm probably going to use in the River City Books.
The Spheres
Ask not for whom the bell tolls,
We are too many to name.
We are the ones who youth persuaded
To seek adventure and fame.
Alone between the nebulas,
It is to us the spheres sing.
When we were young our parents told us
"You are to see the greatest of things."
The stars they sang us different,
If only we had heard.
The cosmic cry to humankind -
"If only you would learn!
To stand on the shoulders of giants
Is just to have further to fall.
To hold your dreams between your hands
Means only to lose them all.
The heavens are a desert,
And the earth is cold and hard.
To venture into the harsh unknown
Is to be lost amongst the stars."
To our lives and loves we are dead now,
We fade with out a trace,
Like the half-remembered summer mist,
We drift about Deep Space.
Mourn us not, for our faces
Are as forgotten as our scars.
For our sins, we did win
A Requiem of stars.