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Oct. 8th, 2006 12:05 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
twincityhackerHeroes fic. Flash Heroes fic. I am a sad being. That is all. Though oddly enough, I was in the emotional state at the end and then wrote myself back to even-headeness. Wacky.
The staccato of the breaking news roused Issac out of his shallow slumber. He wearily rolled over and blinked his eyes a few times, attempting to get his bearings over the headache that had settled into his skull. As he wished someone would kindly remove the offending object, he noticed the liter of paint supplies and the still-damp canvas on the floor. Last night he had evidently painted yet another violent landscape, this one of a row of brownstones on fire. He blinked once more, critiquing what he had created though his body loudly demanded that he drop back into sleep.
After gazing at the painting for a few more minutes, Issac got off the floor to find some coffee and painkillers. He picked over the bottles on the kitchen sink, and dry swallowed some pills. He put the coffee on glanced up at the television. On the news they were reporting that there was a an apartment fire somewhere in the city. The scene looked oddly familiar somehow. He was trying to figure out what he recognized, when the ding of the coffee maker sounded. He picked his beverage, dismissed his feelings of deja-vu, went over to the door to get the morning paper.
The front page story, though, he could not dismiss as easily as mere imaginings. He looked up at a painting of a blown-up bus he had painted a few weeks ago and then back down to the cover-story of a suicide bombing in Israel. He tried to rationalize that there had been several bombings of busses over the last few weeks, so why would he not be inspired to paint a scene depicting such? Especially since he had painted just about every other kind of violent act - burning homes, fields of war, men throwing themselves off buildings - really, why would he not create a picture of a bombed-out bus was the better question.
He nervously set his coffee mug down, and picked up the paper, trying to see the differences between the weeks-old painting and today's new horror. Fear started creeping up his spine when he saw not more and more differences but more and more similarities. The wreckage, the blocks of color, hell, the license plates... The image on the canvas and the image in the newspaper were the exact same thing.
He flung the paper down. Whirling thoughts ran wild though his mind, nothing clear but the desire to deny. He rushed over to where he kept his paints and pulled out a gallon of matte black. Filled with desperation and panic, he pried open the paint and scooped up the paint with his hands. He threw it onto the newest painting, blotting out the colors and making the previous image unknown.
Unknown. Like what the future should be.
The staccato of the breaking news roused Issac out of his shallow slumber. He wearily rolled over and blinked his eyes a few times, attempting to get his bearings over the headache that had settled into his skull. As he wished someone would kindly remove the offending object, he noticed the liter of paint supplies and the still-damp canvas on the floor. Last night he had evidently painted yet another violent landscape, this one of a row of brownstones on fire. He blinked once more, critiquing what he had created though his body loudly demanded that he drop back into sleep.
After gazing at the painting for a few more minutes, Issac got off the floor to find some coffee and painkillers. He picked over the bottles on the kitchen sink, and dry swallowed some pills. He put the coffee on glanced up at the television. On the news they were reporting that there was a an apartment fire somewhere in the city. The scene looked oddly familiar somehow. He was trying to figure out what he recognized, when the ding of the coffee maker sounded. He picked his beverage, dismissed his feelings of deja-vu, went over to the door to get the morning paper.
The front page story, though, he could not dismiss as easily as mere imaginings. He looked up at a painting of a blown-up bus he had painted a few weeks ago and then back down to the cover-story of a suicide bombing in Israel. He tried to rationalize that there had been several bombings of busses over the last few weeks, so why would he not be inspired to paint a scene depicting such? Especially since he had painted just about every other kind of violent act - burning homes, fields of war, men throwing themselves off buildings - really, why would he not create a picture of a bombed-out bus was the better question.
He nervously set his coffee mug down, and picked up the paper, trying to see the differences between the weeks-old painting and today's new horror. Fear started creeping up his spine when he saw not more and more differences but more and more similarities. The wreckage, the blocks of color, hell, the license plates... The image on the canvas and the image in the newspaper were the exact same thing.
He flung the paper down. Whirling thoughts ran wild though his mind, nothing clear but the desire to deny. He rushed over to where he kept his paints and pulled out a gallon of matte black. Filled with desperation and panic, he pried open the paint and scooped up the paint with his hands. He threw it onto the newest painting, blotting out the colors and making the previous image unknown.
Unknown. Like what the future should be.
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no subject
Date: 2006-10-08 04:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-08 09:59 pm (UTC)