The Morning - by coldangel_1

[on:]

The Morning

Yeah, so I was bored this morning and decided to throw this little chain of thought together - a short shippy excursion into Leela's mind. It's just a literary exercise. I've never written a first-person narrative from a female perspective before so I'd be interested to know what you all think.

****************


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.

   Who?

   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.

   “Leela?”

   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.

END.

[Reply #1 on:]

 

Originally posted by coldangel_1:I've never written a first-person narrative from a female perspective before so I'd be interested to know what you all think.

I think...you're subconsciously in love with Fry. 

[Reply #2 on:]

Damnit any1else, you made me choke on my drink and now there's cordial and iceblocks all over my desk!

CA, that was genius. You wrote it very poetically. It was shipply satisfying and well written. A+   

Best bit: Fry chewing on the pillowcase. That is so Fry. Gives me a mental image of Fry waking up saying 'Hey, where'd my pillow go?' *sneezes up a feather*

[Reply #3 on:]

Haha.... way to be irreverant Maz. 

Thanks Tasty.

[Reply #4 on:]

Aww...I'm sorry TLF..but you shouldn't have been drinking while reading potentially choke-worthy remarks.

I liked the pillow bit too. And the way the memories slowly come back. And the cycle of thoughts. Definitely an indication of a female's mind. I also liked the word 'breast'.   

[Reply #5 on:]

"Tit" would have been inappropriate I think.

[Reply #6 on:]

Actually, for some critique here, as a woman, I can't imagine myself thinking something like 'I could not help but clasp my hands to my breast' ... It'd probably be more like 'I was so happy I almost farted.'

...Well, maybe that's just me. 

[Reply #7 on:]

Yes... that probably is just you... But I might try to work some fart reference into the next poetic romance piece I scrawl.
Although I think that's something more along the lines of a Fry comment. See, I can't really write first-person for him because his vocabulary and venacular are too coarse and simple for me.

[Reply #8 on:]

That was beautiful.  It really was.

I can't write shippy very well, so I have extra appreciation for those that can.   

[Reply #9 on:]

 

Originally posted by coldangel_1:
Yes... that probably is just you... But I might try to work some fart reference into the next poetic romance piece I scrawl.
Although I think that's something more along the lines of a Fry comment. See, I can't really write first-person for him because his vocabulary and venacular are too coarse and simple for me.

Yes. You want to be a woman, you like women, you think women are sophisticated and intellectual, so you act as such. 

But the point I was trying to make, was that generally we don't think in fancy pants language, whether we speak that way or not. Or so is my understanding.

[Reply #10 on:]

'Fart' is too funny a word to put in such a serious thing.
I think you did alright with the 'breast' thing. 'Tit' is something a guy would say. 'Bosom' would've been alright too... but 'bosom' makes me giggle... *snigger*

[Reply #11 on:]

Quite well done. You tapped into Leela's Psyche and were able to give insight into her seemingly eternal internal struggle.

Perhaps there is a soft spot under your dolomite exterior. 

[Reply #12 on:]

 

Originally posted by Tastes Like Fry:
'Fart' is too funny a word to put in such a serious thing.
I think you did alright with the 'breast' thing. 'Tit' is something a guy would say. 'Bosom' would've been alright too... but 'bosom' makes me giggle... *snigger*

Hehe…
Can you honestly say that when you’ve been thinking something you’ve gone “my breast such and such”? Okay, I might sometimes, but only to make fun of myself… “Ow, that was a bit painful for my breast” and then I’ll make a face and think ‘hehe – breast.’
I suppose Leela is a more mature woman than I...most people are. 

[Reply #13 on:]

*cries* It's beautiful!! *snaps out of it* I still have leftover emotion from trapping myself inside "A River With Currents" i swear, i couldn't stop reading it... i had to leave the room several times just so my eyes wouldn't explode or something (which would be kinda cool... i mean if it happened to someone else) i'm only at the part where nibbler starts talking and it's already the best thing i ever read!!!!!!! seriously, it's better than every harry potter book combined! (plus it has more explosions) but this is the best thing i've ever read all the way through... it's sooooo sweet!

i know i should probably ask this on your thread for a river w/ currents but i'm too lazy so i'll ask it here: is there any reason you made zapp's court martial on March 12th, 3006? i'm just wondering... cuz i'm random... and weird... cuz i mean, you could have just said "one week earlier"

but yea, back on topic... THIS IS THE BEST THIS I EVER READ!!!!!!!!!!

[Reply #14 on:]

Awwwwwww, I can now die happy. That was so emotional Coldy.

The pure depth, the honesty of her thoughts, the conflicting emotions prodding at her mind, forcing her to make a choice. It was very moving, if I didn't know better I'd say you're a girl, you really nailed it.

I love the way she first sees all of Fry's faults but then relises that they don't matter, the way it doesn't just hit her, instead you let her figure it out. It was wonderful.

When she described how she could see Fry as a whole instead of just one dimension like she sees others, I really thought I was going to cry, thats how moving the whole thing was. *wipes away tears* It was beutiful Coldy, really beutiful, and I loved it.

[Reply #15 on:]

I can but agree with what others already posted. Very well written.

I too liked the
 

Originally posted by coldangel_1:
He has a corner of my pillow in his mouth, chewing it absently as he slumbers,

part.

Sooo Fry.   

[Reply #16 on:]

Thank you, fryismyhero.   

Maz, I know what you mean, though I tend to think my chain-of-thought narratives are written expressions of ideas and feelings that don't actually take the form of words. I think in this case the only parts Leela thinks as words are those italic segments.
Consider the Cale Black interlude in my novel - that was the same sort of thing; he doesn't talk like that, but it was still him, you know?

Thank you AmarutuF.   

Glad you liked it, Unlucky13.
As for the date used in A River With Currents - it was randomly chosen, but I made it a specific day as a frame of reference for later events in the story. Read on   .

Ha, yes I knew you'd like it jle   .

Cheers Corvus, I just hope you don't think of me as being less of a man now... Evidently I nailed the female perspective a little too well - two people are suggesting that I might be a woman   .

[Reply #17 on:]

 

Originally posted by coldangel_1:
Maz, I know what you mean, though I tend to think my chain-of-thought narratives are written expressions of ideas and feelings that don't actually take the form of words. I think in this case the only parts Leela thinks as words are those italic segments.
Consider the Cale Black interlude in my novel - that was the same sort of thing; he doesn't talk like that, but it was still him, you know?

I know. I was just being an arse. 
Of course a serious literary piece isn't going to have random injections of "Wait, I thought today was Thursday, but it's Sunday! What the hell?! As I was saying..."

And for the record - I liked your interludes and the 'lengthy-ness' in your novel. It forces you to think, people need that these days...lazy publishing people. Just thought I'd say that...

[Reply #18 on:]

Awww... thank you Maz  ... Yeah, they can all burn in hell.

[Reply #19 on:]

 

Originally posted by coldangel_1:
Cheers Corvus, I just hope you don't think of me as being less of a man now...  .

Nah.. you still like to drink, smoke, wave around sharp objects and get into the occasional fight, right?
Then you're manly enough for me! 

That's said, I've known a gal or two that would fit that description...

[Reply #20 on:]

 

Originally posted by Corvus:
 you still like to drink, smoke, wave around sharp objects and get into the occasional fight, right?

Well... I don't drink.

Edit: often

[Reply #21 on:]

Outstanding!  Are we going to get a pic to go with it?   

[Reply #22 on:]

Thanks lad  ... yeah maybe tomorrow I'll throw one together.

[Reply #23 on:]

Pretty good story, old chap.

You keep this up and we won't believe the nilistic facade that you portay yourself as being.

It'll be more like Ernest Hemmingway - a great talent always trying to hide from the reality that he was a great talent.

[Reply #24 on:]

 

Originally posted by coldangel_1:
Ha, yes I knew you'd like it jle    .

*stands, hands on hips*
Now whats thats supposed to mean, I'm not that bad am I. I mean, I know I go on alot about shippy things, defend shippy, explain...I think I've answered my own question.

Seriously though, I'd love to read a continuation and somthing from Fry's prospective, you write really well, fantasticly infact
*adds Coldy to the list of people I wish I could write like*

[Reply #25 on:]

 

Originally posted by jle1993:
Seriously though, I'd love to read a continuation and somthing from Fry's prospective, you write really well, fantasticly infact
*adds Coldy to the list of people I wish I could write like*

Second

[Reply #26 on:]

 

Originally posted by jle1993:
 

Seriously though, I'd love to read a continuation and somthing from Fry's prospective, you write really well, fantasticly infact
*adds Coldy to the list of people I wish I could write like*

Originally posted by Unlucky13:
 Second

Third.

[Reply #27 on:]

That... was amazing.

[Reply #28 on:]

*finishs reading for the third time*
i swear it gets better every time (maybe thats because i understand more of it) if you aren't subconsiously in love with fry then you must be the best writer EVER (to be able to fake it so well) this doesn't seem like something that could be written quickly... it seems like it work require a lot of analysing and such...like it would take me a year to write something like that and it still wouldn't be half as good because 1) i could NEVER figure half that stuff out and 2) i don't know what half those words mean... most of them i've never even heard before
well... actually, i did figure out the part about her not wanting to date him because she didn't want to ruin their friendship but not the stuff about dimension or anything else...

[Reply #29 on:]

Ralph, comparing me to Ernest Hemmingway? Yipes! Well I certainly won't argue with that... there's not much higher a comparison... except maybe Jesus. Thanks bro.

jle, heh, you always want things to keep going. But y'know, when something's complete, then one must learn to step back from it and let it go. It's like with painting or sculpting - the impulse to keep adding to the work is strong; one more brush stroke, one more layer of clay... but eventually that continuation of input will ruin the work, clutter it or weigh it down. You gotta dust off your hands and say "this is it, enjoy."

Unlucky - Ewww... everyone keeps saying I love Fry. Ick, I don't - Leela does! I was just parking my literary perspective in her brain.
Heh, I appreciate your praise.

It's not a perfect work - I read back over it and there were some bits that were a little clunky, but I wrote it in about four hours 'cause I was bored, so considering there wasn't even a proof read I'm pretty happy with it.
Can you believe that publishing companies won't print my novel!?

[Reply #30 on:]

You wrote a novel?  Cool!

Publishers are money hungry assholes.  Usually a small envelope with talcum powder inside it works well to get them to change their mind.  Or a large gun.  Whatever works for you.

[Reply #31 on:]

 

Originally posted by coldangel_1:
Can you believe that publishing companies won't print my novel!?

NO! i haven't even read it but if it's anything like your fanfics, those publishing company morons are... morons!

and i didn't say you loved fry, i said you were good at faking it!

[Reply #32 on:]

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

[Reply #33 on:]

And it was time well spent. No matter what you say or think otherwise.

[Reply #34 on:]

Have you tried some of the smaller independent publishing houses?

[Reply #35 on:]

Add me to the list of shocked readers who can't understand why you're having trouble getting published.

Everyone else has already mentioned everything praiseworthy about this story, and I feel silly simply repeating the notion.  This is my favorite story from you to date, though; you did an excellent job of navigating through the labyrinth that is Leela's mind.

[Reply #36 on:]

Fryismyhero - yes  .

Officer 1BDI - thanks  .

[Reply #37 on:]

Here's the pic to go with the story.

[Reply #38 on:]

Hehe, pillow eater.
He's a pilloweater..something something, blah blah blah blah..all your love. Okay, I don't know the words to that song obviously.

[Reply #39 on:]

 

Originally posted by coldangel_1:

Can you believe that publishing companies won't print my novel!?

You need a foot in the door, Mr. J. You need a start, something to get you over the initial hurdle. Then if you can keep it coming...Hey, how about hiring an agent? Show me the money!!! No kidding.