Fic: Improv "Wallpapers Lost"
Nov. 29th, 2002 06:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lobelia321Author's Notes:
I am very stupid. I read![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
zarah5's instructions for this week's improv. They clearly stated that the following phrases had to be used: More than I did / I wish I had said / Do you trust me? I got excited by my random people and by the short time limit, ended up typing like a lunatic and forgetting completely about the instructions!
So: Does not contain the requisite phrases. Cannot be posted to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
contrelamontre. But is an improv!
I picked the pairing out of a hat. Literally: just for an extra challenge, I wrote everyone's name on a bit of paper, threw them in a basket and picked three at random.
Title: Wallpapers Lost
Author: Lobelia; lobelia321@aol.com
Category: Improv. 30 minutes. (Finished it with no minute to spare!)
Pairing: Billy Boyd / Harry Sinclair / Stephen Ure
Rating: PG/
Content/Warnings: RPS
Spoilers: None.
Archive Rights: My niche only.
Disclaimers: This is a work of amateur fiction. I do not know these people. I am not making money. The events described in this story did not happen.
Author's Notes: See above.
----
Harry Sinclair woke up one morning and noticed the sun shining through his window. It was shining onto a particular patch of wallpaper, and Harry Sinclair saw that the sun, on its daily path through his room, had burned a pale rectangle onto the pattern of geometric shapes above his chest of drawers.
He looked at the rectangle some more and imagined how he might incorporate it into a film. Slow pan across the room, close-ups of objects -- ball of wool, toy aeroplane, pile of feathered pen nibs --, then the pattern: superimpositions of triangles, quadrangles, octagons, circles, a slow zoom-out and the credits in sepia italics within the faded frame of sun-blanched wallpaper.
Music? Something from the Twenties, played on the piano. Cool, blues-ish, but with a touch of nostalgia.
Harry Sinclair spent five minutes pondering this idea. Then he got up, got ready and went to work. His work, at the moment, was far removed from solar nuances and half-snatched memories. What he had to do, from seven in the morning till seven at night, was to fight evil, deformed baddies. The baddies were called orcs, and here was one of them.
The orc growled at him. Harry Sinclair sighed.
The orc waved its arms in the air. Harry Sinclair made a tired gesture with his hand.
The orc made rapid threatening aikido moves and chop-chops with its claws.
"Yes, yes," said Harry Sinclair.
He picked up his sword and dragged it behind him to an out-of-the-way place. The out-of-the-way-place was behind a hessian screen erected in one corner of the canteen. Behind the screen was a rack full of used breakfast trays. There was also a lone chair, right at the back. Its back was broken, so somebody had obviously put it here until further notice.
Harry Sinclair sank into the chair. He didn't lean back. He rested his sword across his leather-bound knees. He thought of the wallpaper and in his mind transformed it into swirls of colour, more insubstantial than compass-drawn lines, fewer contours, reds bleeding into yellows, and perhaps the music, too, needed changing: piano bleeding into violin, the strong and the plaintive.
A whole atmosphere summed up in the title sequence. And at some point the first intrusion of a human form.
A plate clattered to the ground and there were suppressed giggles.
Harry Sinclair cautiously peered through the slats holding up the trays. On the other side of cups and bowls, between rack and screen, was the intrusion of two human forms. No, not quite human: one orc form and one hobbit form.
It was the orc who had wiggled itself at Harry Sinclair earlier. The orc was still wiggling. The orc seemed to be in very good spirits. It was giggling in a most un-orcish fashion. It had its paws up under the tawny waistcoat of a curly-headed, green-scarfed, wide-eyed personage. The personage was giggling, too. In fact, both seemed to have been robbed of the power of human speech. There were hands on chainmail, and claws in hair. And there were tongues. One tongue emerged quite naturally out of the hobbit actor's mouth, but the other tongue, pink and wet, sneaked out between hideous orc-lips. It had to fight its way free of latex and prosthetics. The disfigured maws worked senselessly, the tongue waved in the air, the other tongue ensnared it, the giggles stopped.
Harry Sinclair sank back into his chair and forgot about wallpaper and violins.
The chair's back came loose from its hinge and crashed to the ground. Harry Sinclair lost his balance and slid to the ground. His sword fell on top of him with a metallic clunk. Harry Sinclair grabbed for something to hold onto, reached for the tray rack and pulled down three trays, five plates, two glasses, four cups, four saucers, three knives, four tea spoons and a whole assortment of toast crusts, congealed bran flakes, left-over pools of coffee and half-eaten croissants.
Two heads looked around the corner of the rack.
"Harry?" said Billy.
"Harry!" said the orc.
"Are you okay?" said Billy.
"No," said Harry Sinclair.
And he wasn't talking only about the state of his costume or the ache in his coccyx.
-----
The End.
29 November 2002
I am very stupid. I read
zarah5's instructions for this week's improv. They clearly stated that the following phrases had to be used: More than I did / I wish I had said / Do you trust me? I got excited by my random people and by the short time limit, ended up typing like a lunatic and forgetting completely about the instructions!So: Does not contain the requisite phrases. Cannot be posted to
contrelamontre. But is an improv!I picked the pairing out of a hat. Literally: just for an extra challenge, I wrote everyone's name on a bit of paper, threw them in a basket and picked three at random.
Title: Wallpapers Lost
Author: Lobelia; lobelia321@aol.com
Category: Improv. 30 minutes. (Finished it with no minute to spare!)
Pairing: Billy Boyd / Harry Sinclair / Stephen Ure
Rating: PG/
Content/Warnings: RPS
Spoilers: None.
Archive Rights: My niche only.
Disclaimers: This is a work of amateur fiction. I do not know these people. I am not making money. The events described in this story did not happen.
Author's Notes: See above.
----
Harry Sinclair woke up one morning and noticed the sun shining through his window. It was shining onto a particular patch of wallpaper, and Harry Sinclair saw that the sun, on its daily path through his room, had burned a pale rectangle onto the pattern of geometric shapes above his chest of drawers.
He looked at the rectangle some more and imagined how he might incorporate it into a film. Slow pan across the room, close-ups of objects -- ball of wool, toy aeroplane, pile of feathered pen nibs --, then the pattern: superimpositions of triangles, quadrangles, octagons, circles, a slow zoom-out and the credits in sepia italics within the faded frame of sun-blanched wallpaper.
Music? Something from the Twenties, played on the piano. Cool, blues-ish, but with a touch of nostalgia.
Harry Sinclair spent five minutes pondering this idea. Then he got up, got ready and went to work. His work, at the moment, was far removed from solar nuances and half-snatched memories. What he had to do, from seven in the morning till seven at night, was to fight evil, deformed baddies. The baddies were called orcs, and here was one of them.
The orc growled at him. Harry Sinclair sighed.
The orc waved its arms in the air. Harry Sinclair made a tired gesture with his hand.
The orc made rapid threatening aikido moves and chop-chops with its claws.
"Yes, yes," said Harry Sinclair.
He picked up his sword and dragged it behind him to an out-of-the-way place. The out-of-the-way-place was behind a hessian screen erected in one corner of the canteen. Behind the screen was a rack full of used breakfast trays. There was also a lone chair, right at the back. Its back was broken, so somebody had obviously put it here until further notice.
Harry Sinclair sank into the chair. He didn't lean back. He rested his sword across his leather-bound knees. He thought of the wallpaper and in his mind transformed it into swirls of colour, more insubstantial than compass-drawn lines, fewer contours, reds bleeding into yellows, and perhaps the music, too, needed changing: piano bleeding into violin, the strong and the plaintive.
A whole atmosphere summed up in the title sequence. And at some point the first intrusion of a human form.
A plate clattered to the ground and there were suppressed giggles.
Harry Sinclair cautiously peered through the slats holding up the trays. On the other side of cups and bowls, between rack and screen, was the intrusion of two human forms. No, not quite human: one orc form and one hobbit form.
It was the orc who had wiggled itself at Harry Sinclair earlier. The orc was still wiggling. The orc seemed to be in very good spirits. It was giggling in a most un-orcish fashion. It had its paws up under the tawny waistcoat of a curly-headed, green-scarfed, wide-eyed personage. The personage was giggling, too. In fact, both seemed to have been robbed of the power of human speech. There were hands on chainmail, and claws in hair. And there were tongues. One tongue emerged quite naturally out of the hobbit actor's mouth, but the other tongue, pink and wet, sneaked out between hideous orc-lips. It had to fight its way free of latex and prosthetics. The disfigured maws worked senselessly, the tongue waved in the air, the other tongue ensnared it, the giggles stopped.
Harry Sinclair sank back into his chair and forgot about wallpaper and violins.
The chair's back came loose from its hinge and crashed to the ground. Harry Sinclair lost his balance and slid to the ground. His sword fell on top of him with a metallic clunk. Harry Sinclair grabbed for something to hold onto, reached for the tray rack and pulled down three trays, five plates, two glasses, four cups, four saucers, three knives, four tea spoons and a whole assortment of toast crusts, congealed bran flakes, left-over pools of coffee and half-eaten croissants.
Two heads looked around the corner of the rack.
"Harry?" said Billy.
"Harry!" said the orc.
"Are you okay?" said Billy.
"No," said Harry Sinclair.
And he wasn't talking only about the state of his costume or the ache in his coccyx.
-----
The End.
29 November 2002
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2002-11-30 10:24 am (UTC)turned on, if I want to be honest, but that means admitting I'm a freak
) by the image of Billy in full hobbit attire, kissing an orc.Mmmmmm.....
This was very interesting reading... lol
thank you
Date: 2002-12-03 01:28 am (UTC)And orcs, yes.... The biggest drawback in rps is the lack of interspecies perversity, and orcs is the closest we'll get. Hmmm.... Must do more orcs!!
(no subject)
Date: 2002-12-02 10:47 am (UTC)Have I ever told you you're incredible with descriptions, especially visual details? The surroundings are so absolutely alive and there and real that it stuns me every time. This story is no exception. It wasn't what I meant in the challenge, but that certainly doesn't mean it's not a great improv. Because it is.
well thank you
Date: 2002-12-03 01:26 am (UTC)However, it did mean that I got to do my first Harry, and we've all got to gear up for that in the run-up to Brenda's birthday, *winks*.
Thank you about the visual details and the *there*; you are very kind