A Gaze From Brownish Wastelands

This is supposed to be a fanfic of Brian and Freddie from Queen, the famous English rock band. But obviously it is a story simply talking about almost any man’s relationship with his long lost mate.

Brian said he would go to the groceries on his own.

Panting, he was told to rest in an awful peace, a never-ending consideration lasting six years or so, which was followed by his gloomy struggles after the death of his fairy godmother. They said he was crude and, nasty, for the things he had done; but he sighed and did nothing to clarify. No such wife could crucify his heart, nor the public. Only to discuss that he had an eye large enough to shove the sun under his gaze, a nose steep enough for trippers to kneel on, and thighs slender enough to thrash a masochism as a wicker. It favored his fellow young children’s minds for he raised them, fed them with grace instead of depression. You were the most saintly lady I’ve ever seen, dear, Mrs May, while he himself acted the saint, in fact, the saint of all misbehavior. And there he was, crouching in bushes of flower, dislocating pictures from tossed, crappy magazines that recorded his early years of soaring the planet with his brothers. Could it ever return? The early days, the beloved mates. Residence of his lied within the residence of all, blended the rural and his urbanized soul into a blurry line, but the hills were still there, it belonged to a widely known fairytale. Suddenly there was this oddly extreme voice�"�"could you hear my call, though you’re many years away? Ah, I know a Hampton boy�"�"your heart was carried far away to Vienna. The figure, rather flimsy, curled in a circle on the tip of Brian’s shoulders, like a nesting little birdie. His eyelids raised, shaking, a glow of ponds. The ghost ran Brian’s body, but there was nothing he could do. Lily of the valley was knocked out. In a hundred twining years the figure glided, he was Freddie, or perhaps, Farrokah, parasitized within many; a serpent’s emerald scales, emitted poison but killed none; a head of the great king rat, what had one sought in him? A pretty mascara lying in the bottom of a drawer from a virgin’s freaky, violet date. I saw no love between you, this boy wasn’t a virgin. He had been tossing out kisses since he was in boys school.

Brian sobbed. How he wished that Freddie hadn’t been tossing those kisses. Or, if must, it’d be better to toss them to him. The love he had for him, was sanctuary, still, there was another way around. When he spilled out like a wisp of haze from boiling kettles, Brian flinched. Scared of him. He turned blankly toward his own again, but didn’t see his fairy godmother. He only knew Freddie. After all the time rubbing the empty seat on number nine bus of London. He knew only Freddie. Thus, as he swirled, pointed, either with his finger or toe, in the direction of a lump of bird carcass in an agony red, and squealed, how marvelous, how magnificent�"�"Brian was certain that this was a complete stranger, messenger of the demon. I don’t know you, he said, you are loving the dead. No, the figure laughed, I seek beauty in the dead, that’s all; after all I am dead myself. I still don’t know you, Brian insisted. He was fake, but you are real. My dear Bri, I couldn’t tell you how absolutely wrong you are, the figure replied. A man was shaded in a shadow he disliked, his hollow shoulders I well knew; be a tough man, but when I said so he would run; like a mother peacock he loved to, give a slight peck at a very heart’s core which once in a lifetime, knocked him out of his skin, then take every negotiation under a sly grin. Still Brian shook his head, I don’t know you. Life’s a celebration, the figure went on, it’s anywhere near enough for us to be a plain passenger, this man told me. He’d even grow poppies for the poor, if they’d raise them pennies. Such a shame, my dear, but I possessed no other ideology than touting a couple of vintages at the time, ripped off customers once in a while. So as we dragged down mystical lanes, I for tons of times intended to drown myself in those heated streams, but they were nowhere to be seen; they flew inside my veins. I could literally drown myself then. But what for? After gladly discovering that I could be so much better than him? Still I don’t know you, Brian said. How was I better than him? The figure smirked. Yes, he wrote insanely sheer bloody poetry. I for one was relished when he was in sight, a pen at his lips, and he was chewing on its edge. But I did hope that he would rather swallow his manuscripts for his own good. I recognized every high stool this man had perched on between the years, either wine red like his tie, or greenish green like his witching wigs; I twigged every posture he’d make on those high stools�"�"both legs to the front, cross-legged, or legs at unequal heights. He snaked his ways between certain buses like they weren’t what they were, but ferries. Patting on the same seat every time he was on the number nine. I knew, he was waiting for someone who should’ve been there, or perhaps, was there. I command you to leave! Brian yelled, I don’t know who you are and still I have no interest…
Nevertheless, he wasn’t even ready to finish his sentence before his face began sliding away. Grab me a mirror! What have you done to me? He shrieked.

Oh dear, the figure murmured softly and pityingly, how awful this really is. You are trusting the figure, the man you see. My dear Bri, but don’t you trust this man when you are saying you aren’t. Surely I don’t trust you, how could I ever anyway? Brian half-wept, but his tears were suppressed. I don’t even know you. Strangely he continued fading away. His organs turned vague, his hair turned misty, his body as if penetrable. Say you don’t believe in me, quick, the figure panicked. But Brian made no sound, possibly causing an illusion by make-believing that his voice had slid away, too. Looks like I’d better leave now, then, the figure panted, bitterly but in a constructive way. As for that Freddie you were insisting on, he said, I must declare that I know him quite well. He was a singer of ageless times. He was right before you.

Author's Note

if any grammatical errors, please do me a favor and ignore them for now, thank you.