First Post - Ficlet - Love Over Gold
Jul. 30th, 2009 07:39 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
newbiepoet.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
wl_fanfictionA short intro: "Hello everyone, its nice to be here tonight..." i'm Becca (yarp another one) but feel free to use any pseudonym you dub worthy. I'm a Greg orientated person, but do love all the people of the fablet that is Whose Line. i hope you like my work, or at least that it doesn't make you cry of boredom.
Title: Love Over Gold
Pairing: Greg/Jen
Rating: a likely R for self harm, strong language and attempted suicide
Summary: A year of Greg's life in fragments. Literally.
Disclaimer: This is fiction, and is not an accurate portrayal of the characters aforementioned.
Feedback: be honest, even if its harsh; any comments are good comments.
Love Over Gold
Greg sighs looking down at the scrawling writing on the page. He doesn't know why he's rereading this after all these years - all these tears.
"Greg…" she whispers, "It won't do you any good" Greg nods, she's right as usual, and he lets Jennifer pull the book gently from his hands, tuck it away somewhere he can't see. Out of sight, out of mind.
If only.
*
This notebook is property of Greg Proops.
Mien Wahnbriefe...
I am crazy. I think.
God fucking shit, I don't know what I am.
Don't read this; you'll regret it.
*
Greg's eyes flew open , but he couldn't move. Heart hammering in his ears he glanced about in the pitch black. What had he heard? Nothing… But he was sure he'd heard a scream. Then he noticed something new; his hand, his right one, the one he used (needed) didn't work. There were no bones in his hand.
*
"Hey watch it pal!"
But Greg didn't hear, he kept on walking. The small portion of his brain still functioning normally nagged at him with incessant vigour. Where are we going? Why are we going? Shouldn’t we go back inside? But the rest of him cast aside these thoughts as if they weren't made.
"Nutcase!" "Freak!" "Psycho!"
He was oblivious to the shouts. All of a sudden gentle but firm hands grabbed his, pulling him inside a car.
"Greg?" Asked a soft female voice. It seemed to revive him.
"I'm all wet." He mumbled. She held him close, running a hand through his sodden curls.
"I know."
*
The thing about scars…they're fascinating right?
The faint spider's web of lines
Intricate patterns
Like symbols of some long dead language
On a delicate silk tapestry.
*
She'd found him one morning, Stanley knife in hand, dripping bright red blood - that means he'd hit an artery, not a vein. Oxygenated blood. The concentration on his face was incredible, the deepest she'd seen in months (so were the cuts). He looked up at her, gave a faint smile and set down the blade on the edge of the sink.
She bandaged his wounds with utmost care, the knife dripping the blood onto the white of the basin, swirling down the drain in elegant patterns. Red on white, that's bold.
"It looks beautiful…" She heard him say, more to himself than her.
"It looks better inside you."
*
Hours later as she sat by the bed, watching over him (like an angel Greg once commented) she spotted the leather bound notebook. She didn't dare read it but instead turned to a free page and began to write;-
You walk out on the high wire
You’re a dancer on thin ice
You pay no heed to danger
And less to advice.
You go dancing through doorways
Just to see what you'll find
Leaving nothing to interfere
With the crazy balance of your mind.
Love, J
*
"Greg?" No reply.
"Greg?!" Still silence.
Entering cautiously she spotted the black huddle that was her husband and carefully prised the bottle away.
*
There's a line:
Blood red,
Thin and narrow,
Which I currently tread .
Borderline.
Lets hope I can balance for longer
Because on the other side sits all I dread.
*
The notebook trick had worked for a while, he'd been good, almost normal (whatever normal could be) functioning in the standard way according to society.
She knew it couldn't last, and she picked up the notebook again.
*
The Thing About Love;
You can twist it
You can turn it
Try and burn it
But Love Never Dies.
Love, J
*
"Oh God, oh God." She knew it had been coming. It boiled down to this moment. She pressed shaking fingers to his neck. A pulse, thank fuck.
911 - Ambulance - Attempted suicide.
She choked out the words, and it seemed no time at all until he was whisked away in a flash lights and peal of sirens. It all seemed very cliché and hospital drama-esque.
People lived in the dramas right? They could end scene and wipe off the fake blood, go back home to their wives and be perfectly fine. She snatched up the notebook, and wrote, not even knowing whether Greg would ever read it again.
*
"Jennifer…" Instantly at his side she took his hands, eyes shining with tears. He had the notebook propped open on his lap, her last blurred entry looked ancient in the hospital glare.
"I missed you." He whispered.
*
"What on earth are you doing Greg?" She asks, bemused smile on her lips.
"Framing your work." Came the reply, as if it were blatantly obvious what he was doing.
"Yes but…" She falls silent as Greg steps back, taking her small hand in his.
"So I never forget." He breathes in her ear.
She was staring at that final, hastily scrawled and tear stained entry:
It takes love over gold
And mind over matter
To do what you must
Or all the things that you hold
Will fall and be shattered
Or run through your fingers like dust.
Love, J
*
The End
Title: Love Over Gold
Pairing: Greg/Jen
Rating: a likely R for self harm, strong language and attempted suicide
Summary: A year of Greg's life in fragments. Literally.
Disclaimer: This is fiction, and is not an accurate portrayal of the characters aforementioned.
Feedback: be honest, even if its harsh; any comments are good comments.
Love Over Gold
Greg sighs looking down at the scrawling writing on the page. He doesn't know why he's rereading this after all these years - all these tears.
"Greg…" she whispers, "It won't do you any good" Greg nods, she's right as usual, and he lets Jennifer pull the book gently from his hands, tuck it away somewhere he can't see. Out of sight, out of mind.
If only.
*
This notebook is property of Greg Proops.
Mien Wahnbriefe...
I am crazy. I think.
God fucking shit, I don't know what I am.
Don't read this; you'll regret it.
*
Greg's eyes flew open , but he couldn't move. Heart hammering in his ears he glanced about in the pitch black. What had he heard? Nothing… But he was sure he'd heard a scream. Then he noticed something new; his hand, his right one, the one he used (needed) didn't work. There were no bones in his hand.
*
"Hey watch it pal!"
But Greg didn't hear, he kept on walking. The small portion of his brain still functioning normally nagged at him with incessant vigour. Where are we going? Why are we going? Shouldn’t we go back inside? But the rest of him cast aside these thoughts as if they weren't made.
"Nutcase!" "Freak!" "Psycho!"
He was oblivious to the shouts. All of a sudden gentle but firm hands grabbed his, pulling him inside a car.
"Greg?" Asked a soft female voice. It seemed to revive him.
"I'm all wet." He mumbled. She held him close, running a hand through his sodden curls.
"I know."
*
The thing about scars…they're fascinating right?
The faint spider's web of lines
Intricate patterns
Like symbols of some long dead language
On a delicate silk tapestry.
*
She'd found him one morning, Stanley knife in hand, dripping bright red blood - that means he'd hit an artery, not a vein. Oxygenated blood. The concentration on his face was incredible, the deepest she'd seen in months (so were the cuts). He looked up at her, gave a faint smile and set down the blade on the edge of the sink.
She bandaged his wounds with utmost care, the knife dripping the blood onto the white of the basin, swirling down the drain in elegant patterns. Red on white, that's bold.
"It looks beautiful…" She heard him say, more to himself than her.
"It looks better inside you."
*
Hours later as she sat by the bed, watching over him (like an angel Greg once commented) she spotted the leather bound notebook. She didn't dare read it but instead turned to a free page and began to write;-
You walk out on the high wire
You’re a dancer on thin ice
You pay no heed to danger
And less to advice.
You go dancing through doorways
Just to see what you'll find
Leaving nothing to interfere
With the crazy balance of your mind.
Love, J
*
"Greg?" No reply.
"Greg?!" Still silence.
Entering cautiously she spotted the black huddle that was her husband and carefully prised the bottle away.
*
There's a line:
Blood red,
Thin and narrow,
Which I currently tread .
Borderline.
Lets hope I can balance for longer
Because on the other side sits all I dread.
*
The notebook trick had worked for a while, he'd been good, almost normal (whatever normal could be) functioning in the standard way according to society.
She knew it couldn't last, and she picked up the notebook again.
*
The Thing About Love;
You can twist it
You can turn it
Try and burn it
But Love Never Dies.
Love, J
*
"Oh God, oh God." She knew it had been coming. It boiled down to this moment. She pressed shaking fingers to his neck. A pulse, thank fuck.
911 - Ambulance - Attempted suicide.
She choked out the words, and it seemed no time at all until he was whisked away in a flash lights and peal of sirens. It all seemed very cliché and hospital drama-esque.
People lived in the dramas right? They could end scene and wipe off the fake blood, go back home to their wives and be perfectly fine. She snatched up the notebook, and wrote, not even knowing whether Greg would ever read it again.
*
"Jennifer…" Instantly at his side she took his hands, eyes shining with tears. He had the notebook propped open on his lap, her last blurred entry looked ancient in the hospital glare.
"I missed you." He whispered.
*
"What on earth are you doing Greg?" She asks, bemused smile on her lips.
"Framing your work." Came the reply, as if it were blatantly obvious what he was doing.
"Yes but…" She falls silent as Greg steps back, taking her small hand in his.
"So I never forget." He breathes in her ear.
She was staring at that final, hastily scrawled and tear stained entry:
It takes love over gold
And mind over matter
To do what you must
Or all the things that you hold
Will fall and be shattered
Or run through your fingers like dust.
Love, J
*
The End
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-08-05 06:21 pm (UTC)You have the tag a: newbiepoet now as well becca my friend.
Welcome to the community ^_^ you know how much I love your writing. Please post more soon! :)
*huggles*
xxxxxx
no subject
Date: 2009-08-07 02:12 am (UTC)thank you!!
ya... perhaps we need some fluff to read lols
no subject
Date: 2010-01-11 04:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-11 06:25 pm (UTC)i'm not one for long winded sentences, although i did worry it was to brief to be coherent.
thank you again, your comment has made my day!
no subject
Date: 2010-01-13 02:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-13 06:31 pm (UTC)your compliments make me beam like an absolute goof. and thank you for saying its not over the top, it was something i really worried about while writing.
no subject
Date: 2010-01-30 08:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-30 10:51 pm (UTC)your comment cheered my up after a long day of studying.