yousei-san (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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metamorphosis2010-03-24 04:09 pm
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2010-03-24 04:09 pm
Entry tags:
52;
Title: Snapshot
Characters: America, England, Spain
Rating: G
For 30smiles' prompt 'Faded photograph'. America's the narrative this time. During the Blitzkrieg.
The photo is frayed, old, black and grey and shades of white, and the only color on it is the yellowing of its edges where fire has scorched, but not completely rid the owner of, the memory. Written on the back, in a sweeping and familiar cursive, is 1902. The figures look happy, at least, even though their faces don’t show it through the ash and the dirt caking the picture. He had wondered where this picture came from, upon finding it, and upon closer inspection…
He brushes away the dirt and the ash and the years, cradling it carefully in his hand, close a candle he had brought up. England had asked him to come over and help sort through trash, and upon moving a large album America had found this on the floor. So, with the utmost care, he peered at it over his glasses.
It was a younger, fitter England – not the war torn one who hid behind curtains and sip cheap tea from a saucer nowadays – but one with bright eyes and calmed reserve and little to do with Europe. And yet his arm was securely around the waist of Spain, younger and laughing, right into the camera, unblemished by civil war and heated guns, hugging him close and looking, for all the world, as happy as he could muster on a spring day.
His fingers slip over the edge, and he wonders why this little treasure was burned. Surely England would want to keep it? He frowns, confused, then tucks it away in the album and heaves it over the stairs, sets it on the table, and returns to look for more of these odd moments in upstairs.
That nation was always so weird.
Characters: America, England, Spain
Rating: G
For 30smiles' prompt 'Faded photograph'. America's the narrative this time. During the Blitzkrieg.
The photo is frayed, old, black and grey and shades of white, and the only color on it is the yellowing of its edges where fire has scorched, but not completely rid the owner of, the memory. Written on the back, in a sweeping and familiar cursive, is 1902. The figures look happy, at least, even though their faces don’t show it through the ash and the dirt caking the picture. He had wondered where this picture came from, upon finding it, and upon closer inspection…
He brushes away the dirt and the ash and the years, cradling it carefully in his hand, close a candle he had brought up. England had asked him to come over and help sort through trash, and upon moving a large album America had found this on the floor. So, with the utmost care, he peered at it over his glasses.
It was a younger, fitter England – not the war torn one who hid behind curtains and sip cheap tea from a saucer nowadays – but one with bright eyes and calmed reserve and little to do with Europe. And yet his arm was securely around the waist of Spain, younger and laughing, right into the camera, unblemished by civil war and heated guns, hugging him close and looking, for all the world, as happy as he could muster on a spring day.
His fingers slip over the edge, and he wonders why this little treasure was burned. Surely England would want to keep it? He frowns, confused, then tucks it away in the album and heaves it over the stairs, sets it on the table, and returns to look for more of these odd moments in upstairs.
That nation was always so weird.