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stunt_muppet at 04:44am on 31/03/2009 under doctor who, fanfics, fic fragments, homework-fleeing ten-minute lj break, writing
stunt_muppet at 04:44am on 31/03/2009 under doctor who, fanfics, fic fragments, homework-fleeing ten-minute lj break, writingBecause writing helps me stay awake, but does not help me so far as writing things that could, you know, go anywhere, a snippet:
For a long while, Alistair (no sense in bringing up titles at this point) stares at the fan, watching the blades pass and pass again some arbitrary point on the ceiling and wondering when he became such a damned cliché.
Even the faint hissing of the shower, muffled through the bathroom door (Miss Shaw, thank God, is businesslike, though he can’t help but feel vaguely insulted at how the first thing she does afterward is scrub herself clean, how she doesn’t speak or even look back), sounds like the wear on an old record that’s been played a thousand times too many.
It’d almost be a comfort to have a cigarette to light, just to complete the picture.
Because this is what you’re supposed to do, in a way, he thinks (one, two, three, four; the fan completes another circuit). Once the divorce papers go through, once you stop wearing the ring, you take up with your secretary – assistant – scientific advisor – whoever it happens to be, fucking them like a stranger in nondescript hotel rooms like you still have something to hide. There’s a sort of understanding; it’s even tacitly approved of. No better distractions than immediate ones, after all, and who wouldn’t want to be distracted from the rest of one’s life falling away like dead leaves?
Never mind that misdirected attentions are probably what got you here to begin with.
One, two, three, four; the third blade wobbles slightly as it completes its rotation.
Has it ever worked for anyone? he wonders, as the sound of the water stops. Or do you just fit yourself in to the cliché as best you can?
---
Back to work; comment replies to come after I've finished one of the few assignments I'm not late on and gotten some sleep.
For a long while, Alistair (no sense in bringing up titles at this point) stares at the fan, watching the blades pass and pass again some arbitrary point on the ceiling and wondering when he became such a damned cliché.
Even the faint hissing of the shower, muffled through the bathroom door (Miss Shaw, thank God, is businesslike, though he can’t help but feel vaguely insulted at how the first thing she does afterward is scrub herself clean, how she doesn’t speak or even look back), sounds like the wear on an old record that’s been played a thousand times too many.
It’d almost be a comfort to have a cigarette to light, just to complete the picture.
Because this is what you’re supposed to do, in a way, he thinks (one, two, three, four; the fan completes another circuit). Once the divorce papers go through, once you stop wearing the ring, you take up with your secretary – assistant – scientific advisor – whoever it happens to be, fucking them like a stranger in nondescript hotel rooms like you still have something to hide. There’s a sort of understanding; it’s even tacitly approved of. No better distractions than immediate ones, after all, and who wouldn’t want to be distracted from the rest of one’s life falling away like dead leaves?
Never mind that misdirected attentions are probably what got you here to begin with.
One, two, three, four; the third blade wobbles slightly as it completes its rotation.
Has it ever worked for anyone? he wonders, as the sound of the water stops. Or do you just fit yourself in to the cliché as best you can?
---
Back to work; comment replies to come after I've finished one of the few assignments I'm not late on and gotten some sleep.
sore
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(no subject)