This weeks "Open on Sunday" challenge makes me happy. Bowie song titles. Woot!
Rebel, Rebel
She stares at herself in the mirror.
Oh, man, it's bad. The scars, okay, fine, whatever, she's earned those. The Slayer gig doesn't make for satin-smooth skin, and the time in the joint? Her face isn’t the only thing that got lines from all the tight clenching.
The sag, yeah, what-fucking-ever. She's still mad hot, she can still sex it up with anyone, anything, anytime at all.
But the eyes - they're all wrong. Tired dark empty weary who the fuck's eyes are those? Not hers, no way.
Faith meets her own stare in the mirror, and her face crumples.
and, another one. I do love Bowie...
The Pretty Things Are Going To Hell
She's sitting in a pool of memories.
Family, but those are hazy. Angelus is clearer, pretty man, he's all dark flapping bits and hardness and taking whatever he wants. Then Darla, curving smile, oooooh pretty, soft to the touch, but soft is hard with her, too, all strong and cross, tossing one's skirts aside and taking what she wanted there, as well.
And William, pretty William, hardening into Spike. Sinew and poetry and hard, hard, showing her how to harden, as well. They're all hard, pretty memories.
She kisses her doll's mutilated eyes, and whispers about upcoming times in hell.
One more, and this is a bit unusual. But the Bowie song title I chose is "Eight Line Poem", so, welll...
Angel POV. Yeah, I'm a schmoophead.
Eight Line Poem
I have sweated out these days while I have wept throughout these nights
Barred from the sun's healing rays and kept from normal man's delights
I will lay here in this bed, so empty of the warmth I crave
One sweet girl, her golden skin in dreams tempts me to misbehave
To the north she works her will, to keep safe her hallowed ground
Golden girl child, chosen one, unworthy her name to sound
Slayer priestess born to slay all things that do the soul affright
I must wait my time alone here 'til her days shall match my night.
That was very nice.
In fact the Bowie fic you're doing tonight is all very tasty.
Interesting, working to a rhythm. I tend to associate rhythms with music more than speech, but the title was there.
Angel moves me to rhyme, or something.
Hee! Thankee, Madam Wife.
Any time.(Mutual appreciation being the key to any successful internet plural marriage.)
Thank you, world's bestest mama-in-law.
Your son, BTW, came and stared uncomprehendingly at it over my shoulder, while apologising for not having the "poetry gene". I patted him on the shoulder consolingly, and told him it was OK.
