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Sep. 8th, 2006 11:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
3pipeproblemFic! Mini-fic, but fic. Written for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
everyfiveyears, a challenge I should be able to finish. The general idea (as you might have surmised) is to write a fic for every five years in a given character's life.
Alan Shore, needless to say. Age 5.
Diamond. Gravel crunches like breakfast cereal under Alan’s shoes and he thinks the word over. He’d selected baseball, knowingly or not, for its vocabulary—a game not on a field but a diamond, spent contending with grounders and flies, line drives and pop ups. Fastball, knuckleball, 12-to-6 curve. He’s never known words like these, rarified, poetic, yet each tied inextricably to its corresponding action.
The secret, of course, is they all describe variations on the act of flight.
It’s the time of summer when foul lines are allowed to fade. They’ll return in early spring, heaps of powdered chalk white enough to dazzle. As Alan toes the imagined line, a hand settles in his hair. He tips his head back, smiles into a sky interrupted by his dad’s jacket, the scar-flecked underside of his chin.
“How’d you get that.”
“Hmm?” The hand slips away; Alan touches his own chin. “Ask me when you’re fifteen,” his dad says.
“And you’ll tell me?”
“And I’ll tell you.”
Satisfied, Alan turns his head and makes a sound as though he’s pronouncing the letter t. Spittle sprays the air. He expects it to hit the dirt greenish-brown and viscous, water into tobacco juice.
Not tonight.
In the hole, he thinks, kicking up fuzzy-winged insects from the overgrown grass. On deck. He looks down at his sneakers, conjures a trim green circle. His mother had pointed him to a blurb in the Globe and aloud he’d read: 1966 World Series, Orioles, on-deck circle, sold. Then his mouth had fallen open, his tongue stubbornly refusing to wrap itself around the unimaginable sum secreted in the lower right-hand corner of the sports section.
“What would you do—“
“Put it in the hall,” his mother had suggested.
“In front of the bathroom,” his dad chimed in.
Ten seconds later, his mouth full of orange juice, Alan got it.
Like it’s a welcome mat, he wipes his feet on home plate. To first base he assigns Ghost Runner Number One, a rookie. He’s skittish, tries for too big a leadoff, rectifies his mistake scant seconds before Alan hears the ball snap into the first baseman’s glove. On third, ghostly uniform dusted brown from a previous inning’s run, muscles tensed, smile sure, is Ghost Runner Number Two.
Not exactly a grand slam, but it’ll do. That’s his throwaway line. Chest heaving, he’ll pause midway through the sentence for breath. Outstretched microphones will inch forward, betraying their handlers’ interest.
He mentally chalks out a batter’s box, steps into it as though dipping his feet in a pool. His stomach clenches, his arms tingle. He flexes his toes and runs.
They’ve uprooted the bases, but Alan’s made do with trees, lawn chairs, corners, shoes, shirts, branches, and, in a pinch, shadows. Baseball is a game of substitution—a struggle to reproduce, with the aid of mismatched caps, a souvenir bat from a minor league game, a repertoire of television-derived mannerisms and a phalanx of imaginary teammates, the sudden clutch in the chest as a ball zips across forty-five feet of freshly-clipped grass and into a mitt. Like there’d been no other possible destination.
Legs churning, head ducked, he rounds first. The air is still; he charges through, leaves behind displaced dirt that settles in the time it takes to draw breath. He listens to his feet pound the ground, feels his heart pound in response. As he leaves second behind, his strides shorten. His muscles—he’s just gained familiarity with the word and instinctively pictures shiny black shells lurking beneath his skin—strain.
A final turn. Time totters between evening and night; all around Dedham, Massachusetts, outside lights blink into existence. Unperturbed, the outfield grass stands attentive. The infield dirt yields willingly to his shoes.
The third base line he’s chalked in his head extends to infinity.
everyfiveyears, a challenge I should be able to finish. The general idea (as you might have surmised) is to write a fic for every five years in a given character's life.Alan Shore, needless to say. Age 5.
Diamond. Gravel crunches like breakfast cereal under Alan’s shoes and he thinks the word over. He’d selected baseball, knowingly or not, for its vocabulary—a game not on a field but a diamond, spent contending with grounders and flies, line drives and pop ups. Fastball, knuckleball, 12-to-6 curve. He’s never known words like these, rarified, poetic, yet each tied inextricably to its corresponding action.
The secret, of course, is they all describe variations on the act of flight.
It’s the time of summer when foul lines are allowed to fade. They’ll return in early spring, heaps of powdered chalk white enough to dazzle. As Alan toes the imagined line, a hand settles in his hair. He tips his head back, smiles into a sky interrupted by his dad’s jacket, the scar-flecked underside of his chin.
“How’d you get that.”
“Hmm?” The hand slips away; Alan touches his own chin. “Ask me when you’re fifteen,” his dad says.
“And you’ll tell me?”
“And I’ll tell you.”
Satisfied, Alan turns his head and makes a sound as though he’s pronouncing the letter t. Spittle sprays the air. He expects it to hit the dirt greenish-brown and viscous, water into tobacco juice.
Not tonight.
In the hole, he thinks, kicking up fuzzy-winged insects from the overgrown grass. On deck. He looks down at his sneakers, conjures a trim green circle. His mother had pointed him to a blurb in the Globe and aloud he’d read: 1966 World Series, Orioles, on-deck circle, sold. Then his mouth had fallen open, his tongue stubbornly refusing to wrap itself around the unimaginable sum secreted in the lower right-hand corner of the sports section.
“What would you do—“
“Put it in the hall,” his mother had suggested.
“In front of the bathroom,” his dad chimed in.
Ten seconds later, his mouth full of orange juice, Alan got it.
Like it’s a welcome mat, he wipes his feet on home plate. To first base he assigns Ghost Runner Number One, a rookie. He’s skittish, tries for too big a leadoff, rectifies his mistake scant seconds before Alan hears the ball snap into the first baseman’s glove. On third, ghostly uniform dusted brown from a previous inning’s run, muscles tensed, smile sure, is Ghost Runner Number Two.
Not exactly a grand slam, but it’ll do. That’s his throwaway line. Chest heaving, he’ll pause midway through the sentence for breath. Outstretched microphones will inch forward, betraying their handlers’ interest.
He mentally chalks out a batter’s box, steps into it as though dipping his feet in a pool. His stomach clenches, his arms tingle. He flexes his toes and runs.
They’ve uprooted the bases, but Alan’s made do with trees, lawn chairs, corners, shoes, shirts, branches, and, in a pinch, shadows. Baseball is a game of substitution—a struggle to reproduce, with the aid of mismatched caps, a souvenir bat from a minor league game, a repertoire of television-derived mannerisms and a phalanx of imaginary teammates, the sudden clutch in the chest as a ball zips across forty-five feet of freshly-clipped grass and into a mitt. Like there’d been no other possible destination.
Legs churning, head ducked, he rounds first. The air is still; he charges through, leaves behind displaced dirt that settles in the time it takes to draw breath. He listens to his feet pound the ground, feels his heart pound in response. As he leaves second behind, his strides shorten. His muscles—he’s just gained familiarity with the word and instinctively pictures shiny black shells lurking beneath his skin—strain.
A final turn. Time totters between evening and night; all around Dedham, Massachusetts, outside lights blink into existence. Unperturbed, the outfield grass stands attentive. The infield dirt yields willingly to his shoes.
The third base line he’s chalked in his head extends to infinity.
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no subject
Date: 2006-09-09 11:40 am (UTC)*glomps alan*
*will try and give you real comments-- possibly even critique!! in the morning* *er, later in the morning*
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Date: 2006-09-09 10:36 pm (UTC)I should probably toss you into the author's notes. "Special thanks to
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Date: 2006-09-09 02:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-09 10:23 pm (UTC)Seriously, thank you.
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Date: 2006-09-09 10:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-09 10:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-10 01:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-10 01:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-10 01:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-10 07:55 pm (UTC)I'll read it later, because I have SO MUCH HOMEWORK OMG, but YAY!
/gip
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Date: 2006-09-10 08:45 pm (UTC)Poor you. *hugs* Don't worry, the post won't self-destruct or anything.