donaldgennaro

Ian Malcolm, it seemed, had used the very last of his physical ability to throw that black clad arse of his onto the jeep’s gear shift, and now, having reached that limit and exhausted all reserve of personal energy, is slumped in the back of the jeep with his head bowed and his limp hair hanging in his eyes. Muldoon spares a couple glances in the rearview mirror now and then to keep tabs on his prone form, but what he can see of the injured chaotician does not stir. Muldoon turns his attention back to the road. There are more pressing matters at hand. Like driving. All the same, the man’s stillness is unnerving to him. In the sh

Ian Malcolm wakes up screaming. It's been six years, now, and this is still the norm: it's a pleasant surprise whenever he manages to sleep through the night. He'd parted ways with Sarah Harding like he had a hundred other girlfriends a few months after the whole San Diego mess. None of the kids had been particularly fussed to see her go. Ian regrets it sometimes, mostly mornings like this, if only because Sarah was the only girl after the park who didn't leave the morning after a nightmare. Even if they're just going to make your coffee the wrong way (she never remembered he took two bloody sugars) and tell you you're being illogical (he go

I It's a Monday near the end of October when Paul says he has a sore throat. Chris gets up from next to him and moves his schoolwork and everything all the way around the table so that he's sitting at the other side. “Don't breathe on me.” he says. “I got a rugby game tommorow.” “You want some tea or something?” asks Greg. “Nah.” says Paul. “Don't get paint on the table, Matt.” Matt has taken all the blades off the ceiling fan and is painting on them in orange. Greg's not actually sure if that's allowed. He's not going to stop him or anything, though. Matt has painted on about

It's Christmas eve, and it's the year 1984 or somewhere thereabouts. Greg's in university this year. It's late, but not yet so late that you can call it early, and the sky is very dark. The room is lit by the colourful lights on their tiny, decrepit Christmas tree. No snow. Greg wanted snow for Christmas, and he's unhappy. He's in the middle of writing his paper at the kitchen table, and Matt is painting on the table next to him, literally on the table: canvas has always been too small for Matt, too limiting. When he paints he paints on things: on cars and walls and bookcases, on chairs and lamps and bedposts and textbooks and shoes and his o

 December 17, 1984 - 8:03 pm It is not snowing, but the temperature has dropped and no one goes outside more than they have to.  The freezing weather might be more bearable if there were snow, but the streets are bare, and for all the beautiful Christmas lights and brightly lit shop window displays the holiday season seems to be lacking something. Greg is shivering in his light coat, and he hurries along the streets with head bowed against the wind. His bare fingers are burning with the cold, tingling with a strange and painful warmth. Greg longs to stow his hands in his pockets, but he is weighed down with four plastic carrier bags, two clu

December 15th, 1984 - 6:42 pm "Where've you been?" asks Paul as Chris bangs through the door of their flat. "Ah - Bollocks." Greg has taken the opportunity to flatten his arm to the table. Paul pulls his hand away and massages his wrist. "I wasn't ready, Greg. Four out of six?" "I'll just beat you again." says Greg, triumphant. He cracks his knuckles for emphasis. Paul gets all haughty, like he hadn't wanted to arm wrestle in the first place. "I have work to do anyway." he announces, getting up from the table and sliding a cigarette into his mouth. "Chris, come take this tosser down a peg. Where ya been anyway?" "Rugby." says Chris as answ

December 10, 1984 - 5:39pm "I want a tree." says Greg. "Can we have a tree this year?" "There's no room." replies Chris, who's lacing up his shoes at the front door. He's going off to play rugby in the cold with some of his rugby mates. Chris and his rugby mates do that every December. It's probably a miracle they haven't all got pneumonia and died yet. Paul is reading some book in the chair with the flowers painted on the bottom, and he looks up. "Chris is right." he says. "It wouldn't fit." "We'd make it fit." says Greg eagerly. "We'd move all the furniture around and make it fit. Come on. Just a small one." "Where?" asks Paul, all reas

It's night. The window of his bedroom is open just a crack, and Greg shivers a bit under the covers. He's not cold enough to get up and close it, though. The moon through the curtains throws elongated shadows upon his ceiling and walls. Lying on his back, he can see the patterns they make above him; they creep and climb, smooth as silk, shifting and changing as it grows later and the night wears on. A clock is ticking somewhere. His bedroom floor is dark with shadow. It is one of those nights where you begin to wonder if the floor is even still there at all. It is one of those nights where he thinks if he gets out of bed he might just fall in

One spring night five years before Sherlock Holmes meets John Watson he gets a blue scarf. - - - He finds Sherlock sleeping in a gutter - literally, a gutter, his cheek pressed against the metal grate. His face is utterly filthy, the porcelain skin marred by dirt, but even in this state he is beautiful. Sherlock's dark lashes brush his dirty cheeks, and his long unruly curls are spread out on the ground. His hair needs a wash. He is so young, made younger by sleep, and Lestrade's heart aches to see this. It is not just the fact that such a beautiful, brilliant child uses a filthy gutter for his bed, but what this choice of sleeping accommod

Teenage Lestrade - - - I called my best mate Jimmy around ten-thirty on friday. It was a week or so after John Lennon got shot, and Rebecca had been dead for almost a month. It took me ages to dial his number because my fingers were still all wrapped up in bandages, but eventually the call went through and he picked up right on the first ring. Jimmy always picked up on the first ring. It made me wonder if he sat near the phone all day, just waiting for calls to come in so he could pick up on the first ring. "Hey." he said. It sounded like he was chewing something. That was pretty ironic because Jimmy used to complain all the time about me