So, I was thinking about ways I could turn myself into a blogger. I’m not the girl who keeps journals (although I’m making plans to start soon), so keeping a blog for me is problematic because of the whole continuity thing. But, I figured that if I can write about things I enjoy doing, things I write and anything that pops in my head, I will at least be able to make three posts per week (fingers crossed).
Samantha puts up these challenges every month on the LT3 group page on Goodreads. I love participating because they serve as inspiration for me to write, and I know that anytime I finally decide to write a full story (that is not based on a submission call), I can pick up one of these, and begin writing. Now, usually, I post this first on my livejournal profile, but I figured that it is only fair that those who are not fans of LJ can still read this as well.
Followers of my snippet friday, can make their choice of which snippet they would like to see as a full story, so that whenever I have a breathing space in between writing to make my deadlines, I can start writing that.
To start off Snippet Friday, here’s one which was based on the prompt: Haven’t met you yet. Do enjoy.
Lyonel could feel the weariness wrapping round his body like a cloak. His feet dragged, his body ached and his bones rattled. The cold had his teeth chattering and his fingers were slowly going numb. He needed to get home soon; needed the warmth and comfort of the hearth, and the comforting presence of his lover. Music would have helped too but… He cut off the thought with a shake of his head. He had made up his mind that he wasn’t going to live in the hopeless swamp of the if-only. It was a tiring, frustrating and useless thing to do. He had known what he had been signing up for when he had gotten involved with his lover. The loss was the price he had to pay for having Walter in his life, and heavens knew that being with Walter was certainly worth it.
Ahead of him, a man sat unmoving; his stool right before a blank canvas; one hand clutching a brush, poised to touch the canvas; the only source of light being the one from the streetlamp, while the lake glowed; shifting colours from the inkiest black, to the deepest purple and back to black again. The artist’s eyes were tightly shut; his mouth pursed; seeking inspiration probably, Lyonel thought as he smiled and continued on his way—his steps lighter and his heart less wary.
Someday soon, Paul would understand and Lyonel would meet a buyer who would understand his pieces and be inspired by them. Then, he would stop attending meetings where the only emotions he saw were incomprehension and rejection on the faces of those who believed they knew enough to critique his work and deem it inappropriate to be hung on their galleries.
Soon, he stood in front of the townhouse, his feet steadily carrying him towards the door. The anticipation of soon being with Walter had his nerves buzzing. Quick fingers entered his shoulder bag; shifting through the various pencils, pens and sheets; frustration mounting when he couldn’t find his keys.
As he contemplated calling Walter to come to the door and let him in, his hands closed over cold metal. Found you, he thought as he removed the key, stuck it in the keyhole and turned. He placed his hands on the door handle, turned it, and stepped into the house.
Blessed warmth greeted him as he shrugged out of his coat, making sure to place it carefully on the stand that stood by the door. Walter got cranky whenever he forgot to do that.
Lyonel pulled the gloves slowly from his fingers as he moved forward; eyes searching for his lover. The foyer was empty, and so was the living room. Walter was not lying in wait for him in the bedroom, neither was he at the kitchen. Lyonel went back to the coat stand. Walter’s favourite Mulberry coat was still on it. He never left the house without it, which meant he was present somewhere. But where on earth was he?
He took the turning on his right, walking till he got to a closed door. His eyes confirmed that Walter was not in the study either. As Lyonel racked his brains, trying to figure out where Walter could be, a thought came to his mind. He was about to dismiss it when his brain reminded him that it was the only room he hadn’t checked yet.
With a shrug, Lyonel jogged down the stairs, moving carefully to avoid the knickknacks that littered the way to the basement. It would be a terrible thing if he tripped and injured himself. With his luck, Walter would probably not find him until hours had passed, especially considering that since he had moved in with Walter; the man had never been to the basement.
He finally got to the door, noted absentmindedly that a path had been cleared around the area, and pushed the door open.
Lyonel blinked hard at the sight that greeted his eyes and wondered if what he was seeing was an illusion. Walter had his head thrown back, his eyes closed, a half-smile on his face as his long fingers caressed the piano—a piano he had not touched in years—keys, and he wrung beautiful music from the instrument.
Lyonel recognised the piece Walter was playing: Suite Espanola Op. 47. The melody was intricately beautiful; starting out slowly, bringing to his mind, rides on the gondola in Venice right before the sunset; building up to become the clashing sounds that brought to mind a furious storm; before it slowed again and quietened, like the soft drops and patter of rain hitting the rooftops after a heavy storm.
He had always found the piece moving and powerful, and just like he had expected him to, Walter played it beautifully.
As the aching notes slowly faded, grey eyes slowly opened; the firm lips lost their rigidity, and fingers brought the piece to an end. Walter said nothing; gazing only at Lyonel as he waited for him to speak.
‘Why?’ Lyonel asked. He needed to understand the reason why Walter finally decided to accept music in his life once again.
‘Because it was time.’ The words were softly spoken.
‘Why wasn’t it time five years ago? Three years ago? Hell, a year ago?’ Lyonel demanded.
‘Because I hadn’t met you yet’
Lyonel stared, stunned for a moment; running the words over in his head, as grey eyes continued to stare at him.
He felt the joy blossom in his heart, his lips stretched as he strode to the piano and bent to capture lips that had already parted. As his tongue slowly stroked an answering tongue, he closed his eyes; his mind at peace. It had been worth the wait.
‘I love you Walter Newmann.’
‘As I love you, Lyonel Dukas.’