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Bad day. Bad few days. Bad day, bad day, bad day. Not going to be conscious long. Need to shut down. Here. 434 words of random, strange Nikola Tesla, spun from nothing. For the prompt on ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sfa_pornbattle: electricity.
sfa_pornbattle: electricity.Electric Dreams
He dreams electric dreams.
It should be a joke. Was said as one, once, twice, a dozen times. It should be a joke. But it isn't. Not this. Never this. He dreams electric dreams.
The current moves across him, a ripple through his chest, a wave shuddering through him. Nerves leaping, sparking, a crying sigh as the current moves, as it sings, as he shudders through it. Fitful leaping in his limbs, body helpless, an onslaught, an assault. The cry of the lightning as it pours across him, leaps, from hand to hand, from palm to palm. Lightning in his eyes and in his ears, ozone in his mouth, in his throat, singed air searing through his lungs. The current coursing. The lightning singing.
He dreams electric dreams. The rawness of it, the near-pain, ripping, the awe and terror and rich, impossible desire. His body rises, involuntary, a marionette before the storm, and he can't help it, doesn't want to. Electricity sears him, pounds him, tears him apart, and a cracked voice spills laughter into the scorched air. The savagery of it. The raw power.
But more than that. So much more than that. Fumbling, somewhere under the singing of it, under the raw fire and the pulsing in his limbs. Reaching for that other thing, that other dream, buried in the lightning, a pulse beneath his hands that he can almost reach. A wire, live and bright, beneath the world. Some fundamental thing, some force untouchable, the power to wring a world between his hands. He reaches, every dream, every nightmare, every waking moment. Beneath the screaming of his body, beneath the crying of his flesh. He reaches for it, strives for it, hand and heart, reaching half-mad into the abyss. And oh, and oh, he touches it. The edge of it, the high chimes of it, a moment in the heart of the storm where he is something other, where he touches something more, when the world is something greater. He touches, he touches, in his dreams. Touches something more.
And he wakes. He wakes, shuddering, crying, spilling into the darkness. Laughing, soft and cracked in a voice that smells like lightning and the burning of the air. His body convulsing, aching, arcing to some invisible hand, to some current no-one can see, spilling helplessly beneath the memory of a touch. Of a touch.
Something more. Something sweeter. Something terrible.
He dreams of the lightning. Even now. Even still. He dreams, and in the darkness, promises one day it will be real. Once more. It will be his again. Not a joke. Not this. Never this.
He dreams electric dreams.
He dreams electric dreams.
It should be a joke. Was said as one, once, twice, a dozen times. It should be a joke. But it isn't. Not this. Never this. He dreams electric dreams.
The current moves across him, a ripple through his chest, a wave shuddering through him. Nerves leaping, sparking, a crying sigh as the current moves, as it sings, as he shudders through it. Fitful leaping in his limbs, body helpless, an onslaught, an assault. The cry of the lightning as it pours across him, leaps, from hand to hand, from palm to palm. Lightning in his eyes and in his ears, ozone in his mouth, in his throat, singed air searing through his lungs. The current coursing. The lightning singing.
He dreams electric dreams. The rawness of it, the near-pain, ripping, the awe and terror and rich, impossible desire. His body rises, involuntary, a marionette before the storm, and he can't help it, doesn't want to. Electricity sears him, pounds him, tears him apart, and a cracked voice spills laughter into the scorched air. The savagery of it. The raw power.
But more than that. So much more than that. Fumbling, somewhere under the singing of it, under the raw fire and the pulsing in his limbs. Reaching for that other thing, that other dream, buried in the lightning, a pulse beneath his hands that he can almost reach. A wire, live and bright, beneath the world. Some fundamental thing, some force untouchable, the power to wring a world between his hands. He reaches, every dream, every nightmare, every waking moment. Beneath the screaming of his body, beneath the crying of his flesh. He reaches for it, strives for it, hand and heart, reaching half-mad into the abyss. And oh, and oh, he touches it. The edge of it, the high chimes of it, a moment in the heart of the storm where he is something other, where he touches something more, when the world is something greater. He touches, he touches, in his dreams. Touches something more.
And he wakes. He wakes, shuddering, crying, spilling into the darkness. Laughing, soft and cracked in a voice that smells like lightning and the burning of the air. His body convulsing, aching, arcing to some invisible hand, to some current no-one can see, spilling helplessly beneath the memory of a touch. Of a touch.
Something more. Something sweeter. Something terrible.
He dreams of the lightning. Even now. Even still. He dreams, and in the darkness, promises one day it will be real. Once more. It will be his again. Not a joke. Not this. Never this.
He dreams electric dreams.
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