Futurama   Planet Express Employee Lounge
The Futurama Message Board

Design and Support by Can't get enough Futurama
Help Search Futurama chat Login Register

PEEL - The Futurama Message Board    Melllvar's Erotic Friend Fiction    The Morning - by coldangel_1 « previous next »
Author Topic: The Morning - by coldangel_1  (Read 983 times)
Pages: 1 [2] Print

Bending Unit
« Reply #40 on: 01-08-2007 07:53 »

Hell, they printed all that harry potter crap and loads of dead beat celeb biographies, why the hell won't they let you do summit GOOD!?

DOOP Secretary
« Reply #41 on: 01-08-2007 09:32 »

Originally posted by Fry_B:
 Hey, how about hiring an agent? Show me the money!!! No kidding.

If I had money it would be going toward the finance of socialist uprisings around the world.
Nah, literary agents aren't really hired exactly. They select works that they feel stand a chance of success and then represent them to the publishing companies and then take a percentage after publication has been attained. So it's selection process after selection process...
I have submitted my novel to many...

DOOP Secretary
« Reply #42 on: 01-08-2007 09:34 »

It's a new page, so here's the story again, with illustration this time.

Originally posted by coldangel_1:
The Morning


I awake through layers. Warmth, then softness, and inevitably the intrusion of light, pale and fresh, that lances across the city into my spartan room, to fall upon my bed, upon me… upon the person that lies beside me.

   My eye opens wide in realization of that presence alongside; that unfamiliar pressure weighing down one side this bed I never share with anyone. My breath catches.


   I look slowly across the sheet at the familiar face, eyes closed; the crooked nose and quaint overbite. He has a corner of my pillow in his mouth, chewing it absently as he slumbers, and at another time I might have found that amusing or endearing. But instead my heart hammers.

   What happened? Oh Lord, what did I do?

   Gently, so as not to wake him, I peel the cover up to confirm my suspicion. My nakedness glares up at me accusingly, as does his; our bare skin, soft and pink, side by side… in my bed. The warm tingle of fulfilment in my nethers and the fingernail marks upon his flesh both offer further verification.

   What have I done?

   Memory begins to glitter on the tiles of my mind like the fragments of a shattered vase. The pieces slowly begin to reassemble. There was the opera, the cybernetic Satan… the hands. He gave up the hands for me. I remained; when everyone else left, I stayed with him – his innocent gratitude had shone from his face, but it wasn’t a favour – I wanted to stay. Images fall into place; I remember the simple and beautiful piece he played – he and I, together. And although my conflicted mind recoiled from that brazen outpouring of devotion, I could not help but clasp my hands to my breast and weep in joy… in love.

   No, not love… Don’t think that…

   I look across at his sleeping form again; the unpretentious lines of his face speak of candid honesty. No capacity for untruth could be fathomed.

I have one eye. The world to me is flat planes without depth; when I see a person I know intuitively that there is something missing from the image, hidden dimensions beyond my perception, always something more… just out of reach. But not with him… I sense that I see him as he really is. Of course he can’t be a two-dimensional cartoon, but I know that what I see is all there is – there are no hidden agendas or nasty surprises lurking behind corners of his soul. Everything is there, laid flat, laid bare. He is what he is… and after living through deceit after betrayal after deception, that blameless simplicity is like a pitcher of crystalline water in the desert.

   So why am I afraid?

   More memory. After the opera… we walked together, hand in hand, in companionable silence. I was comfortable, content… and, despite his audience’s response, he seemed to be as well. He seemed happy, happier than I’d seen him in a long time. An image flashes in my mind’s eye – myself reaching up to loosen his bowtie for him… before leading him toward a quiet bar for a celebratory drink. Just him and I…

   We got drunk, I realize, chewing my bottom lip. We got drunk and came back here and then… and then…

   I slept with Fry.

   “Oh no,” I whisper to myself, and at the sound he stirs beside me, mumbling something about grasshoppers and acorns in his sleep. I watch him closely, and more images from last night fall into place – his lips pressed against mine, his body pressing against mine… and me pressing back, just as hungrily; breathless and encouraging… wanting. I remember myself yielding to him willingly and the look of dazed joy upon his face as I called out his name; I remember the feeling of him inside me…

   I close my eye. Not in shame – for I am not ashamed. Not in repulsion – for he does not repulse me (far from it). But in anguish… anguish for the pain I will cause him. For the best part of four years I have evaded his advances, pushing him away gently… and not so gently… encouraging him to move on. But now, to lose my resolve and open my apartment, legs, and heart to him… how can I now expect him to accept my inevitable rejection; the brush-off, the ‘let’s be friends’ speech? I can’t – it isn’t fair, he doesn’t deserve it. Last night was selfish; I wanted something and I took it, in a moment, detached from all consideration of the future I allowed our desire to rule us and now he will think that we…

   …No, that can’t happen.

   I cannot be with him, I know that. I’ve always known it. For all his openness and loyalty, he is unambitious, unintelligent, unhygienic, unscrupulous, unmotivated, un... everything. He can’t provide for me, be a husband… or a father…

   But still…

   I might consider slipping away if I wasn’t in my own house. Perhaps I could leave for work… but today is Sunday. Beside me Fry mumbles and turns over onto his back, his foppish orange hair falling in tangles. He will be awake soon, I realize as I stare sidelong at him, and there will be no time to stall, to ponder delicate evasions.

   I should get dressed, but as I begin to gently slide from the bed I hear him murmur my name, and I stop as my heart threatens to break. How can I do this to him? How can I keep hurting someone I love?

   Love… again, that word.

    I look back and he is still asleep, peaceful and happy. My best friend in all the Universe, the man who opened my eye to the world and made me a whole person, the man who would die for me a thousand times over. He is an extratemporal anachronism, unlike anybody I’ve ever known, and his friendship means more to me than life itself. Perhaps that’s the real reason I refuse to commit to him… romance to me is associated with a long chain of disappointment and heartache, nothing like the connection I share with him. It’s so different… something pure and wonderful, and I shrink in terror at the idea of changing it, of making him another lover who will hurt me, haunt me, who I will never want to see again.

   But he wouldn’t do that…

   How do I know for sure?

   Because he’s Fry.

   A confusing swarm of contradictions, fears and desires, swim through my mind. I sit up and run my hands through my hair, no longer consciously perturbed by my nakedness or the telling sensation of completion between my thighs. What the hell is it that I really want?

   Stability, of course.

   A desire for things to stay the same. That’s just fear of change, the fear of loss. But I fear nothing… at least I don’t think I do… and I know that there can be no gain without risk. But is this risk too great? What if I lose him, my friend whom I love, this man around whom I have built walls of excuses and judgements to keep insulated from the inner sanctum of my heart?

   I can’t…

   I can’t lose him. I’d die if I lost him…

   But I won’t. Except by my own actions.

   My eye widens at that thought. Of course… he would never leave me. No matter what happened. It’s Fry after all.

   So what’s the problem?

   Good question. Through all the years and all the hurt, my defences have become autonomous subroutines, operating independently without input or consent. And it’s been so easy for me to pretend a justification exists, to make such shallow superficial excuses and maintain the quiet comfortable status-quo.

   At the end of it all, I see the truth of the matter finally and completely – I am a coward.


   I gasp in surprise and turn to face him, forgetting to cover my bosom (there would be little point now). He is awake, propped up on his elbows, watching me with worried eyes. He sees my conflict and fear, and he knows what’s going on in my mind… but he isn’t offended or annoyed, only concerned for me. I love him all the more for that.

   “Are you okay?” he asks softly, and at last I realize that I am. I really am.

   I nod and smile, feeling a tremendous weight detach from my soul. “Yeah,” I murmur. “I’m very okay.” There will be no more hiding, no more fear.

   “You don’t… regret this?” Fry asks with nervous restraint that I find adorable.

   “For a moment I thought I did,” I admit truthfully. “But then I realized something…”

   “What’s that?”

   “That I’m an idiot.” My smile widens and I lean close to him. He grins sheepishly and encircles me with his arms.

   “So,” he whispers, “happily ever after?”

   I answer him with a kiss.



Bending Unit
« Reply #43 on: 01-08-2007 10:08 »

Wow, dude, that was awesome! Just beautifully written!

"I might consider slipping away if I wasn’t in my own house."

That made me laugh. I don't know why. Probably because I imagined her doing that and then had an image of Fry waking up naked in Leela's bed. I'm still not sure why it's funny but it is.

I really liked the memory coming back in fragments.

And I especially loved how you used so many concepts we've discussed in shippy/deep down threads!

DOOP Secretary
« Reply #44 on: 01-08-2007 10:41 »

Yeah, thought it all deserved some crystalization. Glad you liked it.

Starship Captain
« Reply #45 on: 01-08-2007 16:44 »

Originally posted by coldangel_1:
It's better than my fanfics, because I actually took my time on it. Two years of my time to be precise.

now I HAVE to read it
ps: AWESOME pic

Bending Unit
« Reply #46 on: 01-08-2007 20:34 »
« Last Edit on: 01-10-2007 00:00 »

Would ya look at that? Coldangel posted a shippy fic and *gasps* no explosions, except the explosions of shippiness! lol nice story and cool pic
Tastes Like Fry

Urban Legend
« Reply #47 on: 01-09-2007 04:47 »

That picture is so adorable. Can I take Fry home? He can have pillows, all you can nibble on!
If I weren't so tired I'd join jle in her frenzy, but I'll just sit here and try not to drool over the picture.
Ralph Snart

Agent Provocateur
Near Death Star Inhabitant
DOOP Secretary
« Reply #48 on: 01-09-2007 08:00 »

The 'look' on Leela's face say it all:

"Oh Jesus, what have I done?"

coldy, I've told you before that your artistic ability was undisplined.  I have to say that either I was totally off target or you've improved tremendously over the short time you've been here.

You're really serious about your art - I've seen the questions you've been asking on 'the' other site.  You may trash yourself, but you are dedicated to continue to attempt to find ways to improve your God-given (or whatever-given) talent.

As for telling the story in a first person style - there is a reason that it's not done often:  It's the most difficult type of story to tell.  You pulled it off with a fantastic style.

Ernest Hemmingway and Vincent van Gogh, eat your hearts out.

DOOP Secretary
« Reply #49 on: 01-09-2007 09:15 »

Jeez, really? I always find it to be the easier style for short emotive prose. Third-person is fine and dandy for action-based stuff, but it's tremendously cumbersome for deep spiritual examination. First-person gets to the soul of the matter without preamble. It's for that matter that my novel, despite being a third-person action thriller, has half a dozen brief 'interludes' spaced throughout that take the form of differently-styled narrative to explore the psyche of different characters. A number are first-person chain of thought, while others are extracts from interviews and speeches.
For me, the out of the ordinary thing about this particular fanfic was that I wrote it present-tense. I quite enjoy the present tense for cerebral experimental kinda stuff, but it's very easy to forget one's self and slip unknowingly back to the more intuitive past-tense. Also, the boundary between current events and recollections of the first person needs to be strongly defined (ie - Leela observing 'now' and Leela remembering 'last night'). It poses an interesting challenge, which is great fun.

As for my art, I thank you for the praise. My base style hasn't really changed, that is my pencil on the paper. I've been drawing like this for a long time. What has changed is my ability to use photoshop to colour those pics. That's still a very new skill for me, so that's still on a steep upward curve. In the past I've always been a bit of a luddite when it came to combining modern technology with art. What a fool!
Pages: 1 [2] Print 
« previous next »
Jump to:  

Powered by SMF | SMF © 2006, Simple Machines | some icons from famfamfam
Legal Notice & Disclaimer: "Futurama" TM and copyright FOX, its related entities and the Curiosity Company. All rights reserved. Any reproduction, duplication or distribution of these materials in any form is expressly prohibited. As a fan site, this Futurama forum, its operators, and any content on the site relating to "Futurama" are not explicitely authorized by Fox or the Curiosity Company.
Page created in 0.123 seconds with 17 queries.