Right. Fanfic! I've noticed there's been a marked lack of fic-posting around,
and so, being stuck at home for a while due to illness, me and my 15 year
old arse have decided to kick into gear and get some writing done... I am
very slow and extraordinarily self-conscious... and lack motivation. I need
long feedback (either positive or constructively criticizing) and lots of
it. I know, I know, I'm a needy creature, but `tis the nature of THIS beast.
Anyway, this is the first chapter of an estimated 7 chapter story... It isn't a letter-fic as, although there are going to be letters, there are also going to be quelques retours-en-arrieres... flashbacks, if that's the word... longer than mere flashes, however.
Don't expect anything fantastic, I mean, I'm only 15! And what's more, the Quebec educational system being what it is, I learn french in school, as opposed to english... or rather, they only REALLY teach french. Sure there are english classes, but they are few and far between and honestly, I don't learn a thing from them. I digress. But that's just the way I am. I major in digression. Right.
So this is slash, sort of... yes... no... if slash is sex between two characters of the same gender, then no, not slash... but love... homosexuality... whatever. Read the thing for yourself, and please, give feedback. Otherwise I shan't be motivated to continue. Pathetic isn't it? Yes. Onward ho!
(Oh, and I don't own the characters. Why do we need to put disclaimers? If I owned M*A*S*H and the characters that go with it, do you honestly think I'd be wasting my time writing shitty fanfic? I didn't think so.)
Pairing: Hawkeye/B.J.(ish.. will be.. ish), Hawkeye/Trapper (briefly implied), Frank/Margaret (possibly)
italics = letter
CLOSURE, pt 1/7
Dearest Beej,
Greetings from Cove, Crabapple, Army Issue, (gee ma, I wanna go home) , and all her sons and daughters and her rain and fog and wet and cold and bigotry and racism and Frank Burnses. Ah, how war casts shadows on the sun. Alas and alack! Aye me, those rose-tinted glasses of home have aged and become... well, not so rose-tinted...
"Things do not change... we change," quote somebody. Yeah, yeah...
This place isn't the one I knew, but it's not like you can actually hear my heart breaking over the noise of the traffic. There's a shipload of rich Joes flushing out our lobster, all wearing bright shirts and cheap hats and filthy, baggy, stinking clothing (some of them I think must have raided our old wardrobe)... about two-thousand people here now in Crabapple Cove, and paved roads and two+ story buildings and I can't even find the hill where I used to go sledding, and got lost trying to sniff out the house where I grew up (if those are the right words, har har). And that was two years ago! How time flies when you're not bobbing for brutality in the melting pot of everything horrific and... Jesus, I've got to stop this. Two years, and still...
I'm sorry that I didn't write you sooner... it's been hell. I guess it's no big deal that I lost my practice. I couldn't operate without my bones melting into my patient and my sanity trying to eat its way out of my skull if my life depended on it. Oh, and did you know I can't eat chicken anymore? Or be around babies? Or stomach blood? Or cry?
Beej, I need to escape this place. It's not a comfort... it's as if the Cove is a reminder, proof that everything has changed, and I don't want it to. I need stability, familiarity... I'm lost in my own town, lost in my own head. I'm going to travel abroad (please no puns, I'm trying to be maudlin here)... visit Sidney, maybe... Col. Potter, Radar, Father Mulcahy, Margaret, Klinger... I honestly don't think I can handle Charles, Frank, the then welcome antagonists of this little `trapped-in-war mode' world I'm slumming around in. What about Trapper, perhaps...? I can't imagine... to see him... we were... well, you know what we were all too well. And I apologize for bringing that up, I know how uncomfortable it makes you... Can I visit you, perhaps?
I need closure.
Snax and pax,
Hawkeye
P.S. My father called me Ben the first time I saw him after... it all... I didn't know who he was talking to. I still hear shelling at night.
P.P.S. Rereading this, I realize that it is rather bereft of funnies. What can I say... like all great (you know I kid) writers, I just write what I know.
B.J. gently sets the letter on the night stand, beside the framed photograph of Peg and Erin making daisy chains in the sunshine on a sweet summer day; over the picture of himself with Him... with Hawkeye the Irreverent. B.J.'s eyes rake over the lanky frame in the photograph --lying loose and frameless (just the way Hawkeye would like it) on the dresser and fading with age, dug out of khaki cloth with old memories-- the casual drape of an arm over a shoulder, the barest shadow where a fingertip brushed against his chest, creasing
his jacket. He's still there, in Korea; Hawkeye, lost...
He feels Peg's breath on his ear as she whispers that Hawkeye can wait for tomorrow, that B.J. ought to tell Erin a story before she falls asleep, so he does. Erin's eyelids flutter shut to the tune of a war story, with a gallant doctor named Hawkeye and his trusty sidekick named B.J., and how shining Hawkeye in armor saves nurse after nurse from the perils of boredom. She feels the rumble of his voice, the warmth of his words, and the peace of his heart as he talks to himself about the man who was so flip at a glance, but so little to most... a word and a grope and he's gone.
Two years, and not a word.
That night B.J. dreams of an invisible man lost in a minefield in Korea, and the only proof that the invisible man was there were his footprints in the dirt.
To Be Continued...
Anyway, this is the first chapter of an estimated 7 chapter story... It isn't a letter-fic as, although there are going to be letters, there are also going to be quelques retours-en-arrieres... flashbacks, if that's the word... longer than mere flashes, however.
Don't expect anything fantastic, I mean, I'm only 15! And what's more, the Quebec educational system being what it is, I learn french in school, as opposed to english... or rather, they only REALLY teach french. Sure there are english classes, but they are few and far between and honestly, I don't learn a thing from them. I digress. But that's just the way I am. I major in digression. Right.
So this is slash, sort of... yes... no... if slash is sex between two characters of the same gender, then no, not slash... but love... homosexuality... whatever. Read the thing for yourself, and please, give feedback. Otherwise I shan't be motivated to continue. Pathetic isn't it? Yes. Onward ho!
(Oh, and I don't own the characters. Why do we need to put disclaimers? If I owned M*A*S*H and the characters that go with it, do you honestly think I'd be wasting my time writing shitty fanfic? I didn't think so.)
Pairing: Hawkeye/B.J.(ish.. will be.. ish), Hawkeye/Trapper (briefly implied), Frank/Margaret (possibly)
italics = letter
CLOSURE, pt 1/7
Dearest Beej,
Greetings from Cove, Crabapple, Army Issue, (gee ma, I wanna go home) , and all her sons and daughters and her rain and fog and wet and cold and bigotry and racism and Frank Burnses. Ah, how war casts shadows on the sun. Alas and alack! Aye me, those rose-tinted glasses of home have aged and become... well, not so rose-tinted...
"Things do not change... we change," quote somebody. Yeah, yeah...
This place isn't the one I knew, but it's not like you can actually hear my heart breaking over the noise of the traffic. There's a shipload of rich Joes flushing out our lobster, all wearing bright shirts and cheap hats and filthy, baggy, stinking clothing (some of them I think must have raided our old wardrobe)... about two-thousand people here now in Crabapple Cove, and paved roads and two+ story buildings and I can't even find the hill where I used to go sledding, and got lost trying to sniff out the house where I grew up (if those are the right words, har har). And that was two years ago! How time flies when you're not bobbing for brutality in the melting pot of everything horrific and... Jesus, I've got to stop this. Two years, and still...
I'm sorry that I didn't write you sooner... it's been hell. I guess it's no big deal that I lost my practice. I couldn't operate without my bones melting into my patient and my sanity trying to eat its way out of my skull if my life depended on it. Oh, and did you know I can't eat chicken anymore? Or be around babies? Or stomach blood? Or cry?
Beej, I need to escape this place. It's not a comfort... it's as if the Cove is a reminder, proof that everything has changed, and I don't want it to. I need stability, familiarity... I'm lost in my own town, lost in my own head. I'm going to travel abroad (please no puns, I'm trying to be maudlin here)... visit Sidney, maybe... Col. Potter, Radar, Father Mulcahy, Margaret, Klinger... I honestly don't think I can handle Charles, Frank, the then welcome antagonists of this little `trapped-in-war mode' world I'm slumming around in. What about Trapper, perhaps...? I can't imagine... to see him... we were... well, you know what we were all too well. And I apologize for bringing that up, I know how uncomfortable it makes you... Can I visit you, perhaps?
I need closure.
Snax and pax,
Hawkeye
P.S. My father called me Ben the first time I saw him after... it all... I didn't know who he was talking to. I still hear shelling at night.
P.P.S. Rereading this, I realize that it is rather bereft of funnies. What can I say... like all great (you know I kid) writers, I just write what I know.
B.J. gently sets the letter on the night stand, beside the framed photograph of Peg and Erin making daisy chains in the sunshine on a sweet summer day; over the picture of himself with Him... with Hawkeye the Irreverent. B.J.'s eyes rake over the lanky frame in the photograph --lying loose and frameless (just the way Hawkeye would like it) on the dresser and fading with age, dug out of khaki cloth with old memories-- the casual drape of an arm over a shoulder, the barest shadow where a fingertip brushed against his chest, creasing
his jacket. He's still there, in Korea; Hawkeye, lost...
He feels Peg's breath on his ear as she whispers that Hawkeye can wait for tomorrow, that B.J. ought to tell Erin a story before she falls asleep, so he does. Erin's eyelids flutter shut to the tune of a war story, with a gallant doctor named Hawkeye and his trusty sidekick named B.J., and how shining Hawkeye in armor saves nurse after nurse from the perils of boredom. She feels the rumble of his voice, the warmth of his words, and the peace of his heart as he talks to himself about the man who was so flip at a glance, but so little to most... a word and a grope and he's gone.
Two years, and not a word.
That night B.J. dreams of an invisible man lost in a minefield in Korea, and the only proof that the invisible man was there were his footprints in the dirt.
To Be Continued...