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hackthis_archiveI am busy and expect to be so for a while. If you’re looking for me, e-mail me. I have challenges to answer (none of which are done), but beyond that I don’t expect to be writing or posting a lot for the foreseeable future. Do with that what you will.
Smallville
Tabula Rasa
Twenty-four hours in a day. Sixty seconds in a minute. 86,400 seconds in a day. 31,536,000 seconds in a year. It’s going to be a long year. Four score and seven years ago Lex did not exist, but now. Now he’s beginning to think he’s going to perish.
It takes a lot of doing to die.
Lex has been on this island fifteen days and too many hours.
Yes, definitely too many hours.
He counts the seconds in elephants, but when he gets to the thousands he begins to falter. The heat is obscene no matter the time of day, and Lex would rather swim than remember his multiplication tables or square roots or the Lanthanide Series of the Perodic Table.
Cerium. Praseodymium. Promethium. No, Neodymium then Promethium. Like Prometheus.
It took Lex four days to make a fire.
His steps are light, and he runs rather than walks into the ocean. He tells himself that today is the day. He likes hearing himself talk, and he talks more than he ever has in his life. Sometimes Lex has no idea what he’s saying.
He doesn’t even remember who said that first.
His memory is faltering.
::
It hasn’t rained since Lex’s third day on the island. Water is scarce, and yesterday he spent the better part of the day digging holes along the coastline and conjugating verbs in Latin.
Libero. Liberis. Liberit. Liberimus. Liberitis. Liberunt.
He wonders if Gabe remembered to speak to Sally about the Lex Corp newsletter. It should go out on the first of every month. He knows he shouldn’t worry, Gabe is more than capable of running the company in his absence. Lex just wonders if perhaps the company will be called something else if, when, he gets back.
Still, Lex has always wanted to be free.
He wonders what Clark is doing.
He talks to keep himself sane.
::
Lex uses two flat stones to mark the days in the bark of a palm tree, but every time he moves camp he has to start all over again. He loses a day here and picks up another one there. Some times he marks the same day twice. At night he sleeps under the stars and recites the constellations that Clark has always promised to teach him, but never seemed to find the time for.
Lex learned them all when he was eleven.
He thinks Orion is especially bright at this time of year, and if he coaxes himself long enough, he says he can see Mars.
Lex recites Issue 66 of Warrior Angel from memory, and with the tips of his fingers he creates new stars and solar systems.
“I’ve spent my entire life seeking the approval of people I hate,” he rasps, his vocal chords scarred from all the salt water he’s swallowed. “But I never wanted you to approve of me, Cal. I just wanted you to be my friend.”
He says Clark in place of Cal.
::
Lex’s wedding ring glistens in the sunlight, and he thinks of Helen, traitorous wife and forked tongue vixen. Her face has launched a thousand murderous daydreams, and Lex throws his band into the waves before he realizes how good it would be as a mirror for the sun.
Suzie Q. Society of the Daily Planet said the diamond in Helen’s ring was ‘the size of a Chicklet.’
Lex has never liked gum.
Instead he pulls out Mr Kent’s compass and sets it down upon a rock. The face is smashed and doesn’t work, but that’s not the point.
::
Twenty-three days, thirty-nine mangoes, four coconuts and fifty-odd bananas have been consumed in the belly of Lex’s stomach, and he can feel his ribs when he rubs his rumbling stomach. One of the fish he’s caught flops about next to him on the sand, and Lex crouches down, letting his fist meet the fish with a crackling snap. Cartilage. Bone. No, fish don’t have bones.
Lex rubs the peeling skin on his nose, and winces when fish scales irritate his tender flesh. There are drops of blood on the sand by where Lex is, and he hops around on his left foot to consider the slowly seeping gash in the heel of his right. He could sit down. He should sit down. He just can’t be bothered.
He went fishing in the shallows because he got tired of vomiting fruit, only ‘the shallows’ weren’t nearly as shallow as he thought they would be. He killed the offending crab by tossing it against a collection of rocks, and went back to spearing fish until the salt in his open wound became too much. In retrospect, however, the salt wasn’t nearly as bad as the sand that’s imbedded itself in the cut.
Lex sits down on a log to clean it as best he can with spit, but his mouth is dry. When he runs out of saliva, he slides down into the sand and elevates his leg on the rotted tree.
There are more drops of blood in the sand by his hand. One drop, two drops, three drops, four. Pamela used to read Dr Seuss to him. He always liked Go Dog, Go! best.
He thinks Clark probably liked The Cat in the Hat.
::
It rains on the thirtieth day. Or perhaps the twenty-eighth. Lex races around to make sure his coconut shells are empty and the holes he’s dug are fully lined with palm leaves. He kicks sand in more than one hole by mistake, and then he sits on the beach and sparks an imaginary lighter as he hums Bob Marley.
The rain is warm, and it bounces off the water like vegetable oil. Lex stands there letting the rain wash over him, and when the lightening starts, he nods his head in approval. He finds a sharp stone and scrapes at his skin with the edge to clean himself of salt and sand and drudge and lies.
He must emancipate himself from mental slavery.
Redemption songs are all he has.
::
Absolvero. Absolverimus. Absolveris. Absolveritis. Absolverit. Absolverunt.
Lex has special plans for his father. It does not matter what he has done. It does not matter whether or not he is guilty. Lionel Luthor is always guilty of something, and the father shall not visit his sins upon the son. Lex can just imagine what his father’s sins are, and Einstein knew what Lex means.
“Imagination is more important than knowledge,” said one of the most brilliant men ever.
Lex says “E = mc2,” and then he launches into the Special Theory of Relativity, while slowly unraveling what’s left of his Oxford shirt.
::
Lex’s mother took him sledding in Metropolis Park once, when he was eight. His father was away; Lex doesn’t remember where and he doesn’t particularly care. He just remembers the purple ski suit and the red toboggan. He remembers throwing snowballs at Pamela and a little girl with blonde pigtails who fell off her inner tube.
He is making snow angels in the sand in his boxers when the helicopter appears overhead.
::
Lex understands everything the doctors say: dehydration, malnutrition, infection, sun-poisoning. Ruined vocal cords. Cracked ribs that have healed wrong. Fine. They're only physical. He wants to say, "Just fix it."
::
The content of Lex’s character is his choice. Heraclitus said that. Or something like that. Lex doesn’t really remember any more. He doesn’t remember a lot. There is sand in his ears, and his legs are wobbly when he stands on his own. When Clark walks through his door, though, Lex remembers who wasn’t at his wedding.
Lex has spent who knows how long waiting for Clark to save him, but now that Lex has been disappointed, now that someone else has saved him, he’s not sure what to say.
His bones creak dangerously when Clark hugs him, and Lex wonders what it could have been like if Clark had saved him. If he could even ask about that.
Epicurus said, “Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not; but remember that what you now have was once among the things only hoped for.”
When Clark’s hand reaches out for his, Lex swallows, and wishes his voice would hurry and come back. He has things he needs to say.
-Finis-
Notes: "I like hearing myself talk. It is one of my greatest pleasures. I often have long conversations all by myself, and I am so clever that sometimes I don't understand a single word of what I am saying.” -Oscar Wilde
Smallville
Tabula Rasa
Twenty-four hours in a day. Sixty seconds in a minute. 86,400 seconds in a day. 31,536,000 seconds in a year. It’s going to be a long year. Four score and seven years ago Lex did not exist, but now. Now he’s beginning to think he’s going to perish.
It takes a lot of doing to die.
Lex has been on this island fifteen days and too many hours.
Yes, definitely too many hours.
He counts the seconds in elephants, but when he gets to the thousands he begins to falter. The heat is obscene no matter the time of day, and Lex would rather swim than remember his multiplication tables or square roots or the Lanthanide Series of the Perodic Table.
Cerium. Praseodymium. Promethium. No, Neodymium then Promethium. Like Prometheus.
It took Lex four days to make a fire.
His steps are light, and he runs rather than walks into the ocean. He tells himself that today is the day. He likes hearing himself talk, and he talks more than he ever has in his life. Sometimes Lex has no idea what he’s saying.
He doesn’t even remember who said that first.
His memory is faltering.
::
It hasn’t rained since Lex’s third day on the island. Water is scarce, and yesterday he spent the better part of the day digging holes along the coastline and conjugating verbs in Latin.
Libero. Liberis. Liberit. Liberimus. Liberitis. Liberunt.
He wonders if Gabe remembered to speak to Sally about the Lex Corp newsletter. It should go out on the first of every month. He knows he shouldn’t worry, Gabe is more than capable of running the company in his absence. Lex just wonders if perhaps the company will be called something else if, when, he gets back.
Still, Lex has always wanted to be free.
He wonders what Clark is doing.
He talks to keep himself sane.
::
Lex uses two flat stones to mark the days in the bark of a palm tree, but every time he moves camp he has to start all over again. He loses a day here and picks up another one there. Some times he marks the same day twice. At night he sleeps under the stars and recites the constellations that Clark has always promised to teach him, but never seemed to find the time for.
Lex learned them all when he was eleven.
He thinks Orion is especially bright at this time of year, and if he coaxes himself long enough, he says he can see Mars.
Lex recites Issue 66 of Warrior Angel from memory, and with the tips of his fingers he creates new stars and solar systems.
“I’ve spent my entire life seeking the approval of people I hate,” he rasps, his vocal chords scarred from all the salt water he’s swallowed. “But I never wanted you to approve of me, Cal. I just wanted you to be my friend.”
He says Clark in place of Cal.
::
Lex’s wedding ring glistens in the sunlight, and he thinks of Helen, traitorous wife and forked tongue vixen. Her face has launched a thousand murderous daydreams, and Lex throws his band into the waves before he realizes how good it would be as a mirror for the sun.
Suzie Q. Society of the Daily Planet said the diamond in Helen’s ring was ‘the size of a Chicklet.’
Lex has never liked gum.
Instead he pulls out Mr Kent’s compass and sets it down upon a rock. The face is smashed and doesn’t work, but that’s not the point.
::
Twenty-three days, thirty-nine mangoes, four coconuts and fifty-odd bananas have been consumed in the belly of Lex’s stomach, and he can feel his ribs when he rubs his rumbling stomach. One of the fish he’s caught flops about next to him on the sand, and Lex crouches down, letting his fist meet the fish with a crackling snap. Cartilage. Bone. No, fish don’t have bones.
Lex rubs the peeling skin on his nose, and winces when fish scales irritate his tender flesh. There are drops of blood on the sand by where Lex is, and he hops around on his left foot to consider the slowly seeping gash in the heel of his right. He could sit down. He should sit down. He just can’t be bothered.
He went fishing in the shallows because he got tired of vomiting fruit, only ‘the shallows’ weren’t nearly as shallow as he thought they would be. He killed the offending crab by tossing it against a collection of rocks, and went back to spearing fish until the salt in his open wound became too much. In retrospect, however, the salt wasn’t nearly as bad as the sand that’s imbedded itself in the cut.
Lex sits down on a log to clean it as best he can with spit, but his mouth is dry. When he runs out of saliva, he slides down into the sand and elevates his leg on the rotted tree.
There are more drops of blood in the sand by his hand. One drop, two drops, three drops, four. Pamela used to read Dr Seuss to him. He always liked Go Dog, Go! best.
He thinks Clark probably liked The Cat in the Hat.
::
It rains on the thirtieth day. Or perhaps the twenty-eighth. Lex races around to make sure his coconut shells are empty and the holes he’s dug are fully lined with palm leaves. He kicks sand in more than one hole by mistake, and then he sits on the beach and sparks an imaginary lighter as he hums Bob Marley.
The rain is warm, and it bounces off the water like vegetable oil. Lex stands there letting the rain wash over him, and when the lightening starts, he nods his head in approval. He finds a sharp stone and scrapes at his skin with the edge to clean himself of salt and sand and drudge and lies.
He must emancipate himself from mental slavery.
Redemption songs are all he has.
::
Absolvero. Absolverimus. Absolveris. Absolveritis. Absolverit. Absolverunt.
Lex has special plans for his father. It does not matter what he has done. It does not matter whether or not he is guilty. Lionel Luthor is always guilty of something, and the father shall not visit his sins upon the son. Lex can just imagine what his father’s sins are, and Einstein knew what Lex means.
“Imagination is more important than knowledge,” said one of the most brilliant men ever.
Lex says “E = mc2,” and then he launches into the Special Theory of Relativity, while slowly unraveling what’s left of his Oxford shirt.
::
Lex’s mother took him sledding in Metropolis Park once, when he was eight. His father was away; Lex doesn’t remember where and he doesn’t particularly care. He just remembers the purple ski suit and the red toboggan. He remembers throwing snowballs at Pamela and a little girl with blonde pigtails who fell off her inner tube.
He is making snow angels in the sand in his boxers when the helicopter appears overhead.
::
Lex understands everything the doctors say: dehydration, malnutrition, infection, sun-poisoning. Ruined vocal cords. Cracked ribs that have healed wrong. Fine. They're only physical. He wants to say, "Just fix it."
::
The content of Lex’s character is his choice. Heraclitus said that. Or something like that. Lex doesn’t really remember any more. He doesn’t remember a lot. There is sand in his ears, and his legs are wobbly when he stands on his own. When Clark walks through his door, though, Lex remembers who wasn’t at his wedding.
Lex has spent who knows how long waiting for Clark to save him, but now that Lex has been disappointed, now that someone else has saved him, he’s not sure what to say.
His bones creak dangerously when Clark hugs him, and Lex wonders what it could have been like if Clark had saved him. If he could even ask about that.
Epicurus said, “Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not; but remember that what you now have was once among the things only hoped for.”
When Clark’s hand reaches out for his, Lex swallows, and wishes his voice would hurry and come back. He has things he needs to say.
-Finis-
Notes: "I like hearing myself talk. It is one of my greatest pleasures. I often have long conversations all by myself, and I am so clever that sometimes I don't understand a single word of what I am saying.” -Oscar Wilde
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no subject
Date: 2003-07-28 02:06 pm (UTC)Let me try this again, and apologies if you get this twice. Or thrice, even, who knows?
Erg...I liked this. Yes. I did. This is like the definitive Stranded!Lex and nobody needs to write anything else in this vein again. You managed to completely avoid any temptation to romanticize being stuck on a deserted island, and it's great. Because really, spending however long with just yourself, a bunch of mangoes and some fish *would* be pretty damn terrible.
And you're going to be scarce for a while? Wah. Will miss the random beta demands and lovely fics. Who will write me more Harry/Neville, esp. as my (semi)conversion is all your fault in the first place? *hug*
no subject
Date: 2003-07-29 09:18 am (UTC)I see it as one of those 'be careful what you wish for scenarios,' you know? I mean you 'vant to be alone' and for everyone to leave you alone and then 'wham!' and you're kicking yourself in the teeth for the stupidity.
And you're going to be scarce for a while? Wah. Will miss the random beta demands and lovely fics. Who will write me more Harry/Neville, esp. as my (semi)conversion is all your fault in the first place? *hug*
I will write you more Harry/Neville as soon as I have some time (you wanted Neville POV, right?), and I still have to write my SVFF and Iconography Challenges, but beyond that things are gonna be kinda scarce for a bit.
no subject
Date: 2003-07-29 12:16 pm (UTC)I would always love another story, but *please* don't feel obligated. Seriously. Busy is busy, I know how it goes. (Er, besides, I may have started a Neville POV the other day myself. Because I don't have enough to do as it is.)