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kricketsTitle: we're running out [of life]
Fandom: LOST
Charactrs: implied ensemble, gen
Rating: pg
Summary: They shouldn't be alive. Crash aftermath.
Author's Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
astra2104 for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
lostsquee luau! Her theme, beginnings, centers around the Pilot 1&2 eps and this fic (drabble-thing) is playing off the idea (theory?) that a lot of us talked about back in those early days that the surivors of flight 815 should never have survived in the first place. No beta.
Time, which has never been much of a friend to anyone here, stops.
It's like those first few seconds after a drum beat, when everything else is so still in comparison to that booming ca-thunk. But this isn't some lonely percussion. This is screaming, in-your-face, rain of fire, one minute you're in the air and the next, well... the next, you're absolutely nowhere.
And that's what it's like that first minute. No panic. No cries. Life. Death. Blue sky. White sand.
Impossible.
Impossible.
Most there don't realize it, and a few couldn't give a shit. But some do.
They shouldn't be alive.
They should not be alive.
And that's the thing of it – the thing their steady heartbeats and angry cries drown out, the thing they have to forget if they want to make it real.
Dirty hands, cracked with dried blood and full of borrowed life, carry the rest of them to safety, away from the fires, away from their fears. There's food in their mouths when darkness falls, and they tongue over these last bits of civilization, knowing that tomorrow is another day.
Even if it shouldn't be.
Fandom: LOST
Charactrs: implied ensemble, gen
Rating: pg
Summary: They shouldn't be alive. Crash aftermath.
Author's Notes: Written for
astra2104 for lostsquee luau! Her theme, beginnings, centers around the Pilot 1&2 eps and this fic (drabble-thing) is playing off the idea (theory?) that a lot of us talked about back in those early days that the surivors of flight 815 should never have survived in the first place. No beta. Time, which has never been much of a friend to anyone here, stops.
It's like those first few seconds after a drum beat, when everything else is so still in comparison to that booming ca-thunk. But this isn't some lonely percussion. This is screaming, in-your-face, rain of fire, one minute you're in the air and the next, well... the next, you're absolutely nowhere.
And that's what it's like that first minute. No panic. No cries. Life. Death. Blue sky. White sand.
Impossible.
Impossible.
Most there don't realize it, and a few couldn't give a shit. But some do.
They shouldn't be alive.
They should not be alive.
And that's the thing of it – the thing their steady heartbeats and angry cries drown out, the thing they have to forget if they want to make it real.
Dirty hands, cracked with dried blood and full of borrowed life, carry the rest of them to safety, away from the fires, away from their fears. There's food in their mouths when darkness falls, and they tongue over these last bits of civilization, knowing that tomorrow is another day.
Even if it shouldn't be.