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alliecat8Damn! I double-challenged myself: I was gonna write a comment fic for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
lostsquee's Fic Battle, and it was gonna be a series of 8 drabbles (exactly 100 words each) and it was going to fit in one comment. I succeeded on the first challenge, but failed by 213 characters (that's about 40 words) on the second. And because I don't want to split it up into 2 comments, I'm just gonna link it here to my journal. I hope that's okay.
Eight Songs Charlie Never Wrote
Charlie never wrote a love song for Claire. He was afraid he’d bumble it, like he bumbled so many things with her. He thought about writing her a love song, though, about the one thing he maybe did right. If he wrote Claire a love song, it would be about peanut butter. About how imaginary peanut butter was like love; you can’t see it, you can’t taste it or smell it or touch it, but if you choose to believe in it anyway, it’s there. And somehow, because you believe, it brings you happiness. Some songs are wishes come true.
Charlie never wrote a lullaby for Aaron. Oh, he tried. He played his guitar for him, and he sang about far-off lands and fairy tales and princes and princesses and magic spells, but still the baby cried. Too late, Charlie understood why. Aaron was a child of the island, and the island was all he knew. This child was born into a land of magic and, though he couldn’t understand Charlie’s words, he sensed that the magic he knew was different from the magic Charlie sang about. Aaron didn’t like Charlie’s songs. He wanted to hear his own island lullaby.
Charlie never wrote a ballad for Sawyer. If he had, he’d have told the story of an outlaw, a man who’d never done a good thing in his life. He’d sing about the life of an outlaw. It would be a good song, one that men would sing in bars when they were just drunk enough to wish. Every man secretly wants to be an outlaw. Sawyer was the kind of man ballads were sung about, and yet Charlie never sang one for him. Because he’d watched Sawyer bend his head over a book and read to Aaron, a lullaby.
Charlie never wrote a ditty for Hurley. Hurley would’ve liked a ditty, short and simple, upbeat and cheerful. Hurley wished to be a simple man. He craved laughter and friendship as much as food, and he looked for happiness wherever he went. But his was not a happy world, and Hurley couldn’t cope. He erased the unhappy things from his mind, and people called him insane. Hurley wanted his life to be a ditty, and if Charlie could’ve invented the world he craved, he’d have written him a song. Hurley deserved a ditty. Maybe in another life, he’d get one.
Charlie never wrote a sonnet for Liam. A sonnet would’ve fit Liam’s new life so well. Liam’s old life had been chaos, a disaster with Death standing in the doorway, watching and waiting. But then, somehow, in spite of it all Liam had found his way. A home and a family, structure and rules to keep him safe, to keep him alive. A sonnet, fourteen lines with a fixed rhyme scheme and rhythm pattern, never deviating, never descending into chaos. A sonnet would have meant safety for Liam. It was his song, but Charlie couldn’t bring himself to write it.
Charlie never wrote a hymn for Jack. Jack would’ve hated a hymn. A song of praise to a man who led them out of the wilderness and into…what? No one knew where he led them, but they followed him anyway because he was born to lead. Oh, he made mistakes. So many mistakes along the way. But still he led, and still they looked to him to lead. Jack hated it, but he did it anyway. He couldn’t help it. And someday he would lay down his fear and his resistance, and embrace his destiny. Jack would’ve loved a hymn.
Charlie never wrote an evensong for Desmond. An evensong at the end of the day when the sun was below the horizon and the world was a dusty purple, suspended between day and night and holding its breath, waiting. Desmond, who lived suspended between two worlds, whose feet were in this world but whose head was in another, and there he saw things. He knew things. And yet time stood still because he was helpless to change things. He could only buy time. Desmond, caught between here and there, holding his breath and waiting. Evensong. Charlie should have written it.
Charlie never wrote his swan song. If he had, he’d have done it when he was Charlie Pace, rock god. Back when he’d been a mess, dying and knowing it, not caring. His music was his life and his death. But on the island he found new life, a new beginning and a new end. He found love, he found redemption, and he found his swan song. The beautiful legendary song sung only once by a swan in its lifetime, as it is dying. As he died a hero, in his head he sang songs that only he could write.
Love songs and lullabies, ballads and ditties, sonnets and hymns and evensongs. He never wrote them, but he sang them all as he floated away, his swan song.
End
lostsquee's Fic Battle, and it was gonna be a series of 8 drabbles (exactly 100 words each) and it was going to fit in one comment. I succeeded on the first challenge, but failed by 213 characters (that's about 40 words) on the second. And because I don't want to split it up into 2 comments, I'm just gonna link it here to my journal. I hope that's okay.Eight Songs Charlie Never Wrote
Charlie never wrote a love song for Claire. He was afraid he’d bumble it, like he bumbled so many things with her. He thought about writing her a love song, though, about the one thing he maybe did right. If he wrote Claire a love song, it would be about peanut butter. About how imaginary peanut butter was like love; you can’t see it, you can’t taste it or smell it or touch it, but if you choose to believe in it anyway, it’s there. And somehow, because you believe, it brings you happiness. Some songs are wishes come true.
Charlie never wrote a lullaby for Aaron. Oh, he tried. He played his guitar for him, and he sang about far-off lands and fairy tales and princes and princesses and magic spells, but still the baby cried. Too late, Charlie understood why. Aaron was a child of the island, and the island was all he knew. This child was born into a land of magic and, though he couldn’t understand Charlie’s words, he sensed that the magic he knew was different from the magic Charlie sang about. Aaron didn’t like Charlie’s songs. He wanted to hear his own island lullaby.
Charlie never wrote a ballad for Sawyer. If he had, he’d have told the story of an outlaw, a man who’d never done a good thing in his life. He’d sing about the life of an outlaw. It would be a good song, one that men would sing in bars when they were just drunk enough to wish. Every man secretly wants to be an outlaw. Sawyer was the kind of man ballads were sung about, and yet Charlie never sang one for him. Because he’d watched Sawyer bend his head over a book and read to Aaron, a lullaby.
Charlie never wrote a ditty for Hurley. Hurley would’ve liked a ditty, short and simple, upbeat and cheerful. Hurley wished to be a simple man. He craved laughter and friendship as much as food, and he looked for happiness wherever he went. But his was not a happy world, and Hurley couldn’t cope. He erased the unhappy things from his mind, and people called him insane. Hurley wanted his life to be a ditty, and if Charlie could’ve invented the world he craved, he’d have written him a song. Hurley deserved a ditty. Maybe in another life, he’d get one.
Charlie never wrote a sonnet for Liam. A sonnet would’ve fit Liam’s new life so well. Liam’s old life had been chaos, a disaster with Death standing in the doorway, watching and waiting. But then, somehow, in spite of it all Liam had found his way. A home and a family, structure and rules to keep him safe, to keep him alive. A sonnet, fourteen lines with a fixed rhyme scheme and rhythm pattern, never deviating, never descending into chaos. A sonnet would have meant safety for Liam. It was his song, but Charlie couldn’t bring himself to write it.
Charlie never wrote a hymn for Jack. Jack would’ve hated a hymn. A song of praise to a man who led them out of the wilderness and into…what? No one knew where he led them, but they followed him anyway because he was born to lead. Oh, he made mistakes. So many mistakes along the way. But still he led, and still they looked to him to lead. Jack hated it, but he did it anyway. He couldn’t help it. And someday he would lay down his fear and his resistance, and embrace his destiny. Jack would’ve loved a hymn.
Charlie never wrote an evensong for Desmond. An evensong at the end of the day when the sun was below the horizon and the world was a dusty purple, suspended between day and night and holding its breath, waiting. Desmond, who lived suspended between two worlds, whose feet were in this world but whose head was in another, and there he saw things. He knew things. And yet time stood still because he was helpless to change things. He could only buy time. Desmond, caught between here and there, holding his breath and waiting. Evensong. Charlie should have written it.
Charlie never wrote his swan song. If he had, he’d have done it when he was Charlie Pace, rock god. Back when he’d been a mess, dying and knowing it, not caring. His music was his life and his death. But on the island he found new life, a new beginning and a new end. He found love, he found redemption, and he found his swan song. The beautiful legendary song sung only once by a swan in its lifetime, as it is dying. As he died a hero, in his head he sang songs that only he could write.
Love songs and lullabies, ballads and ditties, sonnets and hymns and evensongs. He never wrote them, but he sang them all as he floated away, his swan song.
End
