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crack_van2004-02-03 11:00 am
siryn99.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2004-02-03 11:00 am
Graffiti by Darkstar (PG-13)
Fandom: ALIAS
Pairing: Syd/Vaughn
Author on LJ: n/a
Author Website: Below The Moon
Why this must be read:
I couldn't possibly do this story justice. The imagery is so powerful and visceral, it takes my breath away.
Someday I will have to tell you the story behind this picture:
A woman standing in the kitchen of a deserted apartment, standing by the window, standing by the air conditioner even though it is winter because she wants to feel the air press her skirt against her legs. She is watching a man in a gray overcoat enter a taxi cab, not one of those yellow cabs that pull up to the curb like a pointless smiles, but the more somber black-on-white variety. "I never loved you," she whispers, into the place on the glass where his reflection would have appeared, if he had been pinned to the right angle of light. "I never loved you," she whispers, into emptiness, into space. Behind her the wall is covered with random words: rocket, solomon, indigo, wrinkle, lip. Crevasse. Piano, rain, saffron, newspaper. Heart. And other such insanities. The meaning of these words is a secret she will leave in the kitchen, not entirely out of place amidst the unwashed plates, the cracked coffee mugs, the pile of children's crayons and finger paints. She reaches for the coat she bought just last week, a second-hand Army coat, heavy with its wool and wooden buttons, but leaves it draped over the windowsill, over the place where her reflection would appear, if she had anything left to reflect. Her only reflection, now, is the wall and the lost, beautiful graffiti. She leaves the room.
Someday, yes, I will have to tell you this story. We will sit at the hot-pink Formica counter of the restaurant where I wore out three pairs of tennis shoes as a waitress, and we will order the coffee (strong as ink) and as you ask me what happened to us all, my fingers will move in distraction across my napkin. The words they trace will appear to you as nonsense. After the last memory of the last word, I will tell you this:
The greatest tragedy of surviving is that we are forced to live in the aftermath of those who survived with us.
But how could I make you understand this?
Graffiti
Pairing: Syd/Vaughn
Author on LJ: n/a
Author Website: Below The Moon
Why this must be read:
I couldn't possibly do this story justice. The imagery is so powerful and visceral, it takes my breath away.
Someday I will have to tell you the story behind this picture:
A woman standing in the kitchen of a deserted apartment, standing by the window, standing by the air conditioner even though it is winter because she wants to feel the air press her skirt against her legs. She is watching a man in a gray overcoat enter a taxi cab, not one of those yellow cabs that pull up to the curb like a pointless smiles, but the more somber black-on-white variety. "I never loved you," she whispers, into the place on the glass where his reflection would have appeared, if he had been pinned to the right angle of light. "I never loved you," she whispers, into emptiness, into space. Behind her the wall is covered with random words: rocket, solomon, indigo, wrinkle, lip. Crevasse. Piano, rain, saffron, newspaper. Heart. And other such insanities. The meaning of these words is a secret she will leave in the kitchen, not entirely out of place amidst the unwashed plates, the cracked coffee mugs, the pile of children's crayons and finger paints. She reaches for the coat she bought just last week, a second-hand Army coat, heavy with its wool and wooden buttons, but leaves it draped over the windowsill, over the place where her reflection would appear, if she had anything left to reflect. Her only reflection, now, is the wall and the lost, beautiful graffiti. She leaves the room.
Someday, yes, I will have to tell you this story. We will sit at the hot-pink Formica counter of the restaurant where I wore out three pairs of tennis shoes as a waitress, and we will order the coffee (strong as ink) and as you ask me what happened to us all, my fingers will move in distraction across my napkin. The words they trace will appear to you as nonsense. After the last memory of the last word, I will tell you this:
The greatest tragedy of surviving is that we are forced to live in the aftermath of those who survived with us.
But how could I make you understand this?
Graffiti