cold_clarity: (dresden dolls)
doing a bit of housecleaning right now. mostly this comes in the form of taking what-was-once-commentfic and relogging it to fic-with-a-proper-post--all because I get a little intense about having all my fic in "fiction posts" on my journal.

anyway.

have a few Inglourious Basterds drabbles.


The Waking Dream
notes: a one-shot, winding sort of...thing, that I wrote. Aldo recalls his life in Appalachia.

The waking dream descends as any moment of private introspection might: silently and without warning.

Draw me a bucket from the well.

A summer’s day, steamy and hot. The rolling peaks of mountains in the distance—fuzzy through the midday haze. He trundles up the beaten path, beneath the relentless and unforgiving glare of a high-noon July sun.

The sound of cicadas in the stagnant air.

The smell of pollen, grass, and leaves—a lush, green earth, overgrown with its own fecundity. He pauses to scrub sweat from his eye.

Water sloshes in its wooden bucket.

At the doorstep, his mother waits for him, reaching out for the water—

Now, the recollection of her hands. Veins twisting bluely over tendon strings, she hefts the knife a final time. A small hunk of rabbit meat topples to the floor. Jarbo, the hound, gobbles it up, drool stringing from his jowls.

It’s autumn.

Long reeds of grass frosted over; October unwinding into the long chill of November.

She sits out back, scooping clear liquid from the tin tub into bell jars. Packs the bell jars into padded crates. He watches the motion of her arm. Swoop and lift. Swoop and lift. A rhythm.

Now, the recollection of her hands. Veins twisting bluely over tendon strings, she screws the cap on—tight as it will go.

Each jar glistens, for an instant, against the slanting light of the setting sun.

You’ll drive these’ns down t’ the usual place.

Yes ma’am.

She tips the tub, pouring the last of the clearness into the last of the jars.

He watches and his breath mists in the twilight air.

Somewhere down the slope of the hill, Jarbo bays.

When she’s through, she presses her hands into the folds of her skirt, drying them.

Now, the recollection—

Veins twisting bluely—

Tendon strings—

Hands—

He blinks.

The dream fades, though the waking becomes sharper.




and


Hurt
notes: [livejournal.com profile] rirenec asked for a snippet on Bridget/Archie. this is what happened.

He weeps easily, she learns.

His belt. Her fingernails. His blood. Her thrill.

It doesn't take much.

In a hotel in Berlin, she sinks her teeth into his pectoral muscle, so hard he arches off the floor. A broken whimper, and a rush of tears.

In Paris, she puts his shoes on and steps, heel-first, onto his outstretched fingers. He gasps out a thin sound that lights her up inside.

Once,she asks him:

"Does it hurt?"

He nods--an unsatisfactory answer.


She takes him completely in her hand, and twists. "I asked you, lieber, does it hurt?"

He answers in a staggering rush; a broken concatenation, German, English choked out on desperate sobs here in the dark. "Yes--ja--ja--bitte--"

Every time, it leaves her breathless.

She leans down to kiss him, and to taste his skin, his sweat, his tears.
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