[the princess of the paupers.] (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lookslikelove) wrote2007-03-02 02:28 pm
lookslikelove) wrote2007-03-02 02:28 pm
Entry tags:
[after the bombs]
Not anything written from suggestion (though those will come), but last night I was given, Arthur Miller inspired smut. Sort of.
We grip at our hands
We hold just a little tight
After the bombs
After the bombs subside
Even though they’re flying miles above their heads, the engines are still roaring, louder and softer in a rhythmic pattern as they leave puffed white trails across the sky. The noise drowns out the birds, who are strangely absent from the too-blue sky.
None of that matters, which is strange as it should matter, it’s all too perfect. The flowers, the long grass, the butterflies and the fact that the sun isn’t harsh, the breeze blowing, swaying soft, and the only thing different are the engines, the strange metal birds and they’re not wrong. They’re just too loud.
Her dress is too thin, the fabric ill-suited for the terrain, looking better on a manikin or dressmaker’s dummy than in a field of flowers. It had caused a fuss earlier in the day, as she had pointed out that it had matched her eyes and he had rolled his own, and both of them had forgotten. They forgot.
It’s up around her waist now, pushed up, and unbuttoned to the waist (the second from the top is now missing in the rush, lost to the earth), and it’s sticking to her back, which is matting down the flowers, pressing them, a bundle she’d gathered spread out about her head. Her breath is coming in waves, as she sighs, half-whimpering, half-moaning, like a kitten or a debutante and he’s grunting, belt clanging in tempo with his movements and her movements and it’s rushed and nonthinking. His trousers are about his knees and his shirt is open, but still on and they’re not going to take it off, everything is staying as is.
They’re forgetting.
A plane flies overhead, roaring loud and fierce like some sort of lion on its way to yet another town, it’s propellers blurring and monuments are crumbling, all as he comes right in a half cocked flurry, pushed more by desperation and the feeling of her breasts against his chest and his hands then the romance of it. She never comes, she almost want to, and she never gets the chance.
The ground shakes, a rumbling in the distance that’s not far enough to keep the sky clear and it’s rapidly turning grey and the birds are flying up from the trees as thunder rumbles to match the shaking earth and she’s fumbling her buttons, as he fumbles with his belt and she kisses him, soft and slow for a very simple reason.
They remember.
We hold just a little tight
After the bombs
After the bombs subside
Even though they’re flying miles above their heads, the engines are still roaring, louder and softer in a rhythmic pattern as they leave puffed white trails across the sky. The noise drowns out the birds, who are strangely absent from the too-blue sky.
None of that matters, which is strange as it should matter, it’s all too perfect. The flowers, the long grass, the butterflies and the fact that the sun isn’t harsh, the breeze blowing, swaying soft, and the only thing different are the engines, the strange metal birds and they’re not wrong. They’re just too loud.
Her dress is too thin, the fabric ill-suited for the terrain, looking better on a manikin or dressmaker’s dummy than in a field of flowers. It had caused a fuss earlier in the day, as she had pointed out that it had matched her eyes and he had rolled his own, and both of them had forgotten. They forgot.
It’s up around her waist now, pushed up, and unbuttoned to the waist (the second from the top is now missing in the rush, lost to the earth), and it’s sticking to her back, which is matting down the flowers, pressing them, a bundle she’d gathered spread out about her head. Her breath is coming in waves, as she sighs, half-whimpering, half-moaning, like a kitten or a debutante and he’s grunting, belt clanging in tempo with his movements and her movements and it’s rushed and nonthinking. His trousers are about his knees and his shirt is open, but still on and they’re not going to take it off, everything is staying as is.
They’re forgetting.
A plane flies overhead, roaring loud and fierce like some sort of lion on its way to yet another town, it’s propellers blurring and monuments are crumbling, all as he comes right in a half cocked flurry, pushed more by desperation and the feeling of her breasts against his chest and his hands then the romance of it. She never comes, she almost want to, and she never gets the chance.
The ground shakes, a rumbling in the distance that’s not far enough to keep the sky clear and it’s rapidly turning grey and the birds are flying up from the trees as thunder rumbles to match the shaking earth and she’s fumbling her buttons, as he fumbles with his belt and she kisses him, soft and slow for a very simple reason.
They remember.
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Not a phrase I thought I would EVER see.
All the same, I liked it quite a bit.
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