From a set of stories I’ve been wiritng, “Snow”. Noel reflects on his past. And Julian.







Length: words

Notes: *I own the concept alone. The rest is, like, all really people and right horrorshow people thems are,too, bothers. Noel Fielding and Julian Barrat own themselfs. ok? Don’t sue, I didn’t mean it!

Snow by Indi3C1ndYG1rl

Noel basked shyly in the red light that radiated around the small apartment, flickering red light that danced with its heat. Beyond his window, which sat beyond the radiator on which Noel had once tried to cook tinned beans, snow was falling.

Pure, brilliant white snow.

And Noel tried hard to forget that it was cold and wintry outside, tried so hard to forget the snow which tortured his fingers and stung so cold it burned his skin.

He concentrated hard on the tiny flame which danced on the tip of the candle before him, illuminating the words on the page, the name and mobile number he’d found when cleaning out his apartment.

He concentrated on the face attached to that tiny scrawl.

“Julian Barrat – 07919005464”

But that, all of that was such a long time ago.

Images of Julian and himself in the apartment flashed before Noel.

Sitting together watching old tapes on the TV, old, old, tapes from their childhoods.

Listening to jazz records on the record player (now gone, broken and sold), then throwing the records around the room in an attempt to re-capture the moment in “Shawn of the Dead” when they threw old records at the oncoming Zombies.

The door creaked softly, almost didn’t creak at all, and Noel looked up, staring hard at the splintering old wood of the emulsion coated door. Willing it to swing open and reveal his old friend.

Noel willed the door to come open, but not another sound came from it.

The wind close howled with the winds gushing glory but the door stayed silent.

A spider, scrawny legged and full bodied, much like Noel, scrabbled his way across the laminate flooring and over the fraying rug.

The fraying rug upon which Noel had sat, once, with Julian, and talked about playing twister and squid-head men.

Harrison, had it not been?

Noel let out a kind of half-laugh and gave up on the room, closing his eyes to a darkness that no-one else ever got. To use his own words “A perfect eclipse. Just for me, not for you,”

That was a long time ago, too.

Comedy had left him behind, and so had life.

He was no longer Noel Fielding – Comic Fashion Kid extraordinaire.

He was just Noel Fielding.

Noel Fielding who likes Topshop.

And sweatbands.

And Julian Barrat.

He was Noel Fielding who was the only one left, all alone, with the so-cold-it-burned snow and the red light from his last candle.

End Notes: It’s snowing outside my window, dears. xox

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