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tarigwaemirLowell House, on the Feast of St. Celine
I didn't do as well as I wanted to on the physics exam, mostly because I managed my time badly. ::groans:: My whole day has been spoiled, so I spent the afternoon cleaning out my inbox and writing drabbles.
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memlu's linked several times to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
20themes, which looked rather interesting (and of course, I've read bits and pieces of Tin's RoyAi 100 themes, which are brilliant), so I've been copy-and-pasting the theme sets for various series into a text file, where presumably they'd sit as inspiration for fics that would never actually be written. But today, I felt unhappy enough to start a set. I have no idea what I'm doing, and the style I've adopted is rather imitative, but anything's better than actually working on my biology problem set. ::sighs::
Note: set several years after the second season, doesn't take Gluehen into account (since I haven't watched it), may have been influenced by some canon material from OVA (which I haven't watched either, but have read summaries for)
I. Rebirth
These days, he wore crisply ironed shirts with tailored suits and shoes polished black. Even his hair seemed darker and more sober, combed back from his forehead--a broad forehead was the sign of leadership, murmured the family physiognomist--and his once-round eyes had turned old.
"Noriyama-/san/," he said, bowing low. Behind him, two unobtrusive men with hands in their pockets stood watch, a step out of hearing. He knew, as well, of two more men, invisible in the shadows, possessing sharper ears.
"Takatori-/san/," the other man replied, bowing in return. In unison, they sat at opposite sides of the table, under the white, soft fluorescent lights, and glanced benignly at one another. Behind him, the shadows shifted.
He no longer enjoyed anonymity. He touched the necktie at his throat.
II. Flower arrangements
He grimaced, as he cut the stems--snip, snip--in sharp angles, at the way his hands moved automatically around the drooping leaves and waxy petals. He watched his fingers move like delicate robotic tools, the graceful curve of his hand around the pale green stem as it placed another flower in the vase. He sat at the center of a ring of circles, shallow vases half-filled with water.
A small bell tinkled, and he stood up, a ready smile on his face, scissors still clasped in one hand. "May I help you?"
The woman, petite with glossy grey hair wound up into a prim bun, tiptoed her way through the bursts of orchids and lilies and roses. She stopped before a small pot of miniature violets and reached out to touch a fuzzy, heart-shaped leaf. "How pretty."
He looked past her, still smiling. "They will look charming on a bookcase or a desk. Shall I wrap it up for you, madam?"
She did not answer, intently studying the small flowers. "What a ravishing shade of blue! What are violets in the language of flowers, sir?"
"I beg your pardon?" he asked.
"What is their meaning? You work with flowers, no?" She gestured at the tables covered with half-finished arrangements.
"Flowers, madam," he answered, ever gracious, ever charming, "are meaningless."
III. Identity
He woke up with a groan, with nothing but his now ragged leather coat, stiff and cold and stained. He rubbed at the pigeon droppings on the sleeve, combed through his long, matted hair, and opened his eyes blearily. It was a calm, cloudy sky, an indifferent sort of day, and he noticed, with some gratitude, that there were only a few people passing by his corner of the sidewalk this morning.
Still, it was difficult to disentangle his thoughts from theirs, and he muttered, "/Zut/--no, shit--does he think I'm, /nein/, damn, oh, stop it, stop it, stop it--"
A coin dropped as a man walked briskly by, and for one delirious moment, he saw himself: sharp, emaciated face; dirt-encrusted nails; dark, patchy coat covered with chalky blotches; leftover /lo mein/ stuck to the cuff of one sleeve. He grinned savagely and said, "They should take these eyesores off the streets; what is /wrong/ with our welfare system, and oh, when I'm president, I'll--"
He caught sight of his dilapidated shoes and sighed. A little girl in a neatly pressed plaid uniform ran up to him, crouched and asked curiously, her eyes soft and blue, "What's your name, Mr. Homeless Man?"
He glanced at her incoherent mind, loud but simple, and could not muster up a smile. "Clarice."
"But that's /my/ name," she exclaimed, as a woman ran up to grab her by the arm. "You can't have /my/ name, Mr.--"
"Clarice, I've told you to leave those people alone. They don't want to be bothered by little girls!" the woman scolded sharply as she dragged the girl away.
"He looked dangerous," he echoed, in a mocking tone, and laughed hoarsely.
TBC
So, let's play a guessing game. Who can identify the character I'm writing about in each section (it's a different character for each one, I assure you)?
Why can't I come up with plots? I think I'll try to finish all twenty themes, although it'll probably happen around March next year.
Yours &c.
Post-script: Yes, I know,tryogeru, you're about to complain that if I have time to work on this, why don't I work on the Fudoumine thing instead? But I mean, it really is technically your turn, and I'd rather wait until you have time to write it yourself. Which may be never, but regardless.
I didn't do as well as I wanted to on the physics exam, mostly because I managed my time badly. ::groans:: My whole day has been spoiled, so I spent the afternoon cleaning out my inbox and writing drabbles.
memlu's linked several times to 20themes, which looked rather interesting (and of course, I've read bits and pieces of Tin's RoyAi 100 themes, which are brilliant), so I've been copy-and-pasting the theme sets for various series into a text file, where presumably they'd sit as inspiration for fics that would never actually be written. But today, I felt unhappy enough to start a set. I have no idea what I'm doing, and the style I've adopted is rather imitative, but anything's better than actually working on my biology problem set. ::sighs::Note: set several years after the second season, doesn't take Gluehen into account (since I haven't watched it), may have been influenced by some canon material from OVA (which I haven't watched either, but have read summaries for)
I. Rebirth
These days, he wore crisply ironed shirts with tailored suits and shoes polished black. Even his hair seemed darker and more sober, combed back from his forehead--a broad forehead was the sign of leadership, murmured the family physiognomist--and his once-round eyes had turned old.
"Noriyama-/san/," he said, bowing low. Behind him, two unobtrusive men with hands in their pockets stood watch, a step out of hearing. He knew, as well, of two more men, invisible in the shadows, possessing sharper ears.
"Takatori-/san/," the other man replied, bowing in return. In unison, they sat at opposite sides of the table, under the white, soft fluorescent lights, and glanced benignly at one another. Behind him, the shadows shifted.
He no longer enjoyed anonymity. He touched the necktie at his throat.
II. Flower arrangements
He grimaced, as he cut the stems--snip, snip--in sharp angles, at the way his hands moved automatically around the drooping leaves and waxy petals. He watched his fingers move like delicate robotic tools, the graceful curve of his hand around the pale green stem as it placed another flower in the vase. He sat at the center of a ring of circles, shallow vases half-filled with water.
A small bell tinkled, and he stood up, a ready smile on his face, scissors still clasped in one hand. "May I help you?"
The woman, petite with glossy grey hair wound up into a prim bun, tiptoed her way through the bursts of orchids and lilies and roses. She stopped before a small pot of miniature violets and reached out to touch a fuzzy, heart-shaped leaf. "How pretty."
He looked past her, still smiling. "They will look charming on a bookcase or a desk. Shall I wrap it up for you, madam?"
She did not answer, intently studying the small flowers. "What a ravishing shade of blue! What are violets in the language of flowers, sir?"
"I beg your pardon?" he asked.
"What is their meaning? You work with flowers, no?" She gestured at the tables covered with half-finished arrangements.
"Flowers, madam," he answered, ever gracious, ever charming, "are meaningless."
III. Identity
He woke up with a groan, with nothing but his now ragged leather coat, stiff and cold and stained. He rubbed at the pigeon droppings on the sleeve, combed through his long, matted hair, and opened his eyes blearily. It was a calm, cloudy sky, an indifferent sort of day, and he noticed, with some gratitude, that there were only a few people passing by his corner of the sidewalk this morning.
Still, it was difficult to disentangle his thoughts from theirs, and he muttered, "/Zut/--no, shit--does he think I'm, /nein/, damn, oh, stop it, stop it, stop it--"
A coin dropped as a man walked briskly by, and for one delirious moment, he saw himself: sharp, emaciated face; dirt-encrusted nails; dark, patchy coat covered with chalky blotches; leftover /lo mein/ stuck to the cuff of one sleeve. He grinned savagely and said, "They should take these eyesores off the streets; what is /wrong/ with our welfare system, and oh, when I'm president, I'll--"
He caught sight of his dilapidated shoes and sighed. A little girl in a neatly pressed plaid uniform ran up to him, crouched and asked curiously, her eyes soft and blue, "What's your name, Mr. Homeless Man?"
He glanced at her incoherent mind, loud but simple, and could not muster up a smile. "Clarice."
"But that's /my/ name," she exclaimed, as a woman ran up to grab her by the arm. "You can't have /my/ name, Mr.--"
"Clarice, I've told you to leave those people alone. They don't want to be bothered by little girls!" the woman scolded sharply as she dragged the girl away.
"He looked dangerous," he echoed, in a mocking tone, and laughed hoarsely.
TBC
So, let's play a guessing game. Who can identify the character I'm writing about in each section (it's a different character for each one, I assure you)?
Why can't I come up with plots? I think I'll try to finish all twenty themes, although it'll probably happen around March next year.
Yours &c.
Post-script: Yes, I know,
tryogeru, you're about to complain that if I have time to work on this, why don't I work on the Fudoumine thing instead? But I mean, it really is technically your turn, and I'd rather wait until you have time to write it yourself. Which may be never, but regardless.
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(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-21 09:28 pm (UTC)1 - Omi/Mamoru Takatori post-WK. I'd say. But it might be Persian or any other male Takatori family member.
2 - Aya. First I thought it might have been Yohji but he'd never say flowers were meaningless but would invent something if he didn't know ^^.
3 - Schuldig. That was easy XD
As I said, very well written ^_^
(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-22 01:54 pm (UTC)You were right on all counts except for 2, which was Youji after all. ^_^;; I suppose you're right that he'd never say flowers were meaningless out loud, but I was thinking of a post-WK Youji who would be broken in some way...
(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-22 02:39 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-22 02:32 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-24 12:20 am (UTC)