it's: negative space

by: bj

in sum: your subject ought to be the one dominating the composition

label: lex. lex/jonathan. implied clex.

rating: nc17. powerplay, violence & language inna barn.

legalities: don't own, don't sue.

sissies: i know you'll have no spoilers. set early s1.

i say: extra-special thanks to my composition instructor phyllis greenwood for her delightful lecture notes. i'm sure a coronary would be imminent if she knew what i was using them for (besides drawing, of course). for sir jeff the unsquickable.

archive: ask and it shall (probably) be given.

you say: all comments appreciated, answered, and archived. allcanadiangirl@lycos.com.

negative space

The positive space is easiest to understand.

"Stay away from my son."

"I don't see why I should. He's old enough to choose his own acquaintances."

"Not ones like you."

"I haven't done anything."

"You want to."

"Pardon me?"

"I'm not a stupid man, Lex. I see the way you look at him."

"Mr. Kent, if you're going to accuse me of that, you're going to have to say the words."


Negative space is the space that is not your subject.

And it swells in the dusty air, thick enough to choke, it will cut the words into stay away from. It will overflow this cavern of wood and kill the bronze sunlight outside and it will become everything for a few minutes.


Bounding these is our third element, the frame or border.

Unexpected visit finds quarry away from the nest. Protective, possessive parent takes opportunity to assert moral authority. Predator unimpressed, somewhat amused. Game on.


Sounds easy, doesn't it?

"Stay away from Clark."

"I won't seek him out."

"That's not what I want to hear."

"Excuse me. Where Clark goes and who he sees are not my responsibilities. I'm not his father."

"No, you're not, and he's not like that, and I don't want him to be."

"Like what?"

"You're making this more difficult than it has to be, boy."

"You're assaulting my character, Mr. Kent. I'd appreciate it if you could be man enough to use the words."


Not so.

Struggle later, quick stumble to the car, hope and then hope again that sought object does not return to see blood in the hay, semen on the ground, going to make this disappear. And if it never happened, he never agreed to it.


Part of our negative space is bounded by the positive space.

Six inches of barn wall show between, the gap becomes smaller.

Each word ups the ante.


Another is constricted by the frame.

A section of the reptilian brain becomes inflamed. While the predator has little issue with proximity, the seams of the barn are flexing with violence. And it's familiar, and he's never been on this end of it before.


Sometimes the negative space is completely bounded by the positive space.

"Man enough? I'm not the one who wants to fuck a sixteen-year-old boy."

"I'm sure you're not."


What is important to note is that the negative space also defines our subject.

Maybe that was a little too much insolence, maybe this is all a consequence of innuendo.

A gloved fist and in the arc he already tastes blood, force pushes him away, swinging, his shoulders-arms follow. Equilibrium threatens to return as he is pressed against the hay. Right kidney, two shots, and a third, this is approaching felony assault, four.

One second, the pain starts to flood, two, he hears nothing behind him, three, the negative space around his vision starts to recede, so he puts his hands up to turn, four. Shoved back into the bale, straw poking nose, mouth, eyes.

The hand remains, the back of his neck, treated leather on hot skin, so familiar, he can maybe admit that he likes the way boy sounds coming from somebody else's mouth.

Blood in the hay, there it is. He tries to say something, speak sense, but sense has never meant much to the Kents. Honestly, really. It never meant much to him either.

Part of him knows the commands are not art or artifice, they're fear, not a little anger, and they're designed out of desperation in the service of teaching him a lesson.

Part of him likes it better that way.

Dust rises, a shuffling step, one two three fingers, yes. So it's not quite non-consensual. This is not going to improve anybody's opinion of him, don't care, doesn't matter, fucker has more to lose than fuckee anyway. One. In.

And it hurts. "Stay."

Two. "Away." Three.

"From."

Four has nothing attached. It drips to the dirt floor, he tries to say he understands, Clark. A breath comes out, no name. Yes sir I promise never to talk to him again. And nothing comes out. I won't. Nothing. Do it again.

One last blow across the back of his head. Fall on his side, feels it sticky slick through his pants leg. Roll onto his stomach, coughing up the blood he swallowed rather than spit into the hay. Got to have some dignity.

On his knees. Hitch them back up, button then zipper. Dust settled rises as the door rumbles. Day bright white waiting outside, squints against the judgment. Feet. Standing.


Confused?

Just remember that, no matter how small or bloody, your subject ought to be the one dominating the composition.

End.