Weekly Writing Vomit #2!
The snow crunched beneath his bare feet like glass, tired soles aching with each heavy step. No shoes, no shirt (no socks, no service; he laughed violently at his own joke and he thought of America). The laugh turned to burning coughs and as he fell to his hands and knees he felt only his ribs. Aching in his chest like constricting snakes, threatening to crack inwards and pierce and puncture every vital organ in his body, and he would feel it all; Every shattering bone. Every bubbling flush of blood as it seeped into places it should not be. Each hiccuping cough in his diaphragm as he vomited blood onto the pure snow and into his white hair and he would wake up in the morning in his own bile and fluids and feel it all again, because God he could not die.
But he laughed as he realised, oh god I can feel nothing.
/chalks this up as stress relief
Run rabbit - run rabbit - Run! Run! Run!
Australia's legs ached in his khaki shorts (and perhaps once they had been khaki, now the sordid red and gray of the earth) as he ducked and swayed through branches and twigs, twinging just so as they tore through the sun hardened skin of his calves.
Run rabbit - run rabbit - Run! Run! Run!
A shot of shrapnel stung his left shoulder and he was on the ground before he knew it, glass and metal and dirt digging into the crevices of his knees, and god, he's never seen so much of his own blood.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Arms around his waist and more pain in his knees and he realised he's being dragged- it must be an angel, an angel with dark fuzzy hair against his cheek.
Goes the farmer's gun.
More shots and and he felt each one as it sped past, striking the trees and leaves, and he thinks with a disoriented laugh that he can hear them screaming.
Run, rabbit, run, rabbit, run.
The angel is swift, so swift, and they run, run, run, but Australia can only laugh and wonder if they can run fast enough.
Running Rabbits incident and Run Rabbit Run and fuzzy wuzzy angels.
Australia smiled against the mouthpiece when he heard the voice on the other side of the line, nails (too long the voice would surely say, if he could see them) tapping lightly on his thigh. He laughed a greeting and leaned back against his desk, gazing out past his window to the flag that held so many pieces of him, and pieces of the voice on the other line. But the voice by no means shared his jovial tone, instead coming in whispered, angry urgency- War had finally come and they all knew it had been inevitable.
Arthur asked, and though, really, as a commonwealth, Australia could only say one thing, he answered in only honesty.
"Of course. I never go back on my words."
"Australia fought alongside Britain in World War I, notably at Gallipoli, and again in World War II. Andrew Fisher, Australian prime minister from 1914 to 1916, declared that Australia would defend the United Kingdom "to the last man and the last shilling.""
America bounces just so on his knee, quiet anticipation heavy in his young features. Ireland clears his throat, knee moving slightly up and down to match the boy's pace, but is interrupted by small hands clinging to his lapels and an excited cry-
"Uncle! Uncle! Are you going to tell the story?"
He laughs ("If you will let me!"), smooths his hair, and tries to forget that this is his brother's son.
Alfred crossed his legs, listening as the men around him bustled and shouted at a single man with a single long feather pen that swam from edge to edge on a single piece of parchment that meant so much more. He closed his eyes, head swimming with the noise and memories of the room, and he wondered just how much he wanted this as he thought of the smell of baking scones and the feel of loving calloused fingers on his hair. But Wilson's voice invaded his reverie, and, as Jefferson scribbled what had first been his uncle's words on paper, Alfred reminded himself that, yes, things had to change.
The Scottish Enlightenment had a subtle impact on many of the ideas that formed the American Declaration and Constitution. Interesting little tidbit.
The grind and burble of his almost humanity is hot beneath his fingers as he tries (halfheartedly) to cover the wounds. Sharp pangs and the clock work is flooding up to his lungs, all copper and iron and heat heavy on his diaphragm and he thinks how perfectly human he could be, but never will be.
I was thinking of Spain when I wrote this.
Strong fingers curve around the sharp lines of his pen as Ludwig scrawls out last orders on a stained and wrinkled sheet of parchment. Gilbert stands to his side, deadly silent, all thin, drawn lips and eyes so dark they could be black. His SS pips glint dully on his stiff, unbuttoned collar, matted dark brown with blood that could be human, and he shifts, rubbing the bandages around the hard peaks of his shoulders with the bandaged remains of his left hand (Ivan's doing). They can hear Roderich pounding painfully away at broken ivory keys, as if trying to coax some melody from the empty insides, and Gilbert frowns.
Ludwig glances up and out of the bombed out window, cracked streaks of glass glittering in the red dawn morning and throwing a bloody spectrum over his pale hair and paler face. The pounding of broken keys rises in crescendo and Ludwig just can't look away from that brilliant morning, even as his gloved fingers slip ever so tightly into his brothers and squeeze.
Sleepily written end of WWII yeahhh.
"Al- Alfred, calm!" Flustered words and furious hands gripping at the faux fur of his homemade costume, but Alfred is not listening, lashing out with teeth and nails.
Shitty little sentence which is basically Where the Wild Things Are+Anglo family cause I am gay. Drew a picture too, will add in comments.
“It’s quiet.” A small remark against the silence, met by nothing but. Long nails (untrimmed, ragged) tap against the polished wood of a broken desk.
Had writer's block for a long while.
The knit of his sleeveless sweater hangs heavy around his ribcage, blood caked and bile saturated as he wets a warm cloth with shaking fingers.
"It's funny." Though it's anything but and even if it were no one had the strength to laugh. "Once, I dreamt of this." He glances tiredly at the old, ebony clock that towers beside the dark window, and it ticks ominously in reply. The still body on the bed ticks too, graying, dark hair damp against an ashen forehead.
He drags the warm washcloth over once bronzed collar bones- bathes old wounds and new wounds to the rhythm of tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tick, tick, as his once white sheets turn a steady dull red. But soon, Antonio's chest rises and falls out of their shoddily constructed sync (built on the tick of time and silent prayers), and it is desperately noticeable against his palm.
"Do not worry Inglaterra."
rise tick, tock
fall tick, tock
rise tick fall tick
"Once, I dreamt of this too."
Writing about the end of the world and/or death of nations is how I break writer's block.
Romano's hair is a tangle of auburn about his ears, natural curl and dampened temples and the twist and turn of sleep combining into one glourious mop of morning above the most sour face that side of the Atlantic. Romano glances at the clock- 7 a.m. (aka too fucking early), and curls tighter beneath the sheets of another's bed.
Egyptian cotton, 200 thread count, blue, with white pillows, and a red duvet, and Romano wonders how even America's bedsheets can be fucking obnoxious. Said man is not to be found in the sheets beside him, and he's really not that surprised- for if there is one thing more consistent than America's obnoxious patriotism, it was his prudishness. The shower can be heard a room over, burning hot water not doubt sloughing away the first layer of tanned dead skin and Romano's smell of oregano and gunpowder.
When Alfred returns, Romano is already dressed, well-fitted (dreadfully expensive) suit, only slightly wrinkled from the night on the carpet, clinging to his frame. Red pinstripes, red tie, red ears.
"Don't worry, I'm leaving."
America wraps his towel tighter around him as old jazz filters through the room from the bedside stereo and as Romano turns to leave. The thought of kissing him goodbye (both cheeks, as was custom, but never, ever lips, they weren't like that) flits behind Alfred's glasses and his large hands splay against his sides.
The door closes, and the thought is gone.
Large fingers thread and tangle in Romano's hair and his breath catches somewhere between his throat and the cold glass of the windowpane. His own fingers instinctively curl to form (small, unthreatening) fists, but a glance upwards proves them useless. His knees instead shake beneath his nightgown, a flash of lightning throwing all of Spain's gauntest features into the sharpest clarity. The cross about his neck seems to glare for a long moment after, swinging between stiff shoulders like a pendulum. Romano clutches at his own as thunder follows.
"Is the storm troubling you, mijo?"
A long pause and a murmured no, for that's only a small part, really.
Spain kneels to his height, wrapping warm arms around him and soaking the back of his gown with dark, hot liquid. "Then what, mijo?"
Another long pause. "L'uomo-" No, Spain taught him long ago that there were far worse things than the black man. "El coco." The bogeyman.
Spain makes a small soothing coo, smoothing Romano's hair back from his damp forehead as another flash illuminates the dark rooms sparsity and more thunder rumbles the dark wood boards beneath them.
"Ah mi nino, don't fret, don't fear precioso. I will chase them all away, all of the horrible things outside." He presses his hand against the glass and leaves a hot, streaked handprint behind. "I won't let the monsters come, te quiero mijo."
Romano trembles and leans his forehead against the glass. "But what if it is already inside?"
Spain blinks, then smiles, teeth glinting in the storm. "Go back to sleep."
Inspired by 'Pet' from A Perfect Circle ("Don't fret, precious, I'm here, step away from the window," etc). L'uomo nero ("the black man") is the Italian bogeyman, but he is relatively harmless compared to many. He doesn't hurt or eat kids, just takes them away for awhile if they have been bad. El coco however is the Spanish bogeyman (and the bogeyman of many Spanish ex-colonies) eats children if they misbehave and is a shapeless (hairy) beast. And before anyone asks, yes coconuts are named after it lolol. http://www.answers.com/topic/bogeym
OKAY Well, that's all I have for today! I hope you enjoyed something.