Two more three-sentence fics
Dec. 3rd, 2011 05:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sophiap(See previous post for more details on the wherefores and whys)
Chronicles of Narnia, Frank/Helen, loneliness
Some nights, he brings her a pot of tea that he brewed (all by himself, no fauns or dryads to help), and they pull two footstools close by the fire so that they're sitting shoulder to shoulder.
"Do you remember old Tommy Higgins, and how he'd go on..." Frank began, but Helen was already laughing and shaking her head, remembering all the same stories Frank did.
Later, Helen would think of her mother and her sister, and she'd weep a bit, and then Frank would go dark and quiet with his own thoughts, because never wanting to return to London wasn't the same thing as never missing it.
American Gods, any god, the death of a god
Hephaestus sits in his living room in Baltimore--it's too cold and gray to be sitting out on the stoop--and holds a small mechanical rabbit in the cup of his hand. He remembers making it (remembers forging every single gear by hand, remembers shaping the tin shell and painting it with bright, Easter colors) but he no matter how much he tries, he remembers little else besides the making these days.
It's only when his eyes close for the final time and the rabbit drops to the floor (its springs and gears spilling out like the entrails of a sacrifice) that he at last remembers a blue sky, a bluer sea, and the warmth of the sun behind him rivaling the heat of his forge before him.
Chronicles of Narnia, Frank/Helen, loneliness
Some nights, he brings her a pot of tea that he brewed (all by himself, no fauns or dryads to help), and they pull two footstools close by the fire so that they're sitting shoulder to shoulder.
"Do you remember old Tommy Higgins, and how he'd go on..." Frank began, but Helen was already laughing and shaking her head, remembering all the same stories Frank did.
Later, Helen would think of her mother and her sister, and she'd weep a bit, and then Frank would go dark and quiet with his own thoughts, because never wanting to return to London wasn't the same thing as never missing it.
American Gods, any god, the death of a god
Hephaestus sits in his living room in Baltimore--it's too cold and gray to be sitting out on the stoop--and holds a small mechanical rabbit in the cup of his hand. He remembers making it (remembers forging every single gear by hand, remembers shaping the tin shell and painting it with bright, Easter colors) but he no matter how much he tries, he remembers little else besides the making these days.
It's only when his eyes close for the final time and the rabbit drops to the floor (its springs and gears spilling out like the entrails of a sacrifice) that he at last remembers a blue sky, a bluer sea, and the warmth of the sun behind him rivaling the heat of his forge before him.
no subject
Date: 2011-12-04 03:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-04 04:49 am (UTC)(They probably would be homesick, wouldn't they? And I could see it striking at odd moments, like wishing you could go down to the corner pub then realizing you can't.)