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wordsontongue2010-07-04 04:05 am
vbmods.livejournal.com) wrote in wordsontongue2010-07-04 04:05 am
Transatlantic
Title: Transatlantic
Author: *kalypso (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
koulagirl666)
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Beta:j_ryder448
Prompt(s): #14: "leaving a country of rain"
Disclaimer: real people, not mine, work of fiction, not true.
Summary: It's always raining in London, and it never stops, no matter where he is.
It's always bloody raining in London; strange that, I can't remember a day where it hasn't been dreary and somewhat grey. The rain is light but it gets to you, through your clothes and onto your skin and it feels like it goes a bit deeper, until it's running through your veins like blood. It almost feels natural, now, after so long, to go outside and become wet through; it's in the air and on the ground and there's no escaping it. Days blend into weeks and months without the sun shining yellow on a blue sky; it's not home, where the sun always shines on cloudless days and glows warm enough to touch a man's heart.
I never regret leaving, though there are things I miss; sparrows and squirrels and the like, the way townhouses crowd together against the cold, the way the footpaths curve around and crack just so at the corners. All little things, easily forgettable and yet different in every town, like how you never notice the wrinkles on someone's face or whether their hands are rough. I don't miss them, but I notice they're not there when the sun rises and casts shadows the shape of horses and trees. It makes me want to go back, someday, just to wander round and remember, on my way home to where the air is grey with factory smoke and the pub is the only light for miles on a dark night.
Here it's quiet even in the day, but the sun shines warm and lifts an old man's heart to walk out onto the back porch and see it there in the sky, surrounded by blue and white. Vig bloody swears he can tell time by it, and he's always up and about before I've thought of waking, so it's a rare morning he lies in with me and the warmth through my heart is because of his arm across my chest. It's most often that I go out to him and he kisses me a good morning over some fence down where the horses run, and we finish the chores together before the day really begins.
It's warm here, and when it rains you can still see miles across to the horizon and the way the sky changes colour; Vig puts the kettle on over a fire and then we can watch from in the dry, warm through, but I still feel a chill at the sight of rain, like it's still a part of me, and I've only just left my home country behind.
Author: *kalypso (
koulagirl666)Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Beta:
j_ryder448Prompt(s): #14: "leaving a country of rain"
Disclaimer: real people, not mine, work of fiction, not true.
Summary: It's always raining in London, and it never stops, no matter where he is.
It's always bloody raining in London; strange that, I can't remember a day where it hasn't been dreary and somewhat grey. The rain is light but it gets to you, through your clothes and onto your skin and it feels like it goes a bit deeper, until it's running through your veins like blood. It almost feels natural, now, after so long, to go outside and become wet through; it's in the air and on the ground and there's no escaping it. Days blend into weeks and months without the sun shining yellow on a blue sky; it's not home, where the sun always shines on cloudless days and glows warm enough to touch a man's heart.
I never regret leaving, though there are things I miss; sparrows and squirrels and the like, the way townhouses crowd together against the cold, the way the footpaths curve around and crack just so at the corners. All little things, easily forgettable and yet different in every town, like how you never notice the wrinkles on someone's face or whether their hands are rough. I don't miss them, but I notice they're not there when the sun rises and casts shadows the shape of horses and trees. It makes me want to go back, someday, just to wander round and remember, on my way home to where the air is grey with factory smoke and the pub is the only light for miles on a dark night.
Here it's quiet even in the day, but the sun shines warm and lifts an old man's heart to walk out onto the back porch and see it there in the sky, surrounded by blue and white. Vig bloody swears he can tell time by it, and he's always up and about before I've thought of waking, so it's a rare morning he lies in with me and the warmth through my heart is because of his arm across my chest. It's most often that I go out to him and he kisses me a good morning over some fence down where the horses run, and we finish the chores together before the day really begins.
It's warm here, and when it rains you can still see miles across to the horizon and the way the sky changes colour; Vig puts the kettle on over a fire and then we can watch from in the dry, warm through, but I still feel a chill at the sight of rain, like it's still a part of me, and I've only just left my home country behind.