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Feb. 23rd, 2007 08:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cherryIt has just been one of those weeks, yo. Where absolutely nothing you do is quite good enough. When all your jokes fall flat, when you lose your words every time you try to say something important, when you didn't do as well on any of the assignments or labs or exams you got back as you should have. One of those weeks when you can't even be on time for the bus.
I have, at various points, attempted to do some writing. This is of note because it appears I have not posted anything since August. The entirety of what I have written is this: Rusty Ryan was thirteen when he lifted his first wallet. It wasn't the worst thing he'd ever do for money, but at the time he felt pretty badly about it.
It is warmth that wakes him, air hot and humid, thick like honey. It is a tangible pressure against his skin. If he strains his ears, he can hear a rushing, soft like the memory of waves.
Tiamana, he thinks, white sands, lime margaritas and a strawberry-blonde waitress whose name slips from his mind as easily as her face, leaving only a remembrance of her lightly tanned skin and the freckles that dusted her shoulders.
"A new day has already begun to dawn," she says, purrs, her voice stroking him from the inside out.
Lips against his skin, a smile pressed to the corner of his jaw. A coolness against his wrist resolves itself into a hand, fingers dancing across his upturned palm and lacing into his.
"You wouldn't want to miss the sunrise, would you?"
*
It is one of those academic conferences -- the speakers are dull, pedantic, and there is no one who comes even remotely close to matching his brilliance. He doesn't bother to hide his boredom, scribbling formulae on the cocktail napkins in blue ink.
The first glance he catches of her is out of the corner of his eye. He is chatting with two of Sagitaria's top experts on fuzzy logic, and fighting the impulse to yawn. "Pardon me," he says, cutting the one off in mid-sentence.
When he finds her, she is standing on a balcony, back bare. She has turned so that she is half in profile, hair pinned gracefully up off her neck, garden lights painting her in gold. He feels his breath catch.
"Gaius Baltar," she says. "You have no idea how long I've been waiting to meet you."
*
Gaeta is tight-lipped and white-knuckled, arms crossed and violently still. The only movement about him is the rise and fall of his chest (too fast, Baltar judges), the flick of his eyes as he stares out one of the portholes of Colonial One. There is fresh muck on his shoes, adding to the stains already decorating the carpet. Baltar watches him, one of Gaeta's feet planted in the fresh blood by the desk.
Gaeta moves, finally, his fist making a meaty thunk as it hits the wall. The Eight sitting by the open entry bay doesn't look up, just flicks another page in her magazine. The sounds of New Caprica float in on the breeze, dry, dirty air carrying the ring of metal on metal, of too-near protestors and a distant siren.
Hands that aren't there run soothingly through Baltar's hair. He pulls away.
I think that my mojo is missing. Missing, or perhaps dead. Despite all attempts, I feel rather unfannish lately. Alas! Woe! I am about to take something stabby to the writing section of my brain.
I have, at various points, attempted to do some writing. This is of note because it appears I have not posted anything since August. The entirety of what I have written is this: Rusty Ryan was thirteen when he lifted his first wallet. It wasn't the worst thing he'd ever do for money, but at the time he felt pretty badly about it.
It is warmth that wakes him, air hot and humid, thick like honey. It is a tangible pressure against his skin. If he strains his ears, he can hear a rushing, soft like the memory of waves.
Tiamana, he thinks, white sands, lime margaritas and a strawberry-blonde waitress whose name slips from his mind as easily as her face, leaving only a remembrance of her lightly tanned skin and the freckles that dusted her shoulders.
"A new day has already begun to dawn," she says, purrs, her voice stroking him from the inside out.
Lips against his skin, a smile pressed to the corner of his jaw. A coolness against his wrist resolves itself into a hand, fingers dancing across his upturned palm and lacing into his.
"You wouldn't want to miss the sunrise, would you?"
*
It is one of those academic conferences -- the speakers are dull, pedantic, and there is no one who comes even remotely close to matching his brilliance. He doesn't bother to hide his boredom, scribbling formulae on the cocktail napkins in blue ink.
The first glance he catches of her is out of the corner of his eye. He is chatting with two of Sagitaria's top experts on fuzzy logic, and fighting the impulse to yawn. "Pardon me," he says, cutting the one off in mid-sentence.
When he finds her, she is standing on a balcony, back bare. She has turned so that she is half in profile, hair pinned gracefully up off her neck, garden lights painting her in gold. He feels his breath catch.
"Gaius Baltar," she says. "You have no idea how long I've been waiting to meet you."
*
Gaeta is tight-lipped and white-knuckled, arms crossed and violently still. The only movement about him is the rise and fall of his chest (too fast, Baltar judges), the flick of his eyes as he stares out one of the portholes of Colonial One. There is fresh muck on his shoes, adding to the stains already decorating the carpet. Baltar watches him, one of Gaeta's feet planted in the fresh blood by the desk.
Gaeta moves, finally, his fist making a meaty thunk as it hits the wall. The Eight sitting by the open entry bay doesn't look up, just flicks another page in her magazine. The sounds of New Caprica float in on the breeze, dry, dirty air carrying the ring of metal on metal, of too-near protestors and a distant siren.
Hands that aren't there run soothingly through Baltar's hair. He pulls away.
I think that my mojo is missing. Missing, or perhaps dead. Despite all attempts, I feel rather unfannish lately. Alas! Woe! I am about to take something stabby to the writing section of my brain.
