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31_days2006-04-06 11:44 pm
tortillafactory.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2006-04-06 11:44 pm
[6 April] [James Bond] I Spy
Title: I Spy
Day/Theme: April 6th - Mad Lib communication
Series: James Bond
Character/Pairing: Bond/?
Rating: PG
I spy, with my little eye.
Something tall.
A tree.
I spy, with my little eye.
Something green.
Grass.
I spy, with my little eye.
Something white.
A scar.
I spy, with my little eye.
Something I love.
Someone, I mean. I know I meant someone.
Who doesn't dream of love on a train? The rhythm, the steam and metal, the feeling of isolation from the real world as it rushes past you. Fate controls you, throws you together - strangers on a train. It's very...Hitchcock. Very dark, very noir. Very sexy.
Also very Hitchock, very dark, very noir, very sexy, is the man with the scar whom I think I love. The idea that he loves me is absurd, insupportable, and the alternative unthinkable. I cannot bear him, and I cannot bear to be without him.
Look how like a child he is, sprawled in the corner of the compartment. His hair, as always, not quite in place. Eyes down. Fingers restless.
"I spy, with my little eye..."
He smiles at the floor.
I say, "something beautiful."
His smile broadens, shows teeth. "Are you looking in a mirror?"
"No." Such a smooth talker.
"Who taught you this game?"
"Nobody important." Just the boy I used to love.
"Is it the meadow?"
"No."
"The china?"
"No."
"Wild horses?"
"There are no horses here." I'm laughing.
"You don't know that." Still smiling, but obstinate. So like a child. "Just because you haven't seen one -"
"Oh, James. Stop."
"Fine." He shrugs abruptly. "I give up."
"All right."
There is a silence, during which I contemplate filing my nails.
"You've got to tell me now."
"No I haven't."
"Those are the rules!"
"Who says?"
He sighs. "Fine. Don't tell me, then - it was hardly a fair question, anyway. Beauty is subjective."
He's right - it is. Perhaps most people wouldn't look at his eyes, piercing grey and blue, and call them beautiful. I would and I do. I doubt that he would have guessed it.
Perhaps I didn't want him to.
Perhaps he would be offended if I said he had beautiful eyes.
Perhaps then he would know that I love him, and become nervous and run away before I can cling to him too long or too hard. He's not the sort of man you own.
I spy, with my little eye.
Something hopeless.
Me.
Author's Note: The theme is a little more abstract than usual. For those of you who have forgotten (or, horror of horrors, never have the pleasure of playing them) Mad Libs usually involve filling in blanks with directions like "something greasy" or "something you eat." The game "I Spy" has a similar format, and fit the genre considerably better, but I think the connection is still there. "BUT WHO'S THE GIRL?!!!!?!??!?!!eleventy!" I can hear you demand. Reader's choice, really. Off the top of my head, I can name three girls who rode on trains with Bond in the Fleming novels. It could be any one of them. It could be a different one, still. It's up to you.
Day/Theme: April 6th - Mad Lib communication
Series: James Bond
Character/Pairing: Bond/?
Rating: PG
I spy, with my little eye.
Something tall.
A tree.
I spy, with my little eye.
Something green.
Grass.
I spy, with my little eye.
Something white.
A scar.
I spy, with my little eye.
Something I love.
Someone, I mean. I know I meant someone.
Who doesn't dream of love on a train? The rhythm, the steam and metal, the feeling of isolation from the real world as it rushes past you. Fate controls you, throws you together - strangers on a train. It's very...Hitchcock. Very dark, very noir. Very sexy.
Also very Hitchock, very dark, very noir, very sexy, is the man with the scar whom I think I love. The idea that he loves me is absurd, insupportable, and the alternative unthinkable. I cannot bear him, and I cannot bear to be without him.
Look how like a child he is, sprawled in the corner of the compartment. His hair, as always, not quite in place. Eyes down. Fingers restless.
"I spy, with my little eye..."
He smiles at the floor.
I say, "something beautiful."
His smile broadens, shows teeth. "Are you looking in a mirror?"
"No." Such a smooth talker.
"Who taught you this game?"
"Nobody important." Just the boy I used to love.
"Is it the meadow?"
"No."
"The china?"
"No."
"Wild horses?"
"There are no horses here." I'm laughing.
"You don't know that." Still smiling, but obstinate. So like a child. "Just because you haven't seen one -"
"Oh, James. Stop."
"Fine." He shrugs abruptly. "I give up."
"All right."
There is a silence, during which I contemplate filing my nails.
"You've got to tell me now."
"No I haven't."
"Those are the rules!"
"Who says?"
He sighs. "Fine. Don't tell me, then - it was hardly a fair question, anyway. Beauty is subjective."
He's right - it is. Perhaps most people wouldn't look at his eyes, piercing grey and blue, and call them beautiful. I would and I do. I doubt that he would have guessed it.
Perhaps I didn't want him to.
Perhaps he would be offended if I said he had beautiful eyes.
Perhaps then he would know that I love him, and become nervous and run away before I can cling to him too long or too hard. He's not the sort of man you own.
I spy, with my little eye.
Something hopeless.
Me.
Author's Note: The theme is a little more abstract than usual. For those of you who have forgotten (or, horror of horrors, never have the pleasure of playing them) Mad Libs usually involve filling in blanks with directions like "something greasy" or "something you eat." The game "I Spy" has a similar format, and fit the genre considerably better, but I think the connection is still there. "BUT WHO'S THE GIRL?!!!!?!??!?!!eleventy!" I can hear you demand. Reader's choice, really. Off the top of my head, I can name three girls who rode on trains with Bond in the Fleming novels. It could be any one of them. It could be a different one, still. It's up to you.