Look, a story, and...shock horror...it's not slash!
Ok, folks, here it is. I decided that I should try to write something that isn't fanfic, because I haven't written anything 'original' in a long time, other than one drabble (which was actually loosely Good Omens related) and some poetry. So I took an opening line that had come to me a couple of months back - as an openner for a fanfic - and instead turned into into a completely original piece.
It's only a single scene, and is the first chapter of a bigger story, but I like to think that each chapter will work as a stand-alone piece.
the_ladylark kindly beta read it for me, which was a new experience because I've never had a beta before - I've always proofed stuff myself. I though that I'd do this properly, though, so hopefully I can talk her into reading future chaptes before I publish them.
Anyway, read - it's short, honest - absorb and comment. Without further ado...
Marrakesh, 1949
The cigarette had burned down to ash, clasped in fingers that had forgotten that it was there, but could not remember a time that it wasn't. The amber liquid burned pleasantly down his throat as he emptied the glass and replaced it in front of him, toying with a chip on the rim.
The bar was cool and smoky, but outside, the hot Moroccan sun beat down relentlessly upon the scorched earth. He was glad to be indoors, for a while at least.
He would have been beautiful, if not for the marks. Smooth, bronzed skin; a mane of dark curls falling to his shoulders. His eyes were obsidian, hidden in pools of shadow. Perhaps he was still beautiful, despite the marks.
The other patrons kept their distance, as was usual: as he liked. When people saw him they either glanced at his patterned skin and moved away, or they stared, mesmerised. His skin prickled and he realised that he was being watched by the woman sitting just down the bar from him. Platinum hair and crimson lips. He followed her gaze to the intricate whorls of puckered flesh on the back of his hand, and noticing the cigarette butt still clasped by slender fingers he carefully pressed it into the dirty ashtray, turning it slowly. Her eyes followed his hand before moving to his face, trying to catch his eye.
There was a question on her lips. He knew what it was: it was always the same.
"What happened to you?"
There were many answers he could give, had given before. His Hurricane had come down over France and he was eventually pulled from the burning wreckage; a Nigerian tribe had captured him and initiated him to their society; his mother hadn't checked the water before bathing him as a baby, the boiling liquid scalding his small body. She was still waiting for an answer, her face expectant.
"I fell." It was a short answer, but more accurate than the others. The woman looked as though she had more questions, but while she pondered his response he downed the cheap whisky which he barman had brought, and rose, dropping a crumpled dollar bill next to the empty glass. Picking up his bundled belongings he made ready to leave, but stopped when a seductive voice cut through the smoky atmosphere.
"Want some company?"
He turned and considered the blonde. Painted lips; scarlet dress cut low at the front and high at the hem. One corner of his mouth rose in a half smile before he gently shook his head, soft curls casting swirls of shadow onto his face to dance hypnotically with the angry marks.
"No."
When he emerged onto the bright street he raised his smooth face to meet the warm sun for a moment, letting it caress his skin. He pulled on a loose cotton robe, the long sleeves covering his arms and hands, lifting the hood to cast his face in shadow. To those passing he almost looked normal.
Forgetting the whore in her red satin dress, he moved off into the crowded street, and in only a moment he was lost in the busy flea market.
It's only a single scene, and is the first chapter of a bigger story, but I like to think that each chapter will work as a stand-alone piece.
the_ladylark kindly beta read it for me, which was a new experience because I've never had a beta before - I've always proofed stuff myself. I though that I'd do this properly, though, so hopefully I can talk her into reading future chaptes before I publish them.Anyway, read - it's short, honest - absorb and comment. Without further ado...
Marrakesh, 1949
The cigarette had burned down to ash, clasped in fingers that had forgotten that it was there, but could not remember a time that it wasn't. The amber liquid burned pleasantly down his throat as he emptied the glass and replaced it in front of him, toying with a chip on the rim.
The bar was cool and smoky, but outside, the hot Moroccan sun beat down relentlessly upon the scorched earth. He was glad to be indoors, for a while at least.
He would have been beautiful, if not for the marks. Smooth, bronzed skin; a mane of dark curls falling to his shoulders. His eyes were obsidian, hidden in pools of shadow. Perhaps he was still beautiful, despite the marks.
The other patrons kept their distance, as was usual: as he liked. When people saw him they either glanced at his patterned skin and moved away, or they stared, mesmerised. His skin prickled and he realised that he was being watched by the woman sitting just down the bar from him. Platinum hair and crimson lips. He followed her gaze to the intricate whorls of puckered flesh on the back of his hand, and noticing the cigarette butt still clasped by slender fingers he carefully pressed it into the dirty ashtray, turning it slowly. Her eyes followed his hand before moving to his face, trying to catch his eye.
There was a question on her lips. He knew what it was: it was always the same.
"What happened to you?"
There were many answers he could give, had given before. His Hurricane had come down over France and he was eventually pulled from the burning wreckage; a Nigerian tribe had captured him and initiated him to their society; his mother hadn't checked the water before bathing him as a baby, the boiling liquid scalding his small body. She was still waiting for an answer, her face expectant.
"I fell." It was a short answer, but more accurate than the others. The woman looked as though she had more questions, but while she pondered his response he downed the cheap whisky which he barman had brought, and rose, dropping a crumpled dollar bill next to the empty glass. Picking up his bundled belongings he made ready to leave, but stopped when a seductive voice cut through the smoky atmosphere.
"Want some company?"
He turned and considered the blonde. Painted lips; scarlet dress cut low at the front and high at the hem. One corner of his mouth rose in a half smile before he gently shook his head, soft curls casting swirls of shadow onto his face to dance hypnotically with the angry marks.
"No."
When he emerged onto the bright street he raised his smooth face to meet the warm sun for a moment, letting it caress his skin. He pulled on a loose cotton robe, the long sleeves covering his arms and hands, lifting the hood to cast his face in shadow. To those passing he almost looked normal.
Forgetting the whore in her red satin dress, he moved off into the crowded street, and in only a moment he was lost in the busy flea market.