lizzardgirl (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lizzardgirl) wrote2008-02-14 09:59 pm
lizzardgirl) wrote2008-02-14 09:59 pm
Entry tags:
Valentine's Day
Remember Valentine's Day? Remember I hate it?
So I lost a bet to, mostly, myself about what sort of Valentine's story would first appear on the board and dared myself to write a V-Day ficlet. I wanted to write a funny piece about Darcy running amok. Turns out I'm emo inside, and so wrote a very depressive sob thing, inspired by a German poem, the translation of which I provided for you here.
The Fog
Oh, ‘tis horrid to walk over the moors …
That morning, the world had awoken in a foggy haze. Thick white mists lay over trees and shrubs, covered meadows and fields, and crept into the streets, making it impossible to speed past the eerie outlines of houses and cranes. The fog stayed all day and in the afternoon, it was just as impermeable as in the morning, leaving everyone dazed and rendering the world into a ghostly wasteland. Sounds were muffled as if by wet blankets and neighbours and friends disappeared from view. All that was left was the wall before you, no longer white, but turned grey and dull by the dying light of the afternoon. There was no sunset that day, no dusk that slowly and benignly charmed the sun’s rays into a pale pink that made way for a starry black. That day, there was only grey, becoming darker and more intense as the light slowly vanished.
The road rose slowly upwards, as if leading into the misty clouds. This, he pondered, had to be the bridge over the canal, its outline no longer visible. Surprisingly, the fog was less thick on the top of the bridge, and, waiting there for the invisible traffic lights at the foot to turn green, he felt as if he were floating on the ghostly haze over the canal. The boats lying below the bridge, the construction cranes and the ugly rails on the bank were hidden from view and all that was left was the bit of the road that he could still see and the lights of the car in front of him.
The shivering child is clutching the book/ he’s running as if he were chased.
There had been a time when he would have been happy to fly on the clouds. In his dreams, though, the sun had shone and warmed them, and the sky had been clear and blue. Flying on the clouds, he realised, was not a thing that could ever happen. You did not float on them and enjoyed the fair weather above; you were stuck inside, in cold, wet, mist, that left you without orientation. Most importantly, you could not fly on the clouds with someone else. This was a place where you were alone. Nobody would follow you here, even if they could. He longed to say that he had once had someone who would have followed him even into this, someone who would have come with him into the fog, but the truth was, he was not sure. Elizabeth and he had only known a few sunny days, one bright summer of radiant happiness. They had not made it into autumn and he had never found out whether she would have been the one who would have come with him. She was gone now, gone a long time, but at times like these, he still wondered whether she would have.
He wondered if it had rained at all that summer. In his memory, the colours were bright and the sounds were cheerful, but it was so long ago that he did not trust himself. What remained, though, was the recollection of days spent in the warm sands, of thoughts shared as the evenings brought coolness and the fragrance of the roses broke the staleness of the summer air. They had sat in the garden for hours after darkness and talked about all and nothing. Elizabeth had loved to sit and watch the stars when the world around them grew quiet. Even then, he had known that the happiness could not last and for years, he had reprimanded himself for not making more of it.
Elizabeth was long gone now, but the memory of that summer stayed. He sometimes wondered whether he would be able to make it through the rain at all without it, but that was nonsense. Nobody died of an empty heart, not even in the rain, and he had long learnt to live with the thought that she would not come back. It still pained him, especially in days like these, when the cold crept into his bones and made him shiver, and remember how it had always been warm when Elizabeth had been with him, and that was perhaps the worse of two evils.
She would not have minded the fog, he thought bitterly as the car rolled slowly down the bridge. She would have laughed at this, she would have laughed at you, pitying yourself in your grand car. She would have enjoyed the world in this crazy state and she would have pointed out the spooky shapes of the trees in the mist, only barely recognisable through a slightly darker shade of grey. He enjoyed telling himself these things even when he knew that they might not even be true; there was a lot of things he had never learnt about Elizabeth and now shamelessly filled in the gaps with his own imagination.
Anon! Anon! And on with the run!/ Anon! As if they were after him!
He could not bear not knowing, Nancy had always said. What he could not possibly find out, he had to fill in himself, because he could not bear the gaps in the puzzle. Nancy had known him better than he knew himself. Unlike Elizabeth, she would have understood why he panicked in the fog. She knew that he could not bear the fact that the fog stole his horizon. It left him with painfully little to see and that was why it spooked him so much. Nancy had understood that; she had understood that the few that remained to him was all the more precious to him because he feared to lose it as well. In her last months, Nancy had often asked him how he would cope when she was gone. She had been more afraid of what was waiting for him than for her and only told him the truth when it was almost too late and her time was almost up. She had wanted to protect him even in her death because she thought he would not be able to bear the idea of losing his sister. She had not remembered what she had said about his fear of not knowing. She had, in this one instance, been blind, and not seen that the only thing that was worse than knowing his sister would die was not knowing what was happening to her.
The moor bursts open with a sigh/ Out of the cleaving cave
Nancy was dead and he had pulled through, though. He had not allowed grief to consume him, neither in this instance nor in any other. It would perhaps have been easier to follow her, but he had chosen to remain here, in a place where the fog could remain for days. Not succumbing to the lures of giving up had been the hardest thing when Elizabeth had gone; by the time that Nancy died, his heart had hardened and he had known he would pull through eventually, but also that the cold would never leave him. The years had gone by and the pain had become fainter; it was only when he was left to himself because the horizon had disappeared that he started to think about the days when she was barely gone. He had seen Elizabeth one last time at Nancy’s funeral. They had not talked much, but looking at her, he had almost been able to feel the warmth of the sun once more.
The hours after the funeral had been the worst, when he had come back to the empty house and seen Nancy’s cups in the kitchen, Nancy’s blanket on the sofa, Nancy’s books on the table, and known that if he did not clear them away, nobody would. This one time, he would have been glad not to see. The images of Nancy’s things left behind he would have gladly exchanged for a thick haze leaving him without the painful memories that Nancy’s possessions brought with them. The years had softened these memories. He could only dimly remember now how the house had looked when Nancy had still been there. He had, after many days, been able to fold the blanket and put it into a box together with the books and the cups and everything else that Nancy had left, and he now seldom looked at it.
Then slowly the ground gets firmer again/ And over there, next to the willow, /That lantern flickers with a promise of home
Eventually, this fog would clear too and one day, the world would be as it was. The bad things and the good ones would be visible again and alone though he would be, he would no longer feel so dreadfully lost, because the horizon would be back. Carefully, he steered the car around the last corner and slowly drove up the gravelled driveway. He could now see that the light was still on in the kitchen. It had a soft glow in the grey and told him that he was awaited. The door burst open as he locked the car and Caroline rushed to his side.
‘William, you made it,’ she exclaimed as she hugged him, ‘I was so afraid, on the radio they said -’
‘Yes, I made it,’ he replied and hugged back. He breathed in the familiar smell of her perfume and of cooking fumes. Caroline had been there for him longer than either Nancy and Elizabeth and he cherished the hope that she might not leave him too soon.
‘I made it,’ he repeated. ‘It was an awful drive and I’ve become cold. Shall we go in?’
Oh, yes, it was terrible in the reeds/ Oh, horrid it was on the heath!
Yes, I'm sad that way. The fog around here is my excuse.
So I lost a bet to, mostly, myself about what sort of Valentine's story would first appear on the board and dared myself to write a V-Day ficlet. I wanted to write a funny piece about Darcy running amok. Turns out I'm emo inside, and so wrote a very depressive sob thing, inspired by a German poem, the translation of which I provided for you here.
The Fog
Oh, ‘tis horrid to walk over the moors …
That morning, the world had awoken in a foggy haze. Thick white mists lay over trees and shrubs, covered meadows and fields, and crept into the streets, making it impossible to speed past the eerie outlines of houses and cranes. The fog stayed all day and in the afternoon, it was just as impermeable as in the morning, leaving everyone dazed and rendering the world into a ghostly wasteland. Sounds were muffled as if by wet blankets and neighbours and friends disappeared from view. All that was left was the wall before you, no longer white, but turned grey and dull by the dying light of the afternoon. There was no sunset that day, no dusk that slowly and benignly charmed the sun’s rays into a pale pink that made way for a starry black. That day, there was only grey, becoming darker and more intense as the light slowly vanished.
The road rose slowly upwards, as if leading into the misty clouds. This, he pondered, had to be the bridge over the canal, its outline no longer visible. Surprisingly, the fog was less thick on the top of the bridge, and, waiting there for the invisible traffic lights at the foot to turn green, he felt as if he were floating on the ghostly haze over the canal. The boats lying below the bridge, the construction cranes and the ugly rails on the bank were hidden from view and all that was left was the bit of the road that he could still see and the lights of the car in front of him.
The shivering child is clutching the book/ he’s running as if he were chased.
There had been a time when he would have been happy to fly on the clouds. In his dreams, though, the sun had shone and warmed them, and the sky had been clear and blue. Flying on the clouds, he realised, was not a thing that could ever happen. You did not float on them and enjoyed the fair weather above; you were stuck inside, in cold, wet, mist, that left you without orientation. Most importantly, you could not fly on the clouds with someone else. This was a place where you were alone. Nobody would follow you here, even if they could. He longed to say that he had once had someone who would have followed him even into this, someone who would have come with him into the fog, but the truth was, he was not sure. Elizabeth and he had only known a few sunny days, one bright summer of radiant happiness. They had not made it into autumn and he had never found out whether she would have been the one who would have come with him. She was gone now, gone a long time, but at times like these, he still wondered whether she would have.
He wondered if it had rained at all that summer. In his memory, the colours were bright and the sounds were cheerful, but it was so long ago that he did not trust himself. What remained, though, was the recollection of days spent in the warm sands, of thoughts shared as the evenings brought coolness and the fragrance of the roses broke the staleness of the summer air. They had sat in the garden for hours after darkness and talked about all and nothing. Elizabeth had loved to sit and watch the stars when the world around them grew quiet. Even then, he had known that the happiness could not last and for years, he had reprimanded himself for not making more of it.
Elizabeth was long gone now, but the memory of that summer stayed. He sometimes wondered whether he would be able to make it through the rain at all without it, but that was nonsense. Nobody died of an empty heart, not even in the rain, and he had long learnt to live with the thought that she would not come back. It still pained him, especially in days like these, when the cold crept into his bones and made him shiver, and remember how it had always been warm when Elizabeth had been with him, and that was perhaps the worse of two evils.
She would not have minded the fog, he thought bitterly as the car rolled slowly down the bridge. She would have laughed at this, she would have laughed at you, pitying yourself in your grand car. She would have enjoyed the world in this crazy state and she would have pointed out the spooky shapes of the trees in the mist, only barely recognisable through a slightly darker shade of grey. He enjoyed telling himself these things even when he knew that they might not even be true; there was a lot of things he had never learnt about Elizabeth and now shamelessly filled in the gaps with his own imagination.
Anon! Anon! And on with the run!/ Anon! As if they were after him!
He could not bear not knowing, Nancy had always said. What he could not possibly find out, he had to fill in himself, because he could not bear the gaps in the puzzle. Nancy had known him better than he knew himself. Unlike Elizabeth, she would have understood why he panicked in the fog. She knew that he could not bear the fact that the fog stole his horizon. It left him with painfully little to see and that was why it spooked him so much. Nancy had understood that; she had understood that the few that remained to him was all the more precious to him because he feared to lose it as well. In her last months, Nancy had often asked him how he would cope when she was gone. She had been more afraid of what was waiting for him than for her and only told him the truth when it was almost too late and her time was almost up. She had wanted to protect him even in her death because she thought he would not be able to bear the idea of losing his sister. She had not remembered what she had said about his fear of not knowing. She had, in this one instance, been blind, and not seen that the only thing that was worse than knowing his sister would die was not knowing what was happening to her.
The moor bursts open with a sigh/ Out of the cleaving cave
Nancy was dead and he had pulled through, though. He had not allowed grief to consume him, neither in this instance nor in any other. It would perhaps have been easier to follow her, but he had chosen to remain here, in a place where the fog could remain for days. Not succumbing to the lures of giving up had been the hardest thing when Elizabeth had gone; by the time that Nancy died, his heart had hardened and he had known he would pull through eventually, but also that the cold would never leave him. The years had gone by and the pain had become fainter; it was only when he was left to himself because the horizon had disappeared that he started to think about the days when she was barely gone. He had seen Elizabeth one last time at Nancy’s funeral. They had not talked much, but looking at her, he had almost been able to feel the warmth of the sun once more.
The hours after the funeral had been the worst, when he had come back to the empty house and seen Nancy’s cups in the kitchen, Nancy’s blanket on the sofa, Nancy’s books on the table, and known that if he did not clear them away, nobody would. This one time, he would have been glad not to see. The images of Nancy’s things left behind he would have gladly exchanged for a thick haze leaving him without the painful memories that Nancy’s possessions brought with them. The years had softened these memories. He could only dimly remember now how the house had looked when Nancy had still been there. He had, after many days, been able to fold the blanket and put it into a box together with the books and the cups and everything else that Nancy had left, and he now seldom looked at it.
Then slowly the ground gets firmer again/ And over there, next to the willow, /That lantern flickers with a promise of home
Eventually, this fog would clear too and one day, the world would be as it was. The bad things and the good ones would be visible again and alone though he would be, he would no longer feel so dreadfully lost, because the horizon would be back. Carefully, he steered the car around the last corner and slowly drove up the gravelled driveway. He could now see that the light was still on in the kitchen. It had a soft glow in the grey and told him that he was awaited. The door burst open as he locked the car and Caroline rushed to his side.
‘William, you made it,’ she exclaimed as she hugged him, ‘I was so afraid, on the radio they said -’
‘Yes, I made it,’ he replied and hugged back. He breathed in the familiar smell of her perfume and of cooking fumes. Caroline had been there for him longer than either Nancy and Elizabeth and he cherished the hope that she might not leave him too soon.
‘I made it,’ he repeated. ‘It was an awful drive and I’ve become cold. Shall we go in?’
Oh, yes, it was terrible in the reeds/ Oh, horrid it was on the heath!
Yes, I'm sad that way. The fog around here is my excuse.