the sound of her wings

tm 180: starting over

Thu, 14 Jun 2007 02:11:24 GMT

He’s just standing there when she walks up, a distinguished-looking older man in a nice suit, staring down at his own body lying in the street. He looks up at her as she walks over, unsurprised but not entirely welcoming either, and she pauses a few feet away. He glances down at the street again, then over his shoulder at a small park not too far away, and gestures at it. “Do you mind?”

She follows his line of sight, then gives him a considering glance before smiling slightly. “Nope.”

He gives a half smile in return and walks over to drop heavily onto the nearest bench, unconcerned with wrinkling his suit for maybe the first time in a long time. After a moment, she follows after him and climbs up onto the bench beside him to perch easily on the back.

They both sit quietly, watching the street in front of them. It’s still early yet, early enough that no one passes by, that no one sees.

“If only I could do it over,” he says suddenly, sighing.

She lets that go for a moment, then asks curiously, “what would you do differently?”

He turns to look at her, startled, as if he hadn’t actually thought about that part. “I don’t know,” he says finally, musingly. “Marry Lucille, maybe. Become an astronaut. Move to England when I have the chance.” His expression turns wry and he gestures briefly at the street, where someone has finally stopped. “Look both ways before crossing the street.”

A small crowd has formed before them. A few people have their phones out, either calling an ambulance or taking pictures. “Would it have changed anything?” he asks. “Would I have been happier?”

“I don’t know,” she says.

“You don’t?” He looks surprised, and she just smiles back at him and shakes her head.

“Everyone has regrets,” she says, and he gives a small “huh” and turns back to watch the crowd in the street. People seem to have started wandering away, the few remaining either truly fascinated by the spectacle or waiting for the ambulance. There are a few words caught here and there, hit and run and such a shame.

“Would you?” he asks suddenly.

“Would I what?”

“Would you change things? If you could do it over.”

She thinks about it for a minute. Thinks about a sister changing and a brother leaving. Thinks about siblings dying. Thinks about things that could have been fixed, could have been avoided. Could have been simply postponed. Could have made no difference at all.

“Everyone has regrets,” she says again, and he nods as if she’s just said something utterly profound.

The ambulance has finally arrived, and even the most ardent of the remaining crowd have begun to wander away. The two on the bench watch as the body is loaded and taken away, until there’s nothing but a stain on the street to show that anything out of the ordinary had ever taken place there.

He stands, stretches, turns to look at her. “I think I’m ready.” She nods and hops down off the bench to stand beside him. “So what happens now?”

“Now,” she turns to look at him. “Now you get to find out what’s next.”

“You mean you don’t know that either?” he asks, teasing grin making him look younger. “What kind of an omnipotent being are you?”

She grins at him brightly. “Never said I was omnipotent. I’m just me.”

He nods again, laughs like he hasn’t done it in a while. She opens her arms wide, still grinning. He hesitates, gaze flickering back to the stain on the street, then steps into them. For a minute he is held, contained, and in the next he is simply gone.

Muse: Death
Fandom: The Sandman
Word Count: 628

tm 174: would you ever kill one of your own kind?

Tue, 08 May 2007 15:47:29 GMT

This is who she is, what she is, and possibly why and how as well. She's taken men, women and things that are neither. She's taken stars, galaxies and gods. She's even taken one of their own before. She'll take them all before the end, and she'll do it with a smile and open arms.

But this...

Sitting here on a desolate cliff in the rain, watching her brother hunched over, determined to stop his realm from being torn apart. But what has the Dreaming ever been but a reflection of it's master? Dear, poor, stupid Dream. He always did feel too much, too deeply.

She could talk him out of it, she supposes. She's talked him down from his melancholies before. The Furies can be pacified, the Dreaming restored. In his own realm he is inviolate, as she in hers, and they both know it. There are so many, many ways this could end.

And yet.

He's worked so hard for this, orchestrated it so carefully, even if he refuses to see it. And what sister can deny a brother the thing he wants most?

"Dream? Give me your hand."

A touch of flesh, and then nothing.

The Dream King is dead. Long live the Dream King.

And she continues on.

Muse: Death
Fandom: The Sandman
Word Count: 212

TM 176: Tell a story about one of your scars

Thu, 03 May 2007 00:07:21 GMT

I don't really have scars. I mean, personification of an abstract idea, you know? I'm not even that sure I could get hurt, though I don't really want to test it out. And well, there's that once a century thing, but even then they don't last. I could always create some for myself, I guess, but that would kind of defeat the purpose.

So, physical scars? Not really an issue. Emotional ones, though. Everyone's got those, and we're no exception.

My scar? It's simple. No one's ever happy to see me. Most of the time, anyway. It sounds silly, I know, but that kind of thing can really wear on a girl. To be greeted constantly by fear and loathing and pleading and crying, well…it gets tiring after a while. It's not like I'm doing anything horrible. It's just natural. Things have to end. Amazingly, few people ever seem to get that.

I let it bother me for a long time. Did the whole holding myself aloof so it wouldn't hurt thing. It could have gone a lot of ways. I could have let it chase me away, like Destruction. Could have let it turn me into something else, like Delirium. Could have let it destroy me, like Dream. In the end, I just chose to accept it. I am who and what I am, and what I am is necessary, even if no one likes it. Besides, moping gets old eventually.

But that was a very long time ago.

Muse: Death
Fandom: The Sandman
Word Count: 250