Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness
Title:
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Word Count: 200
Author’s Note: For Challenge No 50: Fall on ar_drabbles . Set Sometime after Kobol when Bill & Laura are testing that tenuous new bond with some casual Q&A
Title is the first line of John Keats’ poem To Autumn
Disclaimer: It all belongs to Ronald D. Moore. He’s a very lucky man.
Winter was numbing to the point of oblivion. No warm fires or holiday lights or gay laughter breaking into my carefully constructed cocoon.
Spring was agonizing with its freshness. Full of the life and birth that had been stolen in one drunken crash.
Summer was the drying of ever-present invisible tears. It was the memories of the sun glinting in my mother’s hair, of flowing dresses at my sister’s shower, of fathers and daughters walking hand-in-hand in summer rays that turned as dark and foreboding as the disease they carried.
Fall was the only season I could stand. There was no pretense in the crisp cool air. No hiding when the trees were stripped bare. Even the majesty of the changing leaves shared the morbidity that shrouded my heart.
“Laura? Did you hear? I didn’t think it would be such a difficult…”
“Spring.”
Bill is silent for a moment and I am certain he sees my curt response for the lie that it is.
“Hm, I always preferred Autumn. It reminds us of the unavoidable reality of death while giving us the bountiful harvest to sustain us through life.”
Maybe the Commander understands more than I give him credit for.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Word Count: 200
Author’s Note: For Challenge No 50: Fall on ar_drabbles . Set Sometime after Kobol when Bill & Laura are testing that tenuous new bond with some casual Q&A
Title is the first line of John Keats’ poem To Autumn
Disclaimer: It all belongs to Ronald D. Moore. He’s a very lucky man.
Winter was numbing to the point of oblivion. No warm fires or holiday lights or gay laughter breaking into my carefully constructed cocoon.
Spring was agonizing with its freshness. Full of the life and birth that had been stolen in one drunken crash.
Summer was the drying of ever-present invisible tears. It was the memories of the sun glinting in my mother’s hair, of flowing dresses at my sister’s shower, of fathers and daughters walking hand-in-hand in summer rays that turned as dark and foreboding as the disease they carried.
Fall was the only season I could stand. There was no pretense in the crisp cool air. No hiding when the trees were stripped bare. Even the majesty of the changing leaves shared the morbidity that shrouded my heart.
“Laura? Did you hear? I didn’t think it would be such a difficult…”
“Spring.”
Bill is silent for a moment and I am certain he sees my curt response for the lie that it is.
“Hm, I always preferred Autumn. It reminds us of the unavoidable reality of death while giving us the bountiful harvest to sustain us through life.”
Maybe the Commander understands more than I give him credit for.