acrossjohnsuniverse

"I feel funny." John said to George as they set by each other at the party in the Rolling Stones hotel room. Paul and Ringo were off someplace else, having fun with the two Keith's at the party, Richards and Moon. George looked over at his friend. John's pupils were blown, his skin sweating. "What did you take?" George asked. John shrugged. He'd just been drinking coffee since they had came, but Mick had given him his newest cup. And it had tasted a little funny. "I need air." John said. George nodded and stood up off the couch. John tried, but his legs weren't agreeing. George hauled him to his feet. Ringo looked over as they made their wa

        A lot of people here came to pools like these. The rippling circles that were really more like holes in the floating golden grass, not quite reflecting the drifting sky - or as close as to what a sky could be here. The ponds reflected minds, thoughts, echoes, and with concentration they could be bended to display whatever an observer wished. Most chose to see the people still living on earth, the ones that they had left behind. Patches of colour, flashes of light, faces and hair darting like fish, eyes like coins tossed into a fountain.         A middle-a

Every year it was the same. Every year, everyone but those two left to visit their family. Every year, John and Paul were distant. Every year, they sat completely alone, not even in each other's company. Every year, though neither would admit to it, they cried. Every year, both would do nothing but sit and think. Every year, Mother's Day was the same. Except this year. This year, John stared out the window, reminiscing about Julia Lennon as usual. But eventually he started fidgeting, the silence deafening and the solitude tiring. After awhile, he moved to the door and out into the hallway, deciding to visit Paul's room. The door was

Paul was known for being an optimist. There was almost no situation he couldn't turn around with a little bit of positive thinking. Every day was just as wonderful as the last—every experience refreshing as the first. He couldn't help it, he was just born that way. As a result of optimal optimism, Paul was having a great morning. It started off with rolling out of bed around 10:30, well rested and ready to start a lazy day. From there he took a long, warm, relaxing shower and hopped out near a half-hour later and dressed in a pair of slacks, a clean white shirt, and one of his many awful sweater-vests. Dancing as he prepared for heading

 The little boy sighed as he trudged down the cobblestone street, lamenting to himself. Why couldn't he be like a normal kid? Have fun and play around and goof off? Instead, he was forced to spend all of his time indoors, doing nothing. Taking medicine, staring out of the window longingly at the other children, wishing he could be one of them. "Why can't I be normal?" he asked himself. Only the blustery wind answered him. He shuddered. He knew he should be getting home. It wouldn't help him if he got sick again. His mother might never let him go for another walk for the rest of eternity. "Hey, Ritchie!" Richard Starkey turned his head