Post by Lady Idril on Feb 23, 2007 17:48:02 GMT -5
Author's Note: This is my first songfic, so hopefully I follow all the guidelines. This is an original fiction, and it's based in London but I think it turns out to seem more like New York City momentarily taking on the role of London. I'm not familiar with British culture and lifestyles, so I used most of my knowledge of the US cities. Be open-minded!
The Song: "Clark Gable" by The Postal Service. If anyone is interested in hearing it, let me know. Though I recommend the entire Give Up album.
Rated: K+
Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with Benjamin Gibbard and Jimmy Tamborello. All the characters are original and owned by myself (even though the main character is named after the lyricist/genius). I'm making no monetary gain off of this fiction, and the "Clark Gable" song along with its lyrics are copyright Benjamin Gibbard and The Postal Service.
Lyrics:
I was waiting for a cross-town train in the London underground
When it struck me
That I’ve been waiting since birth to find
A love that would look and sound
Like a movie.
So I changed my plans,
I rented a camera and a van,
And then I called you.
“I need you to pretend that we are in love again”,
And you agreed to.
I want so badly to believe
That there is truth, that love is real.
And I want life in every word
To the extent that it’s absurd
I greased the lens and framed the shot
Using a friend as my stand-in
The script, it called for rain
But it was clear that day
So we faked it
The marker snapped and I yelled “Quiet on the set”
And then called “Action”
I kissed you in a style Clark Gable would have admired,
I thought it classic.
I want so badly to believe
That there is truth, that love is real.
And I want life in every word
To the extent that it’s absurd
I know you’re wise beyond your years
But do you ever get the fear
That your perfect verse is just a lie
You tell yourself to help you get by?
Chapter 1
The London sidewalk was a dull, pitiful shade he thought as his sneakers shuffled across the pavement in silence, hands stuffed idly in the deep pockets of his jeans. The sky mocked the bitter feelings his heart was exuding with a cloudless sunshine. How unfair.
He heard her words in his head, echoing unendingly. Did she really give him those lines? “It’s not you, it’s me.” “Can we still be friends?” Who ever created those sick clichés anyway?
As his hand reached up to adjust his glasses a familiar song reverberated from his pocket, and he sluggishly retrieved his cell phone. A hope that verged on desperation dared him to believe that the caller I.D. might read “Lucy”.
Not unless his ex-girlfriend had changed her name to “Charlie” in the five minutes since he left her apartment.
“Yeah,” he raised an eyebrow at the sound of his own voice. There was a delay, as if his best friend was contemplating something. He waited.
“How are you doing, Ben?” Charlie’s voice sounded disgustingly sympathetic; Ben snorted as he descended the steps to the subway. Had their breaking up really been that predictable a thing?
“…yeah.”
“Man, I’m sorry. Where are you now?”
Ben looked around the subway station blandly, contemplating the irony of the answer he was tempted to give. He noticed an old hobo sitting by a trash can, clad in layer upon layer of filthy clothing. A young hooker stood near him, artificial breasts protruding from her almost-shirt. Ben smirked. Two such different people still had one thing in common; the cardboard sign the old man held with the words, “Will work for money”.
“I’m in hell, where are you?” he asked lightly.
“I’m home.” There was a long silence before Charlie added, “So you’re in hell. Where are you going from there?” Ben released an inaudible laugh.
“Where does anybody go from hell?”
“Usually home for the weekend, but we’re not in college anymore.” Charlie retorted blithely.
Another heavy silence echoed and Ben wondered what the point of this phone call really was – and also why the hell it was taking the train so long to get to the station for that matter.
“She dumped you, man.” Ben raised his eyebrows.
“Thanks for clearing that up, Charlie,” he replied blandly.
“So either get over her, or get her back,” Charlie ignored his friend’s bitterness easily. “Don’t go emo on me, man. That’s not you.”
Ben nodded slightly, looking down at his feet in thought. Ending the pointless conversation with his friend, he hung up the phone and ran a hand through his messy brown locks. Everything always looked so perfect from far away, but maybe the reason it was far away was because he was seeing it from a ledge, ready to jump. No, he wasn’t suicidal. Metaphorically, however, he believed that thought to be very true. He was already bored; tired of living life the way he had been for the last fifteen minutes or so. It was like a really depressing scene in some sort of romance flick with no purpose but to flash across a screen two unnaturally beautiful people mirroring the unnatural beautiful disaster that is our youth; and as ridiculous as it had come to be, from the moment girls had lost the cooties and become something of interest he knew he wanted a love like he had seem displayed in front of him a million times. Like Rhett and Scarlet…but hopefully without the war, the ending and Ashley Wilkes.
Like “It Happened One Night”, complete with the hitchhiking scene. She could show him up, he’d still love her. And if any girl could reenact that glorious piggybacking scene it would be him and Lucy. She was Claudette Colbert. She was Jean Harlow and Kate Hepburn and Mae West and Marilyn Monroe. And he wanted nothing more than to be Clark Gable to any of her starlet personas.
His thumb absentmindedly caressed the buttons of his phone as he drifted to a faraway place, losing himself in the golden days when love was real; when love lasted longer than two years.
Not even the roaring of the subway drew him from his reverie; not until he was shoved aside by an exiting passenger. His eyes lit as his fingers dialed a familiar number, the doors of the train closing slowly before moving on with him.
The Song: "Clark Gable" by The Postal Service. If anyone is interested in hearing it, let me know. Though I recommend the entire Give Up album.
Rated: K+
Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with Benjamin Gibbard and Jimmy Tamborello. All the characters are original and owned by myself (even though the main character is named after the lyricist/genius). I'm making no monetary gain off of this fiction, and the "Clark Gable" song along with its lyrics are copyright Benjamin Gibbard and The Postal Service.
Lyrics:
I was waiting for a cross-town train in the London underground
When it struck me
That I’ve been waiting since birth to find
A love that would look and sound
Like a movie.
So I changed my plans,
I rented a camera and a van,
And then I called you.
“I need you to pretend that we are in love again”,
And you agreed to.
I want so badly to believe
That there is truth, that love is real.
And I want life in every word
To the extent that it’s absurd
I greased the lens and framed the shot
Using a friend as my stand-in
The script, it called for rain
But it was clear that day
So we faked it
The marker snapped and I yelled “Quiet on the set”
And then called “Action”
I kissed you in a style Clark Gable would have admired,
I thought it classic.
I want so badly to believe
That there is truth, that love is real.
And I want life in every word
To the extent that it’s absurd
I know you’re wise beyond your years
But do you ever get the fear
That your perfect verse is just a lie
You tell yourself to help you get by?
Chapter 1
The London sidewalk was a dull, pitiful shade he thought as his sneakers shuffled across the pavement in silence, hands stuffed idly in the deep pockets of his jeans. The sky mocked the bitter feelings his heart was exuding with a cloudless sunshine. How unfair.
He heard her words in his head, echoing unendingly. Did she really give him those lines? “It’s not you, it’s me.” “Can we still be friends?” Who ever created those sick clichés anyway?
As his hand reached up to adjust his glasses a familiar song reverberated from his pocket, and he sluggishly retrieved his cell phone. A hope that verged on desperation dared him to believe that the caller I.D. might read “Lucy”.
Not unless his ex-girlfriend had changed her name to “Charlie” in the five minutes since he left her apartment.
“Yeah,” he raised an eyebrow at the sound of his own voice. There was a delay, as if his best friend was contemplating something. He waited.
“How are you doing, Ben?” Charlie’s voice sounded disgustingly sympathetic; Ben snorted as he descended the steps to the subway. Had their breaking up really been that predictable a thing?
“…yeah.”
“Man, I’m sorry. Where are you now?”
Ben looked around the subway station blandly, contemplating the irony of the answer he was tempted to give. He noticed an old hobo sitting by a trash can, clad in layer upon layer of filthy clothing. A young hooker stood near him, artificial breasts protruding from her almost-shirt. Ben smirked. Two such different people still had one thing in common; the cardboard sign the old man held with the words, “Will work for money”.
“I’m in hell, where are you?” he asked lightly.
“I’m home.” There was a long silence before Charlie added, “So you’re in hell. Where are you going from there?” Ben released an inaudible laugh.
“Where does anybody go from hell?”
“Usually home for the weekend, but we’re not in college anymore.” Charlie retorted blithely.
Another heavy silence echoed and Ben wondered what the point of this phone call really was – and also why the hell it was taking the train so long to get to the station for that matter.
“She dumped you, man.” Ben raised his eyebrows.
“Thanks for clearing that up, Charlie,” he replied blandly.
“So either get over her, or get her back,” Charlie ignored his friend’s bitterness easily. “Don’t go emo on me, man. That’s not you.”
Ben nodded slightly, looking down at his feet in thought. Ending the pointless conversation with his friend, he hung up the phone and ran a hand through his messy brown locks. Everything always looked so perfect from far away, but maybe the reason it was far away was because he was seeing it from a ledge, ready to jump. No, he wasn’t suicidal. Metaphorically, however, he believed that thought to be very true. He was already bored; tired of living life the way he had been for the last fifteen minutes or so. It was like a really depressing scene in some sort of romance flick with no purpose but to flash across a screen two unnaturally beautiful people mirroring the unnatural beautiful disaster that is our youth; and as ridiculous as it had come to be, from the moment girls had lost the cooties and become something of interest he knew he wanted a love like he had seem displayed in front of him a million times. Like Rhett and Scarlet…but hopefully without the war, the ending and Ashley Wilkes.
Like “It Happened One Night”, complete with the hitchhiking scene. She could show him up, he’d still love her. And if any girl could reenact that glorious piggybacking scene it would be him and Lucy. She was Claudette Colbert. She was Jean Harlow and Kate Hepburn and Mae West and Marilyn Monroe. And he wanted nothing more than to be Clark Gable to any of her starlet personas.
His thumb absentmindedly caressed the buttons of his phone as he drifted to a faraway place, losing himself in the golden days when love was real; when love lasted longer than two years.
Not even the roaring of the subway drew him from his reverie; not until he was shoved aside by an exiting passenger. His eyes lit as his fingers dialed a familiar number, the doors of the train closing slowly before moving on with him.