The Writer's Guild: aspiring authors' workshop

2022

Thu, 16 Oct 2008 01:24:51 GMT

Title: 2022
Rating: PG-13 For launguage
Summary: In a world ruled by robots, Elysia is sick of it all, and decided to rebel. What will happen when the government hunts her down after she starts on the run?

Heart pumping, I raced through the forest. How long will this last? This suffering inside me? Will only death bring me happiness? Sweat pours down my face as I force myself to run further from my problems. How long till they find me? What happens when they do? Dirt ripples up from the ground as I trip under my own two feet. I can’t hide it forever. They will punish me, just like they punished my parents. Pushing myself up from the dirty ground, I run quickly out of the forest. How long till they find me?

“Have you found her yet?” The alien’s shrill voice rang through the office, harsh and moody. He had been trying to find the rebel girl for more than ten days now, ever since she made an attack on the Senate house.

“Negative. 110357 has not been located yet.”

The computer replied back to Zortan, vice president of Earth. Things sure are different in the year 2022, I remember when we used to have a human president, and the only robots seen in the streets were those used for technology. “Maybe that is why we she tried to destroy us…” Zortan told himself. We might seem a little harsh to her, but even if this new world has changed from the one she used to know long ago, 110357 has no right to bring an assault on us like that. Shaking his head of all the plaguing thoughts, Zortan moved from his desk to the door. “Dinner should be ready soon; I can talk it out with the president then.”

Beep-Bo-Beep Annoying sounds came from the droid as it flew around the forest, scanning the area for any sign of 110357. Despite her not having the locater device attached to her, the robot was determined to bring the rebel back to base. Sensing something in the trees, Locator1000 swerved in to find out what was making the noise.

“Oh shit…” The bot had noticed me. My time is up, there is no outrunning these bots. Gathering my stuff, I stood up, waiting for the bot to come in for the arrest motion. After 30 seconds of silence, I carefully walked out of the cave, looking for the bot, but instead I saw a young man dressed in what seemed to be an antique superhero outfit, holding a smoking laser gun. “Looks like I’m not the only rebel here.” I stood in awe as the stranger twirled the gun into the holster, but not before blowing the smoke off the gun in style. “Who the fuck are you?” I know it was rude, but this strangely dressed man just appeared out of nowhere, with no introduction whatsoever.

“I think you might want to be a little nicer to me…110357…I just saved you a lot of trouble. That little robot was about to take you back to the president’s base.” Rolling my eyes at this man’s huge ego, I just replied angrily back,

“The name is Elysia, not that degrading number, and I suppose I do owe you an apology.”

Reaching my hand to shake his, the unnamed stranger took it. “By the way, name is Aiden.”

Novel and outline question

Tue, 14 Oct 2008 19:24:04 GMT

I posted this question on another community, but I figured I would post it here too.
How are you writing your novel? Just sitting down and pecking it out, or in bits and peices?

Now, the second question. Do you outline? How are you outlining? Is it a detailed scene-by-scene outline, or is it simple and you are only using it so you don't get lost?

Things We'll Miss - please kill it.

Mon, 13 Oct 2008 14:47:41 GMT

Hello! I joined this community less than a minute ago.
This is a fantasy story I've been working on for years. I've just taken the latest version off Fictionpress; I thought that it was good enough, but it wasn't. This is not that version. This chapter is even fresher - I only just wrote it.
It's vaguely steampunk-ish, stars a pair of two gay middle-aged men (one of whom is supposed to be autistic), and is... well, so far it's just been really boring and flowery. I'm trying out a less purple style. This is the first half of the first chapter.
Some of you have probably seen these characters on oc_analysis before (I went through one of those kicks a few months back where an author decides to post every single character she's ever thought of.) It's a good community, but they're not aggressive. I've been looking for someone to comprehensively flay me for months, and have recieved nothing but polite advice - however, looking back through the archives here, I can tell that you're not as bothered about being mannered as the rest of the internet seems to be.
And that is wonderful.
Yeah. I'm, ah, eager for harsh criticism. Please let fly.

On the third day of summer snow, the yischk called Mirosandr up for service.

When the radio began to crackle, he was presenting his serving-girl with a special gift. It was her naming-day; she was fourteen years old. The search for a suitable gift had, as always, kept him occupied for most of the year. After hunting through every cupboard in the house, wondering whether an old necklace, a collection of pinned dragonflies or even a set of silver service would be acceptable, he had consulted his best friend and his younger brother. Kizukai, his friend, had suggested jewellery; Slavoschka had recommended a dead polecat. Mirosandr had chosen to discount this advice. Jewellery was dull, devoid of historical value and shamefully inexpensive – it didn’t even move – and polecats were not native to this region, as his brother should have known. Besides, there was enough jewellery in the house. They didn’t need any more.

After spending many nights muttering feverishly to himself, engaging in long one-sided conversations about this very difficult decision, he had finally decided upon a most appropriate present. It was an heirloom – ancient, valuable and attractive; the perfect gift, he thought, for a fourteen-year-old girl.

Looking at it now, Aneschka said, "It’s a lovely chair."

"It is an antique," Mirosandr explained to her, trying not to sound too eager. The act of giving excited him. Truly, it was an excellent present; he would have been delighted to receive such a thing at the same age. Approvingly, he watched as she ran her fingertips over the smooth old wood. He had spent the previous night struggling with red ribbon, vaguely understanding that the chair would be more aesthetically appealing if it was adorned with a brightly-coloured bow, but the loops and trailing ends had frustrated him so badly that he had ended up huddled in the corner within an hour. All the decoration that remained was a tight red knot around one chair-leg. Mirosandr hoped that it was enough. "It has significant monetary value. It is also visually pleasing and physically comfortable." He paused. "Would you like to sit on it?"

"Very… very well." Obediently, Aneschka sat. She looked up at him. Displeased by her direct gaze, Mirosandr squeezed his eyes shut. "It’s very c-comfortable," she said, her words forming little flicks and curls of pale blue. "Thankyou."

Just as he was about to launch into a detailed evaluation of how much the chair was worth and how much it would be worth in the future if properly cared for, the radio crackled in the corner of the room. Flicking her ears, Jhodri – his mount, a huge creature that looked like a cross between a cart-horse and a mountain goat - snorted and pawed at the carpet, shifting her weight and almost dislodging him. Having no legs, he found balancing on her to be quite difficult when she moved suddenly like that. She was very broad; it was like riding a suede-covered dining-table.

"Lord Zjara? Are you there?" The voice that emerged from the radio was dulled and muted by static. Although the weather was still clement on the coast – his brother had told him so – the snowfall had been heavy in the highlands; cold dampened the yinien currents and interfered with the signal. Mirosandr didn’t like talking when there was static present. It was too distracting. It was like speaking to somebody who kept trying to make eye contact with him, was wearing an eclectic hat, had noticeably bright lipstick on, or changed the subject unexpectedly.

"Lord Zjara? Can you hear me?"

Aneschka helped him off Jhodri’s back. He recoiled violently from her touch and immediately felt guilty as she flinched. Physical contact was unbearable. It made him nauseous. Shaking himself, he pulled the radio a little closer, leant forward and said, "I am here." On the wall above him, the bright golden eyes of his grandmother glared out into the room; they seemed to be staring directly into the fireplace opposite, or possibly at the alphabetically ordered stacks of books sitting on the ornate Yrelinien rug in front of the hearth. Mirosandr liked to neatly pile things. Reorganising his bookshelves was one of his great loves in life, second only to creamy mushroom pastas, his piano, and Kizukai.

Gathering her gingham skirts up, Aneschka scuttled back to her chair and sat, crossing her bare feet at the ankle.

"Are you busy?" asked the voice.

Closing his eyes so that he could concentrate, Mirosandr wondered what they meant by that question. Were they asking if they had interrupted an important task? Or were they perhaps inquiring as to whether his life in general was currently in a state of chaos? He was afraid to answer in case the other person decided to use his response as a lead-in to making small-talk. Small-talk was not enjoyable. If he said that he was busy, they might begin speaking about the health of their mother, or their unruly children, or the weather; he didn’t know who they were, but that had never stopped anybody from conversationally accosting him before.

"Are you busy?" he repeated to himself, mulling the question over.

Almost a minute passed.

"Lord Zjara?"

"I am not busy," he said.

To his relief, they didn’t commence with small-talk. Rather, they politely enquired as to his health – he informed them that his myopia was rapidly worsening, his scars ached tolerably in the cold weather, he had been experiencing spasms and bouts of muscular weakness, his sleep patterns were irregular, he seemed to have developed a goat’s milk allergy which was simply unacceptable because he liked goat’s milk, he was suffering from a degenerative magical cancer that would probably soon kill him, and his bowel movements were regular but slightly hard – and then asked if he could come to Pajanz within the next few days. Frowning, Mirosandr glanced out the window at the steel-grey sky. The snow had stopped, but it would return soon. This was no weather for travelling, and he told his correspondent so.

"Why do you want me to go to Pajanz?" he asked. The capital city held no interest for him. Only his best friend and brother were worth visiting, and both of them preferred to come to the highlands to see him; being surrounded by unfamiliar people sometimes made him act oddly. "It is cold, and I am sick. I do not wish to go outside."

They said something, but Mirosandr looked up at the wrong moment and was distracted by the sight of a deer wandering across the yard. Although he could only see it as a sleek collection of russet angles amidst the snowy wilderness of the rose bushes, he knew that it was a deer by the cautious, sinewy way that it moved. He liked deer. In the far distance, the mountains were featureless patches of purplish shadow. A snort from Jhodri reminded him that he was inside; he looked around for a disoriented moment, before remembering that he had a question to ask. What was it? Oh, yes – clarification.

Closing his eyes again, he said, "Pardon?"

"We need you to kill somebody," the man on the other end of the line said calmly.

Mirosandr opened his eyes. "Oh. I see."

Lipstick and Pigs

Mon, 13 Oct 2008 14:47:21 GMT

Bus stop Bobby meanders,
Bus stop Bobby surveys his scene.
There is a stark, hard dust in the air.
A dust he swears he’s too damn poor to own.

Wasn’t supposed to be this way,
least what Bobby’s ma would say.
Should be a scholar or some big music man,
not a gypsy on the run from a future he was too afraid to see.

Some days the rains they fell,
other’s he didn’t even hate the life he chose.
And more came and went he didn’t even recall.
Bus stop Bobby worked hard to not live very much at all.

It’s not like he didn’t have nothin.
He punched his clock, he towed his line.
And at home he kept his sweet Maria.
But to him havin nothin was better than living someone else’s life.

He takes another bitter sip,
from life’s oh so poetic poison.
There is a chill in today’s dusty air,
and Bus Stop Bobby doesn’t want to see what blows in.

Minutes fade by like memories,
and he thinks that time is just some clever ruse.
Perpetrated for the sole intent
to make a man keep track of the minute his life did fail.

Another lifeless door opens before him.
And again he has no desire for what it holds.
Bus Stop Bobby goes through the motions and plays the scene.
He’s the guy you remember but can never quite make out his name.

He doesn’t believe in a God
but tonight he prays as he lays is cold head down.
Bobby begs to a new found savior,
to end his days at this stop, before the night gets even more lifeless.

Letters from Andalie

Mon, 13 Oct 2008 14:46:58 GMT

Have you ever played the Letter Writing Game? An exercise in creative writing, it is an immensely entertaining game where two authors each take on the role of of an original character of their making, and as that character, writes letters to the other. The twist, of course, is that the story must develop without the authors having established a plot together (and without knowing what the other character will do). So it's actually like writing and receiving real letters.... with the added literary bonus. ^_^

And so, inspired by Patricia C. Wrede's 'Sorcery and Cecilia' and the fantasy worlds of Tamora Pierce, comes the product of our own Letter Writing Game -- a joint production (still in the works) by a close friend (aka Audrey) and I (aka Jade)....

Title: Letters from Andalie
Genre: YA Fantasy
Status: Work-in-progress

***

13 September 946 H.E.
Royal Palace, Aylesbury

"Dear Audrey,

No, your eyes are not deceiving you, and I, as you know, do not lie (...except, of course, when I do). I am indeed at the Palace in Aylesbury, and have, in the course of 48 hours, come a hair’s width from being attacked, single-handedly set fire to the Market Square, and apprenticed (read: sold into slavery) to Mage Ellios, Lord of Lancaster and the singularly most infuriating man I have ever had the misfortune to meet..."

***

13 September 946 H.E.
Royal Palace, Aylesbury

Dear Audrey,

No, your eyes are not deceiving you, and I, as you know, do not lie (...except, of course, when I do). I am indeed at the Palace in Aylesbury, and have, in the course of 48 hours, come a hair’s width from being attacked, single-handedly set fire to the Market Square, and apprenticed (read: sold into slavery) to Mage Ellios, Lord of Lancaster and the singularly most infuriating man I have ever had the misfortune to meet.

But perhaps I should start at the beginning.

After you heartlessly abandoned your oldest and dearest friend for the thrills and excitement of Port Orsten, she languished so terribly that her doting father had no choice but to take her along to Aylesbury’s Autumn Festival, in hopes of lifting her despondent spirits. Mama, as I’m sure you guessed, was none-too-pleased with the decision, but, and I quote: “oh, anything to stop your insistent whining!” (Which, I must say, was most galling. Dee, you know that I do not whine – I merely critique. …Insistently.)

So Papa and I departed with the wagons on the eve of August, and arrived at the capitol some ten days later. The journey was rather uneventful, except for my rather futile attempts to convince Papa to let me keep one of the silks from his latest shipment (oh Dee, the colour was divine! And the weave! Clearly a warp begun with two thousand threads at least! …Not that you, swordsmith’s daughter, are one to appreciate the ascetic value of quality silk.)

But I digress.

Where was I? Oh yes, arriving at the capitol. Well, I don’t know about you, but I must admit that the sheer number of people living in such large cities never fails to startle me. Aylesbury during the Autumn Festival? Nothing short of chaos.

But, oh, what energy! Market Square was rife with it, as Papa and I set up our stall. The area was a haphazard muddle of merchant booths, eateries, golden lanterns and boisterous people. I was positively dying to escape and explore, but Papa flatly refused to let me out of his sight, for he, of course, had to attend to our wares. So naturally, for the next few hours, I became so charming an assistant (to the extent of even selling away that silk piece I’d most desperately desired!), that Papa could hardly refuse to let me wander for “just a few minutes – but don’t tell your mother”.

Dee, I swear I tried my very hardest not to get lost, I really did! I honestly didn’t mean to take the wrong turn, but you know how I am with directions – and trust your awful luck to rub off on me precisely in the very worst of situations. It may sound like a scene from one of those illicit novels our mothers forbad us to read (as if that would deter us), but trust me, being cornered by a group of drunken louts is nowhere near as swashbuckling romantic as the authors had made us believe. I’m sure you can imagine how terrified I was, and if I were (heaven forbid!) the fainting type… well, I don’t even want to consider the consequences of that!

Nevertheless, as I am alive and more-or-less well and penning this lengthy letter to you now, I obviously did not there reach my sad and sorry end. Everything happened so quickly that I’m still half-convinced it were all a dream – as one moment I was shrieking bloody murder (not that it was heard above all the noise), and the next the drunkards (along with half of Market Square) was in blazes.

Audrey, the range of destruction was hellish! So, although it kills me to admit it, I’m glad that he happened to be there – or my family would surely have been reduced to paying damages for generations to come! (His drenching of my lovely crème gown in that torrent of summoned water was, however, entirely uncalled for.)

You will be amazed at the amount of fear that man can instill on his own. From the instant the water dropped and quenched the flames, Market Square chaos turned to a silence so still that I actually heard a pin drop. (…On second thoughts, it probably was a pole.) There was no doubt in anyone’s mind of who this man was, even if (like me) they’d never seen either head or tail of him in their entire life. Lord Lancaster needs no herald – heavens, he may as well have been wearing a sign proclaiming loud and clear: ‘Danger! I am the Dread Mage Ellios. Proceed at own peril.’

Well, if I’d known of his intentions, I most certainly would not have stupidly stood there looking the drowned rat. Running for dear life would’ve have been a far more prudent decision. But alas! How was I to know?

“Come with me,” he ordered, striding towards me with the darkest of glares. Allowing no time for me to respond (let alone give my consent), he – a veritable stranger – had grabbed my wrist to yank me down the street like some common dog on a leash! Can you believe the nerve?!

“Unhand me, you cur!” demanded the utterly outraged I, but I may as well have been yelling at a wall, for all the use it was. “Fine! If you insist on kidnap, I should at least be notified of the destination.”

“Be silent, girl,” he answered frostily, as he unceremoniously shoved me into a carriage. “We are heading to the Palace.”
“But my father-“
“Will be notified.” and slammed the door shut.

I would like to say that gentleman’s (likely non-existent) manners finally made an appearance when we reached the Palace, but sadly, that was not the case. Without allowing me to dry off my wet things – indeed, without time to even take a cursory glance around me (it was the Palace after all!) – I was (again) yanked through the corridors and thrown into a room, as the door was ominously slammed shut.

“Sit,” he said, his contemptuous tone giving me no choice in the matter. Well, perhaps it was the many years under your reckless influence, or perhaps the previous events of the evening had addled my brain, but somehow I remained standing as a matter of principle – and Dee, it took more courage than you know. Lancaster is terror personified.

The rebellious action hardly endeared me to the already irate man. “Irresponsible or reckless use of dangerous magics is a criminal offence under Crown law,” he snarled. “Give me one good reason, girl, why I should not hand you immediately over to my Lord Provost.”

Well, Audrey, you know better than anyone that the more upset I get, the more my mouth will run. And frankly, by this point, I was beyond upset – I was verging hysterical. “One good reason? I have a list! Firstly, I have no idea how it happened – I am completely ignorant and innocent of the matter. Secondly, even if it were me, it was an act of self-defense – perhaps you should be interrogating my would-be rapists instead! Thirdly, Dee and I were Tested when we were little and neither of us has a drop of Power in us, so it would be altogether impossible for me to magically light a candle, let alone burn down Market Square! And fourthly… fourthly, well, you simply cannot send me to the Provost. My mother would kill me.”

Despite my impassioned outburst, Lancaster didn’t speak for a very long time. I waited, impatient, my heart in my throat. What was to be done to me?

Abruptly, he turned, and in the same tense and dangerously graceful movements, paced to the window, his back towards me. “A Seer discovered no traces of the Power?”

“No.”

His laugh was tinged with irony. “Girl, the amount of dormant Power in you is – as much as it pains me to say – well nigh equal to mine.”

I gaped at him. “I beg your pardon?!”

Lancaster ignored me. “Very well, it cannot be helped. The unpleasant task of tutoring must fall with me. This will be your living quarters, until your training has ended. You will awake when the dawn bell tolls, and come to my workroom after breakfast. The time I tutor you will vary depending on the amount of time I have to spare but you are expected to finish your assigned tasks before the next day. I bear no responsibility for your actions, and your well-being is not of my concern. We begin tomorrow.”

And just like that, with no time to ask or to protest this new state of affairs, he was gone.

I had been dismissed.

I’m frightened, Dee. What have I done to make the Fates conspire against me thus?! Papa must be so worried, and I still don’t know what exactly has happened to me. How can I, an ordinary Yang girl from Shorehaven, have enough Power to rival the Royal Mage?

One thing is certain – I’ve never missed our dull and adventureless seaside home as much as I miss it now.

I hope you are faring much better than I.

Your very terrified,
Jade

New online magazine now accepting writing/art submissions!

Mon, 13 Oct 2008 14:45:30 GMT

(moderators: if this isn't allowed, please delete with my apologies)

Introducing

an online magazine of Science Fiction & Fantasy with a twist

Crossed Genres (crossedgenres) is a new online magazine inspired by an altered version of the Genre Challenge (genrechallenge).

Every month, Crossed Genres posts a new genre. Writers and artists have one month to submit stories and art that combine the chosen genre with some aspect of Science Fiction and/or Fantasy. All submissions are considered for publication (read the submission guidelines.) Crossed Genres will also contain interviews, and articles about the current genre, SF/F in general and the craft and business of writing. The Magazine is free! Please sign up to get the mailing list!

We also have a growing list of writer-related links (suggest a new one!), forums discussing all aspects of writing, and more!

So please visit the website, and sign up for the mailing list! The first genre has been posted and is accepting submissions for Issue #1, to be released December 1. Please consider making a submission!

Story Scraps

Sun, 12 Oct 2008 23:31:38 GMT

Hey everyone, this is my first time posting something in this community, I'm looking forward to any criticism, even the negative stuff can help, lol. Thanks :D

Some scraps from a project I've been working on for a while:
These are rough drafts, I understand there is no introduction to who the characters are, their situation, etc, I'm just looking for advice on how I can make the writing itself more effective, etc.

The man did not have time even to flinch, to back away more than a few steps, before Lauren had him. The other two didn't dare to move; the street was motionless again, save for the heaving of Lauren’s chest as he drew in deep, ragged breaths and for the trembling of his prey.
Lauren looked the man in the eye. There, behind the stranger’s steel-gray gaze, glimmering in the faint light of the street lamps, he found exactly what he’d expected. He’d learned to mask his own fear a long time ago; apparently, this man had not. He could feel the stranger’s neck quivering and straining in his hand. Lauren knew that if he could only dig into that vulnerability – that fear – this would all be over. He had always hoped that he would never have to use the knife, but as he listened to Dean’s screaming cries he realized that perhaps tonight was the night.
“Lauren,” The man breathed, “You are not a killer.”
“Not yet,” He replied, his voice a steady growl as he pressed the cold blade into the man’s skin a little deeper.
“Frightening,” The stranger breathed. He cracked a snarl of a grin, revealing his teeth the way an animal would.
Lauren felt a swarm of arms closing around him, felt himself being dragged backward and, without thinking, forcefully sank the full length of the blade into whatever part of the man was within reach. He felt hot blood spurt onto his hand and wrist and drip down his arm; with a gruesome squelching noise he jerked the knife back out of the stranger’s body as the other two men were pulling him away.
Lauren stared, eyes wide in disbelief – had he really just –
The man dropped to his knees there in the street, one hand on his chest, blood leaking from between his fingers and dripping onto the pavement. His face was contorted, his breath coming in shocked gasps.
The other two who had Lauren in their grasp dragged him to the ground. His body slammed down onto the hard pavement and he felt his head hit. Immediately his hand went limp and released the knife; his vision clouded over. He heard Dean’s muffled yells of protest and shock, and then the world was silent.
He lay there for several minutes, barely mindful of the kicks aimed at his body; of the receding footsteps of the strangers and the scuffling as they helped the bleeding man into their vehicle. Fighting to maintain consciousness, he barely had half an ear to listen with as they shot away down the street.
Lauren cracked his eyes open – he still couldn’t see, but at the edge of his mind there were patches of light that he knew were the lampposts standing quietly on the sidewalks. His body demanded that he not move, and concentrate on breathing instead, so he did. The air was cold, but his body was in shock, and gulped it down steadily, desperately. He tried over and over to force his eyes open, and after a few moments his vision began to return. Though his entire body – and his head worst of all – was aching in pain, he sat up. He collected the bloody knife from where it had clattered into the gutter and looked around himself; the homes nearby were dark and quiet. The street glistened with speckles of blood in places. He stood, brushing himself off, and gathered the scattered groceries. As he turned toward the house, he saw Dean’s small silhouette still at the window.

******

Lauren wiped his shoes off on the rough bristles of the welcome mat and knocked softly on the front door. Dean opened it and he stepped in, locking it again behind himself. And the two brothers looked at each other – Dean’s face was red and shining with tears; Lauren’s was scraped in places and his features were tired, almost drooping. He knelt down and gave his brother a thin smile; Dean stood there, chin quivering and fingers tangled together confusedly. Lauren put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him into a hug, whispering words of reassurance.

******

After two extra hours of rest, he still didn’t feel ready to get out of bed. But something told him it was time.
He grabbed a towel, sauntered into the bathroom and turned on the shower to let the water heat up. He removed the clothes he hadn’t bothered to change out of the previous night; they still had small, cracked fragments of orange leaves clinging to them, and his shirt was stained with dried blood on its front and sleeves…
He stopped a moment to stare at it.
In his mind’s eye he saw it again: his own hand, white-knuckled with ferocity, a knife handle enclosed in its grip.
He set his jaw and looked for the first time at his right forearm – the upper side that was marked with the jaguar tattoo, and the underside: caked with blood, from wrist to elbow. With the fingertips of his left hand, he touched it gently, almost questioning whether the blood was real. Of course it was.
It was as real as the tattoo and just as permanent.
Lauren exhaled a deep, steady breath at the sight of his own face that glared at him from the mirror, but didn’t linger overlong to stare at the bruises; he stepped into the shower. He stood there under the hot water, eyes closed, letting it soak his hair and rush down over his face, his body. He breathed in the steam for a few moments and then, stone-faced, scrubbed away the blood on his arm.

Benjamin Kilby

Sun, 12 Oct 2008 21:51:30 GMT

No one, even in their darkest hour, can recoil against love.
Benjamin Kilby
228 words

Warning: There might be a few comma misplacements towards the end of the first paragraph.

Giro di Venezia

Sun, 12 Oct 2008 17:28:06 GMT

Title: Giro di Venezia
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: male/male sex
Notes: This was written a bit ago and is the first completed story of what is going to be a short story collection of gay erotica. Posting it here because last story I posted got some good crit from some people and I'm quite sure this story still needs some polishing though it has been edited a couple times by other people. I am aware that this story towards the middle and end overuses the phrase 'the other' and 'the other's'. I will edit that soon, but I'm already aware of it (maybe that's just my own pet peeve?).
Word Count: 2893

Ricky couldn't believe his parents had dragged him here. Yeah, Venice was great for a honeymoon, but a family vacation? It was beyond ridiculous but had anyone stopped to ask him? Ricky would have loved to stay in San Francisco, driving down to the beach everyday with his friends. The summer always brought the hottest guys of all kinds. You had your surfers, lifeguards, rich yacht boys and the sailboat water skiing bunch. Ricky didn't think any Venetian could compete with a Californian's ripped tanned physique.

This was now his third day in Venice and he still had a long two months in front of him. Ricky glared at his parents' back, watching them climb into a gondola. He had previously told them that he would wait for their return right where he was. He didn't need a stomachache from their unseemly behavior on top of all this. Turning his attention back to his cup of hot tea he sighed. What could have been a more lonely way to spend his summer? At least he could speak Italian fluently; they could have gone to Russia or some other godforsaken place.

"Such a beautiful boy shouldn't look so upset while in the most magnificent city in the world," a deep baritone voice said in heavily accented, slightly broken English. The source of voice was a tall man with dark brown hair, which fell into his caramel eyes. His skin was a beautiful golden tone. A light knit white sweater covered his lean muscled arms and torso, ending just above the top of his black pants.

'Now this is a nice development,' thought Ricky, looking the obviously older man up and down, attempting to be discreet. "Venice can't compare to San Francisco or even New York City," he retorted in perfect Italian. 'But you sure could,' he added mentally.

"Such an unpleasant attitude, no wonder you cannot enjoy the beauty of Venezia," the man said, switching to Italian, a hint of laughter in his voice confirmed by the amused twinkle in his eye. He sat down across the table from Ricky, crossing one leg over the other; his hands resting folded on the tabletop. "I have a proposal for you...ah, what was your name again, boy?"

"My name is Ricky, and I'm not a boy. I'm eighteen, quite old enough to be called a man," Ricky said defensively. He did hate being called boy or any other term that would denote him as not yet a full-grown man.

The stranger laughed loudly, shaking his head. "My dear boy you should enjoy your youth while it is yours to enjoy! If you don't, you will have too many regrets once you are older. Live while you're young, once your forty you're half dead," he said with a certain tone of seriousness and sorrow in his eyes. It seemed to indicate he knew what he was talking about from his own experience. The laughter and carefree attitude alleviated his features only a few seconds later. "My name is Luciano! Venezia is my home and I will show you how majestic and beautiful it is and by the end of your stay you will agree with me! What do you say?" he asked.

"I don't think you could do it," Ricky said, though the thought of spending time with this Venetian mystery man appealed to him. He sighed a little, knowing he would have more fun with Luciano than following his lovebird parents. He might as well take the handsome man up on his offer. "You have two months."

"I can do it in less than a week," Luciano countered with a hint of arrogance, as if he was merely stating a fact. He wasn't sure what had possessed him to talk to the boy, but seeing someone look so miserable when they were so young stirred him. Not to mention Ricky was definitely a beauty. He would enjoy showing his beloved city to the foreigner. Taking a personal tour with a native would be better for showing the tourist what the real Venezia was like.

"Cocky aren’t you?" Ricky said, sounding quite bratty. The other seemed to be a narcissist of sorts though he seemed more obsessed with Venice than himself. What would that be called; there had to be an official name for it, at least there should be if there were more people like Luciano.

"No, I'm Venetian," Luciano retorted smartly, running his fingers through his hair. "There is a difference, dear boy," he teased mercilessly.

"Fine, fine. We'll start tomorrow," Ricky sighed and then grabbed a pen writing his information on a napkin. Instead of staying in a hotel his parents had decided that renting an apartment for their stay would be more economical and fun; just meant he had to do chores in his opinion. He handed over the napkin and watched Luciano pocket it.

"Thank you, Ricky. I'll pick you up at eight in the evening. Don't eat dinner," he said simply, standing up and leaving as quickly as he had came.

It had been exactly four days since he had met Luciano. His parents had been thrilled at Ricky finding something he was interested in and didn't interfere or ask to many questions. He had grown to like the older man more and more each minute they spent together and now they seemed almost inseparable. It truly was Luciano's company that made Ricky start to enjoy his vacation, but he would have to admit he loved –Luciano's- Venezia; maybe it was simply because it was Luciano's though.

Ricky sighed Luciano was making him wait again. He always got a sneaking suspicion that the Italian loved doing that. He briefly wondered how the man had so much time to spend with him, but he supposed that it wasn't really his concern anyway. As if on cue with his thoughts Luciano came up to the steps Ricky had been sitting on in front of his apartment. "You're late again," he said dryly, his eyes wandering over Luciano's body as he always did when he saw him. Today he was wearing a light blue sweater and white slacks; it contrasted nicely with his darker golden skin.

"Yes, yes dear boy. Please forgive me again," Luciano answered with a bright laugh. He pushed his hair out of his eyes, leaning down to hug Rickly, kissing his cheek, which seemed to be the man's customary greeting. He loved watching the slight blush rise on the brash teen's cheeks. "Come now," he said. "We have a long day ahead of us."

"Sounds good," Ricky murmured, standing up and feeling Luciano's arms slipping around his waist. His skin prickled at the action and he tugged nervously at the end of his hoody. Why did Luciano have this affect on him? The man was special, for sure, but...there was just something that made him feel so young and innocent; almost like he was naïve again. He wasn't sure whether he loved or hated it. With only a little hesitation he leaned his head against the other lightly as they walked. "What are we doing today?" he asked, glancing up with eyes half closed against the glare of the sun above Luciano's head.

"Many, many wonderful things, Ricky, my boy," Luciano responded. It was the same answer he had every time Ricky had asked. Luciano enjoyed surprising the teen and keeping him on his toes. They had walked around for some time until Luciano took them into a small café, pulling out a chair for Ricky.

Ricky sat down and watched as Luciano seated himself across the small table. His eyes hardly wavered from him during the meal and his thoughts wandered into an area where he shouldn't have been dabbling. He shifted, shaking his head as he put some money on the table when Luciano stood up to go. He couldn't start thinking about the older man in such a way. The guy had to be old enough to be his father, though he didn’t look his age at all; when he took into consideration the fact of Luciano's age he wondered what he was doing with him in the first place.

Luciano gave Ricky an odd look and briefly wondered what had come over the teen who was acting strange and even blushing a bit. He was so cue when he was blushing though. Luciano gave an inward sigh and wrapped an arm around Ricky's small waist again, pulling him closer as he grinned down at him. "Let's get going to our next activity!" he declared, once again enjoying the feel of Ricky molded perfectly against his body.

That evening Luciano had taken Ricky to an expensive restaurant and when they left both were admittedly a little tipsy. Ricky leaned heavily against Luciano as he started laughing at a wisecrack the other made. He then interlocked their arms, dragging him towards a place he remembered that rented gondola rides. "I wanna go on the water!" he exclaimed starting to laugh again, only God knew why.

Luciano chuckled, smiling at the teen, nodding and when they reached the rental he paid quickly before trying to help Ricky in. Though Ricky almost caused them both to fall into the water. A few minutes later they were both settled comfortably and the ride down the canal began. Luciano closed his eyes enjoying the familiar sensations of riding in the gondola. He was going to wait a little longer before taking Ricky on a gondola but the teen had jumped the gun on him. 'Quite a clever boy,' he thought to himself though he couldn't explain that exact reasoning.

With a yawn Ricky snuggled up against Luciano, nuzzling his face in the other's neck. "I like you Lucy," he mumbled, the newly founded nickname seemed to be an inward joke which caused him to start giggling.

Luciano blinked, glancing down but only able to see Ricky's hair from the position they were in. "Really? Hmn...That is interesting, very interesting indeed," he chuckled, a hand moving and raising Ricky's head up so he could study his face. "What would you say if I said I liked you too?"

"Kiss me," Ricky answered simply, his lips parted slightly. He was waiting with a hopeful look on his slender and beautiful face.

Luciano for probably the first time in years was truly shocked. "Ricky..." he said his voice a little strained. "I..." his words were cut off as he felt Ricky's soft lips pressing urgently to his own. His own desires came into play quickly taking over the logical side of his brain. The elder man pulled Ricky closer deepening the kiss as he returned the kiss with the same passion as Ricky had started the kiss with.

Ricky mewled softly into the kiss his hands wrapping around the other's neck to pull him closer. Caution and reason had been thrown to the wind for reasons that one could blame on the alcohol, but in truth that was only the medium for something that was inevitable; inside both of them knew this would have happened eventually with or without their drunken state.

Luciano rested his hand on Ricky's hip, leaning into the kiss. He pressed his tongue into Ricky's mouth with his other hand on the back of his neck. Vaguely he was aware of the man guiding the gondola, but he knew they saw such things all the time; he would enjoy the show Luciano was almost sure. He pulled Ricky on top of himself, hands moving down to cup the other's rear, squeezing teasingly. "Ricky," he murmured against the other's lips, "Are you sure?" He nuzzled his face into Ricky's neck, kissing it lightly.

Ricky moaned softly, pressing and melding his body to Luciano. His body was alight with the sensations that Luciano's touch awakened in him. He ran his hands down the other's side, slipping his fingers under his shirt, tracing the defined muscles that he had been fantasizing about doing. The warm, soft but firm skin under his hands felt even better than his imagination. "Stupid question," Ricky finally answered before pressing his lips back to Luciano's. The Italian man was even more intoxicating than the wine he had consumed.

Luciano's muscles quivered somewhat at the exploratory caresses and his own hands began pushing up Ricky's shirt. He pulled from the kiss again, moving carefully to put Ricky beneath him, hovering over the other as his fingers brushed over and teased dusky nipples. "Sweet, sweet boy," he whispered, slithering sensuously down Ricky's body situating himself between parted legs. With Ricky's shirt pushed up he leaned in, swiping his tongue over one of the nipples. He sucked on the hardened nub and bit it lightly.

Moans of pleasure escaped Ricky's mouth and the boy covered his lips with his hand, biting the knuckles to stifle the sounds. His body arched into Luciano's attentions as one of the older man's hands teased his nipple while it's opposite cupped Ricky's straining groin. He groaned softly as the other rubbed at just the right pressure to bring him the most pleasure. "Luciano," he mewled from behind his hand.

Luciano chuckled and reached up quickly to pull Ricky's hand down. "Don't muffle your sounds," he said, looking at the other with mischievous eyes. His teasing fingers returned to toy with Ricky's sensitive nipples. Caramel eyes drifted from Ricky's face and down to the bulge that was growing in the boy's pants. He grinned slightly as he moved his hands down to unzip the other's britches. He pushed them down to mid-thigh. His hand wrapped around Ricky's hard member firmly, stroking him. Luciano felt his shaft throb in need for attention as Ricky's moans reverberated through his body.

Ricky whimpered and arched his hips up into the other's hand. His body trembled with desire as he reached for Luciano's pants. In a haze of lust he was now desperate for more of the older man. His body had never felt so.wanting. It felt that he would die if he couldn't be with Luciano right then and there. He fumbled with Luciano's zipper, moans slipping from his kiss swollen lips. He whimpered again when the other's zipper was undone. Awkwardly he pushed the pants and briefs down.

Luciano groaned as the restraints on his member were relieved and moved his head up, pressing a fierce kiss to Ricky's soft alluring lips. He leaned forward to meld their bodies against each other. Their erections brushed together, eliciting a deep mutual moan.

Ricky ground his hips up to Luciano's. "Fuck me," he begged, need lacing and intertwining in his tenor voice. "Please, Luciano. I want to feel you deep inside me," he continued, his hand running through the other's hair.

All of Luciano's reserves were shattered at that moment and he turned the other onto his hands and knees, reaching into a pocket of his pants to pull out a condom and a small tube of lube. Without hesitation he hurriedly prepared the other. He was grateful for the fact that the other definitely didn't feel like he was a virgin. He didn't think he had enough control to hold back any.

Fingers stretched Ricky's passage and soon to the boy it served no purpose but to tease him. "God's Luciano! I'm ready," he moaned, pressing back into the fingers desperately, fingers curling into the pillows that were in the gondola for the riders' comfort. "Luciano," he mewled, pressing even further back when the elder pulled his fingers out.

The tip of Luciano's length pressed to Ricky's stretched and waiting passage. He didn't wait long and neither did he try to tease. To tease Ricky would have been teasing himself that much more. He groaned as he felt the muscles clenching his ample length. After a moment of remaining still inside the rythmatically tightening and loosening passage he started to thrust steady but increasingly fast.

Ricky gasped when he felt the other's length invade his body. He moaned softly at the pleasure and prickle of pain that being taken brought. "Ah, please," he moaned, clenching the pillow and pushing back into Luciano. His body was alight even more than before with passion and lust as the two moved together at a now frantic pace.

"Ricky," Luciano panted, his fingernails digging into the other's pale skin. Their bodies created a beautiful, alluring contrast; Luciano's bronzed hips, pressing and molding to the ivory of Ricky. "You're beautiful," the older man panted in the boy's ear as he started to stroke the other in tandem with his thrusts.

Both of them were so close and it was only a few more seconds before they released simultaneously. When the high subsided Luciano pulled out, licking his fingers to clean off Ricky's bittersweet essence. "Mm," he moaned before chuckling as Ricky started to blush. The man pulled his pants up and smiled as Ricky did the same. They would definitely need a shower now. "How do you view Venezia now, Ricky?"

Ricky blinked, scooting to curl against the other drowsily. "I love Luciano's Venice, but it can't compare to you at all..." he said softly, drifting off to sleep.

Luciano could see he would have to carry Ricky home. "I love you," he murmured, knowing that his Ricky would return to Venezia once again.

THE END

...if I were a more romantic person, I'd even say that it was Fate.

Sun, 12 Oct 2008 17:27:47 GMT

Title: To An Almost Lover, A Letter
Genre: Romance
Word Count: 284

...

The first time we met, in that small house made even smaller by the crowd, you weren’t the first thing my eyes fell upon. No, that was the silverware and the Eve apples in their banana-yellow bowl, so much brighter and headier in colour than you –- dark, relaxed, easy –- you, sitting at the table eclipsed by brilliance.

“Hi,” you said; “Hey,” I replied – and at that moment we were just an ordinary boy and an ordinary girl giving names to faces made familiar by chance.

...

Yes, ordinary, just ordinary - that's what you were.

But oh, how wrong I was, as wrong and as naive as I was about so many things concerning you. For there had been no "spark", no cliche "love at first sight", no magical fairy-tale effect when your warm eyes had met mine. And so I was lulled into a false sense of security - until the night wore on and our perfunctory smiles and idle chit-chat softened into a laughter and a connection and a conversation that meant far, far more.

Because I confess I underestimated your charm, how quickly you could creep under my skin and deeper yet, like a swift and terrible virus inhabiting, diseasing – 'Vini, vidi, vici'. In my mind’s eye I can see your eyes widening at this insinuation of malevolency – “Who me?” and I must laugh and retract my words, for of course malevolency does not become of you – not quite like that sliver of awkward confidence does – and you are, I'm sure, too good and too sweet at the core to ever play more than the heroic.

...Somehow the silverware didn't seem quite so bright after that.

The Hanged Man

Sun, 12 Oct 2008 17:27:38 GMT

You'll be still in bed, teeth
bloody, lids taut
over the contours of your peeled-egg eyes and
you'll get that
falling feeling
you sometimes get
when you are still in bed and
your body forgets about itself.
Miles will rush vertically
past your ears.
Your fingernails will trowel.

You will tell yourself nothing
has happened, just your brain
losing its equilibrium for a second,
but you will feel displaced,
hanging floating somewhere in
between your bed and the floor,
and you will remember suddenly
sixth-grade insomnia,
imagining you could feel
the world turning beneath you,
great gears grinding.

Time zones away, people will be
swimming, going to movies, mugging each other.
And you will be here,
uneasy on your square feet
of earth, and what if gravity will forget
about itself and you and
the lava malt
beneath the surface of it all will
become one?

Archaic Thought

Sat, 11 Oct 2008 17:37:51 GMT

I can't believe I could still see you even in my dreams...

What we had was long been over, even your name was buried, eradicated too long ago from my mind. Yet your face haunts me in my dream, making it impossible to forget when your face is so near and your voice so clear.

Are you still waiting for my explanation? Are you still hoping that one day I'd show up and reveal the truth that I have kept hidden for so long? The secret that you will never know.

I cannot come back from who I was. Everything about me had changed. And I cannot find the courage to face you after my years of silence. Forever, you will be...just a memory.

You can haunt me in my dream but you cannot reach me. You can try to search for me but you will never find me again.

You will always be a memory that I love to forget.

photo courtesry of Nina Munteanu (http://sfgirl-thealiennextdoor.blogspot.com/2008/02/dreams-rem-theta-rhythm.html)

Fri, 10 Oct 2008 19:43:48 GMT

I.

Your words slip into my body. They rummage around and find that there is nothing here for them. This body has no immune system,always having to take what's thrown in its direction. They pinch and pull on my heart until they realize it might bust. They sink, sink, sink to the tip of my toes and find even at the bottom of everything, there is no escape.
They have to sit, sit, sit and search until it rolls out of my eyes or my fingers and the body dissolves and the exterior breaks,but only to let more words inside.

II.

It's not strange to find myself walking into a large room,with walls that feel like they're stretching on and on, reaching for something that's not really there. I plant my feet in one spot and turn to the left. Spin until everything I see is a blur. I'm not dizzy,I never will be. The more I spin the faster the objects switch from place to place,the more rotating circles I see. I could stop this very instant and be perfectly still. Only, I wish I could say that about life.
My life, to be exact, is this constant blur of spinning motion that never ends.
spin spin spin...

III.

And you came to me in dreams, saying, “I just want you to be happy." I said, “We can make believe.” Your words, they filled me with madness and enveloped me in sorrow; my skeletal like body slowing drifting away like the sea,and tide after tide, breaking me down until I can do nothing but sink. I wanted to be invisible,and even when that achieved, I found bitter disappointment in not feeling empty. For what person asks for nothing,for what person asks to be dead? And my parents quiver when they speak, they're unsure of who I am and the questions they struggle to ask. All these mouths that I see,they move with each passing second, and all I hear are sounds of destruction, 'Who have you become?' All the lost words forever pitched into the ground. "Yeah, we can make believe"

IV.

You lean down and grab both sides of your feet. Pull yourself upward and back, flipping around as much as you can. Turn and twist until your surroundings are unclear and you have become something even you're unsure of. You raise the window as an outburst of wind and rain leaps in and seeps into your body. Shut your eyelids and lean your body outward, hoping something latches onto you. If you can close your eyes you can see the morning light. The lights flicker off and you're in an ibis of whatever you want. Seal your eyelids and travel to the small cottage on the hill. Gather ample bark to begin a fire, scrape your knee, but smile. Remember when pain felt good because pain felt real? Ascend the smoke, let it tickle your nose. The lights flicker on, the smoke makes you cough.
Ah, but to remember. Can you feel the droplets drowning your face? Can you differ the salt-stinging ones from the rest, the ones you know so well? Leave the rain for the world's tomb,pull yourself back into your own hell. They say time heals everything, you're just watching the clock for now

V.

So we took all our verbal destruction and capsuled it into a box. "Bury it deep into the earth" you said, "For one day when we think things can't get any worse,we will remember how terrible we once were." I scraped my knees and we watched them bleed, you kissed me and said you were sorry. Oh how we cried, but we were happy.
"Never waste your happiness,your pain is not gone but hidden deep."

Estranged

Fri, 10 Oct 2008 12:31:18 GMT

A pair of flaming eyes stared mockingly
into the unfathomable darkness.
Cold, distant and aloof--completely lost
and defeated by a fully blown Rose.
Yet, out of that contemplating darkness
emerged a shining petal, glowing beautifully,
as clear as crystal and as strong as steel,
provoking further contempt and more odium
to the ever-hardened frame chiseled by time itself.
The disdained look that bored a thousand sunsets,
covetously willing to prompt the world into battle
is now conquered by a thorny, beautiful Rose,
which proves to me that behind the charade
of strength and muscles, lies the soft
and vulnerable heart of the man.

photo courtesy of www.evenhappier.com

first draft.

Fri, 10 Oct 2008 11:54:27 GMT

This is a fresh-off-the-mind-press draft. I plan on cutting some edges. Please let me know what you guys think isn't quite necessary.
What works, what doesn't.

Flotsam

The making or breaking point is creeping up.
I am slowly becoming part of a room, in a hollow home,
on a street not boastful nor dissuading. This city
is dying to become something, it swells and levels each year.
I'm from the leveled side. I moved to the swell-- and it's carrying me
like flotsam. The foreign splinter to rue. Outside
there are trees in a line, bicycles passing
sporadically, a mailman meanders by at the same time,
and I'm usually not here to nod hello.

I'm out accomplishing pennies on the minute, dollars on the hour. It's safe.

Did you ever see a mountain of soup build-up?
I saw a corner the other day, growing powerful,
growing stakes.

An associate of mine stood back and stared.
We watched it like a living thing sniffing corners of the yard,
but it was patient, it was still.

Original story

Fri, 10 Oct 2008 04:55:28 GMT

Write a background story about your protagonist. Note: These are actually not my main characters but this is what came to me so I let it go. :) They are important characters to the story though. Language note: {i}Aniki{/i} is a term in Japanese that basically means big brother. In Japanese culture it is rare for a younger sibling to use their older siblings actual name instead they use terms like {i}Aniki{/i} or {i}Niichan/Niisan{/i} for older brother or {i}Neesan/Neechan{/i} for older sister. 'O' is also sometimes put in front of Nii or Nee. In any case it's just a cultural thing that I wanted to work into the piece as even though they are living in America they do stick to a very Japanese family system at home. Word Count: 1058 Background story for NaNo Novel characters Also you should join the site! It's great for writers and readers alike.

If you have time...

Fri, 10 Oct 2008 01:24:36 GMT

I'm starting up the first novel I'm confident I would finish. I mean, I've written novels in the past which I suddenly became tired of writing and finishing, so I hope through some support I will finish this one. :) I hope you'll drop by my page and read it just for a while (and most hopefully like it). Thanks! :)

-- Bona Madde

Errrrrrrrrr, why am I psoting this?

Fri, 10 Oct 2008 00:50:53 GMT

It's your typical fantasy fiction crap, set in the ideological and technological equivalent of 12-13th century Europe, but not.
Sorry if I've missed some really obvious spelling and grammar rules, it's just I don't have Word, only notepad.
Also, I threw this together a week ago and have been working up the guts to post it since then.
And yeah, I almost forgot, there's some swearing in thurrrrrrrrrrr, so if you don't like a little bit of profanity, don't read, I guess?

It was unusually hot, and the air seemed to dance and shimmer on the distant horizon, in spite of the calm day. Eleanor and James lead their horses by the reins, aware of the little clouds of dust accompanying their every step and the subsequent need to spare their water supplies. Ahead of them, a flock of birds - crows maybe - flew into the air, squawking and carrying-on, as heavy horse hooves sent slight vibrations through the otherwise barren plain.

James looked-up at the noise, his eyes squinted and his brows pinched together.

"I could have sworn there was a town around here."

"So you've said a million times," Eleanor replied, her voice weary.

"Yeah, but there was a river and everything that ran right through it. A river and an eight-score of houses don't go missing of their own accord."

"Maybe your sense of direction does then?"
"You're not helping."

"I'm not hindering either."

James grunted.

Eleanor sighed.

"It'll show-up when it shows up."

James shrugged, looked down and kept his eyes on the ground, as he continued to trudge, one weary step after another.

*Devoid of any other distraction, Eleanor fixed her gaze on the back of James' head, as it bobbed up and down in time with his strides. After a while, it slowly dawned on Eleanor - as if the thought had never occurred to her - that she really was fond of James in her own way, in spite of his stern and sometimes patronising nature. For the life of her, she couldn't remember what she had seen in James as a potential partner all those months ago, and after having eventually comes to terms with her brother being a closeted-flit, she didn't know what Edward had seen in him either.

But, to each their own, Eleanor guessed, and with this in mind, she just couldn't help but like James as a comrade, or even as a friend, and she just couldn't stay bitter at a man who had sacrificed his happiness for her security. Yet having admitted as much to herself, Eleanor was still of the opinion that it would be nice to get away from James, if only for a little while. She'd spent the better part of a year or more with this very same man, day after day, following the same old routine and having the same old arguments, and to be perfectly honest, things lately had become a little monotonous and down-right irate at times.

Then it hit Eleanor; a year, it had been a full year since she'd run away from her father and her past. It felt like forever and a day since she'd seen either Edward's or Williams' faces. God, she missed them. She missed a lot of things come to think of it; a warm bed every-night, soft clothes every-morning, clean hair everyday, Sean...

Tears surged in Eleanor's eyes, but she wiped them away before they could fall to her cheeks. She'd forgotten a lot things too evidently. Though she had tried many times since running-away to rid her conscious of its guilt, it never seemed to work, for she was always rife with the same conflicting thoughts. She knew she hadn't been the one to condemn Sean to whatever cruel fate her father had concocted - though she hadn't even stayed long enough to find out exactly what it was - but it had been Eleanor's actions that had incriminated the young man, and for that she just couldn't forgive herself. So instead she continuously shunted the thoughts aside. Out of sight out of mind, or so the saying went.

Eleanor suppressed a sigh. She did not want to draw James' attention to nothing, and she was sick of dwelling on discomfiting thoughts, so instead she scanned the horizon, searching for this illusive town. Slowly, a dark smudge formed on the horizon, somewhere to her left. Eleanor waited until she was sure the smudge wasn't just another flock of birds, before she let out a little bit of a whistle.

James looked to where his companion had indicated, and then he nodded, smug.

"I knew it was around here somewhere."

They reached the town, hours later, just as the sun was giving way to early evening. The town itself was quite big, and surrounded by a wooden palisade, with the stakes all sharpened and the trunks still rough as guts. The gate was the same, only taller, and with a little watch-tower on either side. Eleanor supposed the glorified fence was meant to act as a deterant against potential invaders, but she wondered how effective the defence would really be against a good battering ram.

Pondering upon this, Eleanor was drawn from her thoughts as James knocked on the gate with his fist. There was silence, then a guardsman, all rotten teeth and grizzly hair, stuck his ugly head out of a hidden cache in the gate.

"Wadda you want, eh?"

James looked up at the old man.

"Entry into the city," he answered after a while.

"You know what time it is, boy? It's almost sundown see, innit? So why should I let you in?"

Utterly resigned, James searched through his saddle bags, brought out a fistful of coins, and held them up to the old man's face, as he peered, still intent, out of the cache. The old man then smiled.

"A bribe offered is a bribe taken," he said gleefully, and disappeared. A moment later, the gate was open and the guardsman was standing there, his coin-purse already in hand. Taking James' money, he smiled again, this time all good nature and intent.

"And welcome ye littleuns to Enithela. Enjoy your stay."

Eleanor rolled her eyes and muttered under her breath, something foul no doubt, while James walked through the gate before her. Once they were out of ear-shot of the old man, Eleanor turned to James and let him have it.

"Why'd you let that piss-poor excuse of man take the last of our money for?" she yelled indignantly. "Entrance into the land's cities is supposed to be free for all, it's King's Law."

James made a sour face. "Quiet down, someone'll hear us. Anyways, King's Law don't mean shit out here on the borders, and the Mayor of the town is probably in on the scheme, so there's no use complaining. And before you mention it, yes, I know for a matter of fact that there's ruffians out on the country-side; old war veterans gone mental and such, so it's not safe out there at night."

Eleanor suppressed another sigh. She'd been doing that a lot lately.

"Well, where are we gonna stay without any cash then?"

"Don't worry, I only gave him my drinking money, there's still enough for a decent room in a decent pub."

"Oh, how very noble of you, but I think I'd rather get on the piss right now, than sleep in a room that's still gonna be infested with cockroaches, no matter what you pay for it. Can't we just crash-out in a stable-loft or something?"

James said nothing, but dug the toe of his boot into the dirt, and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Oh, come on," Eleanor pleaded.

James turned his head and spat over his shoulder as if he was thinking, though he didn't really need much convincing.

"Alright," he said slowly, "if we're gonna blow the last of our cash, it might as well be on something worth while."

Pulling on the reins of his horse, James lead them through the town, searching for the cheapest pub he could find. Eleanor followed, her mind rather absent, as she couldn't really be bothered paying much attention to her surroundings; once you've seen one town, you've pretty much seen them all.

The streets were all mud and raw sewage, with a dozen or so kids and a mangy dog running barefoot through the muck. Lining the narrow alley-ways, there were butchers and bakers and candle-stick makers. There were brothels and apothecaries and barbers-cum-town physicians. There were temples and market stalls full of knick-knacks and bric 'a' brac, and of course there were pubs. They were squished between houses and on every street-corner. There were pubs right next to the places of worship, and just down the road from the Mayor's residence. A town could never have too many pubs, for the drunken idiot was always in need of another pub into which he could stumble, having already been kicked out of the last.

Finally, just as the sun was setting, James found a pub that would satisfy even the most miserly of men. The Golden Parrot it was called, but even as she settled her horse in the stable, Eleanor knew there was nothing golden about the place. The floors were dirty and scattered with horse-dung, the oats were old and barely fit for consumption, and a lot of the roof just opened up to the burgeoning night-sky. Nope, they wouldn't even be able to sleep there that night. Inside the pub, it was all smoke and splintered tables and greasy patrons, though the barrels behind the bar did act as testimony to the establishment's abundance of beer, which was of course what mattered most.

After pausing for a moment to gather his senses, James walked-up to the bar, slapped his hand on the counter and ordered two pints, one full strength and the other watered down. Eleanor stood at his shoulder and rolled her eyes. Seventeen years sometime this summer, and still only allowed to drink watered wine and the such. Good and proper for a lady perhaps, but for a seasoned traveller (as Eleanor liked to think of herself)? Utterly pathetic.

James paid for the drinks, grabbed the beer and lead the way to a table, way at the back of the inn. He sat, took a swig of his beer and scanned the room, his gaze rather morose. Eleanor watched him for a while.

"Why so serious?"

He shrugged, his gaze still intent.

"Keeping an eye out for anyone familiar."

"Even out here?"

James nodded.

Eleanor shrugged non-chalantly, sipped her beer and nursed it in the crook of her arm as she put her head on the table.
There would of been crickets chirping had it not been for the noise of the rest of the pub's patrons.
Eleanor snuck a glance at James, sighed, and hauled herself off the table.

"Come on mate, what's wrong?"

"What are you talking about?" he said tersely.

"Oh, so we're back to being complete strangers again, are we?"

James glanced at her, then looked away.

"You wouldn't wanna know about it."

"Sure I would, why wouldn't I? Come on, I'm all ears."

James put his pint down, thud, on the table. They'd only been there a handful of minutes and already it was empty.

"Alright," he said, "if you must know, I'm horny as hell."

Eleanor burst out laughing. He was that tense over something as trivial as sex?

"God, men and their dicks," she muttered under her breath, once her mirth had subsided.

James flushed a dull red.

"Oh, come off it, you're old enough to fuck, you've admitted as much to me yourself, so what's so damn funny?"

Now it was Eleanor's turn to blush.

"Well, I'm not so desperate now, am I? And it wasn't sex I was looking for when I threw myself at you anyways."

"Then what were you looking for?" James asked, his interest piqued.

Eleanor shrugged.

"A little human affection, I guess."

A strange expression passed across James' features.

"But," Eleanor said, before James could get in his two cents worth, "you can't miss what you never had, right?"

Recognising the conversation was over, James nodded sagely and then motioned to the barmaid for another drink. He was all set to settle into another bout of silence when Eleanor piped-up again.

"What about a brothel? I'm sure there'd be somewhere to cater for your... needs."
"And how is it that you're suddenly an expert on the subject?"

"Oh, I don't know, I heard things at the fortress when I wasn't meant to, I guess. And I mean, look at my father. If you could find someone to fuck that, then there's hope for everybody."

James was quiet, yet he was obviously mulling things over in his own head.

"No," he said finally, slowly, "I don't want to leave you in this place alone, it's full of perverts. I wouldn't trust 'em as far as I could throw 'em. Bloody perverts."

Eleanor glanced to either side of the table, wondering if James' suspicions were true. And too right, he was. The barmaid was the only other piece of pretty meat in the joint, and there was only so many men a woman could ensnare on her own. Although there was no one explicitly looking in her direction, still, Eleanor blushed, and pulled the collar of her shirt just a little higher, hoping to god that not one single pervert had caught a glimpse of her tits, or even the expanse of skin and collarbone above them.

"So," she said, uneasily after a short, awkward interval, "cracked war-veterans wandering the country-side, eh? Plenty of work then?"

James looked-up again.

"There better be, or else after we skip this town, it'll be cold camping until the next one."

Eleanor sighed.
"I'm sick of being broke all the time. I mean, just for a couple of drinks and a decent meal for the next night or so, we've had to sacrifice a bed to sleep on."

James raised an eyebrow.

"It was your idea," he reminded her.

"That's not the point," Eleanor said, exasperated. "The point is that either choice was a bad choice, and I'm sick of not having enough choices. And anyways, don't pretend that you aren't savouring the thought of getting shit-faced later on when I'm asleep. I know what you get up to."

"I'm not pretending anything," James muttered. "But maybe we'd be in a more favourable situation if someone was able to earn their keep."

Eleanor put her drink down, slowly, deliberately.

"So it's my fault that I'm not allowed to be a cold-blooded killer, just like you?" she hissed across the table.

"I didn't say -

"Has it ever occurred to you James that I don't choose to be useless? It's not as if I've ever had a chance to earn my own keep. I mean, who in their right mind would hire a woman to guard a caravan, even if she could use a sword... not that you'll teach me of course."

James' voice took on a beleaguered tone.

"Not this again. As much as I resent the lack of money, I'm not gonna let you get in harm's way, not for a bit of coin. Edward would kill me."

"But Edward isn't here, so what does it matter?"

James shot Eleanor a glance of contempt, but kept his silence.

"Oh, so it's one of those manly promises," she said condescendingly, "A tryst of the brotherhood... of lovers."

"And what if it was?"

She shrugged.

"I still don't see how it matters. Right now, money is more important than misplaced sentimentality."

James was silent for a moment, then his serious facade broke into a sly smile.

"You'd make a good mercenary, you know that? You really would."

Eleanor couldn't help but smile as well, just a little, before she sighed, once again.

"Alright, fine," she conceded reluctantly, "We'll talk about this stuff tomorrow then."
Ascertaining that the conversation was over for sure this time, and that the money issue has thus been saved for another day, James drained his second drink and called for a third.

*The bit in italics, yeah, that's like, an information overload, but I don't know how to inform the reader that a time-skip has occurred.

**Do you put spaces between dialogue? I can't space properly, lulz.

***I fixed some of the little mistakes, but I won't fix anything big, or re-write the beginning for a while.

****Do I put a space between an action and the line of dialogue that's meant to go with it?

the unwritten history of the world

Thu, 09 Oct 2008 19:18:28 GMT

Title: The Unwritten History of the World
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2500
Summary: Who really controls the world? In the grand scheme of things, who's manipulating who?

Here I am, creator, caretaker, controller, looking down at the world that has been gifted to me. Everything is good; the trees leafy and green, the horizon a bright cerulean, the oceans infinite and teeming with life. Inside my limited sphere of life, things are perfect. The creatures on the land and sea all bend their wills to match mine. We coexist, not happily, but neatly and efficiently. Under my watch, all is magnificently calm. I am omniscient, constantly manipulating circumstances for the greatest good. Each animal has its purpose and its mate; all work together to maintain the natural balance. For a time, I am content with this. My existence has meaning – I am meant to watch over the creatures and circumstances placed under my care. Everything under the light thrives, and this is good.

Time passes, or seems to. As the moments stretch on, I notice a slight darkening over my entire domain. I close my eyes, sure that it can’t be so. When I open them again, the world seems darker. The creatures down below have changed – I don’t recognize their names or their languages. Rivers flow in different directions, now, and the land has changed its face. Its craters and lumps seem strange to me. Below, the world goes on in much the same fashion as it has these past moments. Creatures move about the earth in their own peculiar ways, unaware of the darkness looming. I try to reach out to them, to warn them, to send them a sign, but they don’t respond. Just a moment ago, if I asked anything of my subjects, I was greeted warmly by brilliant plumes of violet smoke or shocking displays of scarlet liquid. They don’t acknowledge me, and it causes an unexplainable ache somewhere deep inside me.

Again, I try to reach out to them, to make contact. I am greeted by ugly plumes of grey smoke. The earth groans quietly as the green slowly recedes and is replaced by blocks of beige and black. Structures reach out to me, sharp and strange and awful. I reach out to them, hopeful that they’ve answered my call. The tallest structure prickles at the edge of my consciousness, reflecting myself back at me. I blink once again, sure that once I care to open my eyes, the craziness will have subsided. My subjects have piled their craziness higher, desperation evident in the forms they’ve created. Are they calling out for me? Have they forgotten how to reach me? Angry flames engulf an entire patch of green. Why are they destroying themselves? One of the conditions of their very existence was to allow their lives to play out complacently! I want to reach out and crush all that they’ve built.

I want them to know how it feels to be really, completely alone in the world; alone in the universe as I am. They deserve to suffer as I have, trying to make their insignificant lives perfect. Punish. This is a new word, a new concept, for me. Down go the two matching needles in a haystack of activity. I tell the ones with the brown skin to do it, the ones who remember. The needles fall with a mighty sound; a sound that, devastating as it is, causes the entire world to pause and reflect. Patiently, I wait – for what? No one asks me for help. Instead, they go on about their business as if nothing had happened at all. The world was, after all, designed for the enjoyment and happiness of the greatest number of people at any given time. I should have expected this. A system that fails is not really a system at all. Perhaps my system is too perfect, too well-designed. I never considered that they would stop needing me. The darkness creeps nearer.

Maybe what they need is a good shake. I reach out and jostle the mottled sphere gently. The creatures on the surface protest loudly. I’ve knocked over some of the things they’ve built, poor things. Small, buzzing things drift above the oceans, flitting between the masses of green, brown and grey. Funny, how I’ve never noticed them before. But could I really forget something that I created? Something that was given to me? No, it can’t be so. They must have slipped something by me while I blinked. I am tempted, so tempted, to start rearranging the mosaic of colors and see if they notice. Of course they would... wouldn’t they?

I find myself so angry with these creatures. I shouldn’t be. They’re so fragile, so easily deceived and misled. Everything they did used to be so predictable. Now I wonder if my system is failing, if I have missed some critical flaw along the way. I examine the sphere carefully, looking for the source of my error. I can’t find it. Of course I can’t find it. The world I have created is perfect. I am in control of it, and it is good. Things still grow, and flourish, and eventually fade away. Ocean tides still push and pull, and the little beasts search for ways to cross them. It is the way it has always been. The way I planned for it to be. At least the brown ones haven’t forgotten me – so named because their part of the world is just that; flat, ugly and brown. There are other ones – the white ones, who have built more sky-needles in assorted shades of black, grey and white. Underneath all that white, somewhere there are expanses of green. I wish they wouldn’t do that. The world is more interesting to look at in color.

Again, the darkness looms. It is starting to get very annoying. The oceans are obscured by a patch of inky darkness. What is this nonsense? Have my edges fallen away again? Something is getting into my nice, perfectly arranged symphony of existence. The sour notes make me cringe. Below, the earth wrinkles somewhere in the brown sector. I must stop letting my emotions get into my creations. The blackness pushes; it smoothes the wrinkles out like an ebony finger! I can feel myself pulsing with anger, this time directed towards this stranger.

Stranger. Another new word. Who is this other, invading my existence? I try to re-wrinkle that spot. The earth crumples upwards, forming a hard ridge. I am satisfied. The other does not try to correct me. That’s right, I think. Mine. I am not normally greedy. Am I ever greedy? Well, I suppose not. I’ve never had to share anything before. It has always been just me. The darkness folds up an entire mass of white neatly, pushing it down into the ocean. Something I never would have thought of. I need to confront this darkness. We need to establish just who is boss of all of this. I try to push it out, out of the sphere I have created for myself. The thing shoves its way back in, bypassing my defences and making itself comfortable where the white mass used to be. It stretches out comfortably – is it audacious enough to lounge on my globe? Angrily, I try to blot it out with water. Unfortunately, it knows how to listen.

It burrows.

Deep inside my sphere, it hides. This angers me for reasons beyond my comprehension. I crush the coldest parts of the planet. They shatter and drift aimlessly across the oceans. For what seems an eternity, I can’t find the damned thing. I ask the brown ones to dig for me, to dig and dig and search for it, but instead they find something else. They are big and white and broken. I don’t recognize these, either. What have I missed while I’ve been distracted by this darkness? There was nothing before I existed. Nothing but this cold, lifeless mass of space that I took over. I created as I saw fit; nothing came before and nothing will come after. This is truth. This other thing that has invaded is from somewhere else, if there is anywhere else to come from. Somehow it has infiltrated my safe, perfect existence and curled itself up in the heart of my being.

For, essentially, this sphere of existence is a part of me. Perhaps even all of me. It irritates me that I can’t rid myself of it. Never before have I had a problem such as this. Everything before came from me. How am I supposed to destroy something I didn’t create? If I didn’t create it, how can it exist? I assume it came from somewhere else, outside of me. But then, where did I come from? If I am creator of this planet and these beings, does that mean that somewhere outside of myself, my creator exists too? This is all very complicated. My consciousness begins to droop, and for a moment, an instant, really, I forget to see.

I remember myself, and the damned thing is sitting on top of the brown part, having taken shape. When did this happen? The thing is spiting me. It’s taken the shape of one of my creations. It has arms, legs, torso, head... A strange mockery of my creations called humans. The thing sports a strange, thin trailing tail and two small points near the top of its head. It’s been listening to my creations. Has it manifested itself in the shape of their worst fears? I feel ashamed. I should pay better attention to them. The dark thing pulls its features into an upward crescent. Grin. That’s what they call it, an expression of joy. I’m learning. Humans are not as difficult as I thought they were. All of the grey patches seem less dingy. The dark thing stalks over to a different lump of land. It smoothes the wrinkles out, pushes down the highest part of the sphere, and I can see that it has changed things.

Where the point used to be, there is now a vast expanse of green. I don’t remember putting it there. This presence is ruining my system. The humans slowly venture into this new, green territory. Unhappily, I decide that it is time to see beyond the oceans. Water is not really that exciting as it doesn’t appear to move on its own. I create a palette of colors in its place. The earth is filled with greens, yellows, browns, reds. Of course the water is still blue; of course the dark thing is still unhappy with me. I listen some more, determined to know my own subjects again. I will not be defeated by some alien entity trespassing in my world.

The humans have named it, as if it were some permanent entity. Devil. Some of them worship it, hail it as the bringer of good, redemption. I don’t understand; I made this perfect, for their benefit. How could this hateful Devil be a bringer of good? I try not to take it personally. Free will is both a gift and a burden. But as I listen further, I learn that they have named me, too. They have built structures and societies to try and contact me. All this time, they’ve been trying. I haven’t listened. And they have been afraid, some of them. I don’t blame them – at first I, too, was afraid of this Devil. Then, I stop to wonder. Why would it choose to come here, where it must have known it would be fiercely opposed?

I watch its dark form streaking across the horizons and decide that it, too, is good. Since it arrived I have been more conscious of my creations, more conscious of the effects of my actions. Even if it is opposite it is good, because it knows me and how to keep me in line. Perhaps this is the nature of things, both good and evil. Perhaps even I am not inherently good – perhaps I am meant to work at it. Once more, the Devil burrows underneath me, this time feeling like a familiar friend. I don’t know why I ever felt that it was being obtrusive.

It seems that it was just curious, I think. From time to time, I wonder what it’s up to. This curiosity consumes me; a deep, burning need that puts me on high alert. I watch the humans, gently prodding them in the right directions. We converse, in our own fashion. God, they call to me. God, help me. As long as they are willing to ask for it, I am willing to listen. I created and I have been created by these fragile beings. Symbiosis. That is their word for it, my needing them and their need for me. A parasite, in a sense, or a mutually exclusive relationship. I am quite pleased when they honour me with an expression of the greatest caring. Love. This is the word for the burning need for answers, for completeness. I feel a churning within me. That word can be dangerous. Humans have destroyed each other for so much less.

Really, I do love these beings. After so long, the Devil pokes its head out and looks around. I try to restrain my glee at finally having found it. The sky blooms in a vibrant display of colors. It pulls itself from its deep underworld lair and dusts itself off. My self-control is slipping. The world becomes a rainbow of emotions, churning, around me. Devil or not, the thing seems rather self-satisfied. It acknowledges me, finally, perched on top of my favourite land mass. Africa. Even after all this time, the brown ones are still my favourites.

The Devil knows this, and pulls its face into another strange gesture. Smirk. Self-satisfied, as it is wont to be. I know it wants me to react – I can’t ignore it. Since the beginning, it has always had my attention. Dealing with it has been the difficult part. What am I supposed to do with you? I wonder. It grins at me, egging me on. The word that comes to mind is sly, cunning and clever and utterly appealing. How human of me, to give this other being such qualities. Of course, the Devil is beyond simple human emotions... It is complex, much like myself.

The damned thing knows everything I do. Though it came from outside myself, it has somehow managed to imprint itself on my being. I will always be affected by it, irrevocably, irreparably. How it came to be, I’ll never know. After looking at it for a long time, I decide that I don’t hate it. Such a human emotion, hate, and an ugly one. The Devil is deserving of something more than that. We are locked in this impasse, trapped in this awkward dance around the obvious. After an eternity more, it speaks to me.

“What a sick-minded God, to go falling in love with the Devil.”

I reply, “What a pathetic Devil, falling in love with God.” We dance.

Response to Challenge A

Thu, 09 Oct 2008 17:45:36 GMT

I'm a long-time lurker. I haven't really had anything I've wanted to post here. But I wrote a little response to one of the challenges that I thought I'd share.

I don't think I followed the prompt exactly. But it's in the spirit of it.

Challenge A: Let an object smaller than a breadbox symbolize hope, redemption, or love to the central character. Let it symbolize something else entirely to the reader.

Julie didn't know much about pagan charms. So, as she pulled the thumbtack out of the fist-sized bundle pinned above her bedroom door, she turned to her roommate, Nick, and asked, "What do I do with it now?"

"You're supposed to keep it somewhere close," he replied. "Like by your bed. But only keep it for a year. You have to give it away after that, or it will turn against you."

She climbed down from on top the living room ottoman and stood in her doorway, surveying her room, wondering where she was going to keep this thing for the next year. On her nightstand? That was a little too close. Her desk maybe?

Nick watched eagerly as she cleared a spot among her belongings.

A week ago, on her birthday, he'd emerged from his bedroom with a small, burlap sack and a face-splitting smile. It was a spell, he'd told her -- one from a book of charms that he'd ordered off the internet -- and he'd spent the past month collecting all the ingredients: herbs he'd picked while hiking through the Bridger Mountains; the foot, beak, and bones of a dead starling he’d found in a tree near their apartment; and something else he wouldn’t divulge. For the next year, he said, the spell would protect her and bring her good luck.

And maybe it would, Julie thought, a little afraid of being overheard by divine powers she was more familiar with. Didn't the Bible prohibit this? Should she ask her pastor about it? No. This was just for luck, like a rabbit's foot or a really great pair of jeans. Plus, the way Nick had been promoting it for the past week had her half-believing that it really could put a happy gloss on her life. If it was magic, at least it was good magic.

"Is this close enough to my bed?" she asked, stepping back from her desk.

"Yeah. Totally. Looks great." He smiled. "You know, I think this is probably the most unique gift I've ever gotten anyone."

Julie smiled back. Witchcraft or not...

"I love it," she said.

Cigarettes in the Refrigerator

Thu, 09 Oct 2008 17:42:34 GMT

My eyes are crusty. I close them. I open them. They are crusty and everything is a little freckled. My bare skin is freckled through my eyes. I am naked sitting on my couch and the maroon lines of the couch are pressing into my skin and the downy hairs on my skin. There is a line of dark stubbly hair traveling from my navel to my crotch. My navel is chafed. I look at my navel and at my hollowing stomach. I have not eaten in several days. I look at my legs. My thighs are covered in dark hairs that stand out against my pale skin.

There is stubble on my face and my jaw. I lick my lips and I extend my tongue to feel the sharp dark hairs cultivating on my upper lip. There is similar hair all down my jaw. I get up and walk and shake a little. Light shines. It is between morning and afternoon. I stand in front of my refrigerator and stare at my refrigerator. My refrigerator is not magnetic. It is a shitty kind of refrigerator that is not magnetic, and whenever I look at it a childhood memory is stabbed in the ass cheek. I am saving up for a magnetic refrigerator but I keep forgetting to save up. I accidentally spend my allowances on rent, recreation, and food.

Out of habit, I swing open the door of my non-magnetic refrigerator. I have been doing this every thirty minutes or so for the past few days. There is no food inside my refrigerator. There is a mostly-full bottle of mustard and there is a mostly-full jar of mayonnaise and there is an unbranded packet of cigarettes. They aren't mine. Ted smokes when he wants to get drunk. He thinks there is nothing classier than an alcoholic who smokes. Ted wants badly to be good at mixing drinks, but he is shitty at it.

I look at the mustard, mayonnaise, and cigarettes. I let the cold air blow onto my face and nipples. The refrigerator hums loudly. It sort of buzzes. My body is cold. I think about eating but that makes me want to throw up. I shut the bare refrigerator door. I open it again and take out the packet of cigarettes. I shake out one cigarette and put the rest back in the refrigerator and shut the refrigerator door again.

I look at the cigarette. I am dizzy and lethargic. I leave the cigarette on the counter and go to the pantry and get out a bottle of wine. It takes me a few tries to open it and I almost give up but I get it in time. I take a swig and the bottle is very heavy and I almost drop it but I don't. The taste of the white wine goes to my head immediately. I feel like a sheet of paper. I run my hand along my upper arm and my upper arm is the temperature of marble. My skin is soft and goose-pimply and covered with fine down. Ted's arms are covered with wiry rusty hair and he has a raspy rusty beard. He secretly thinks it makes him seem more manly. Ted goes through phases of trying to hide his homosexuality. Right now he is convinced he is bisexual. He has gone on a cruise to meet women. Ted is secretly less aroused by women than I am. He thinks he can hide it, but he is wrong.

Thinking about Ted makes me feel feverish and I want to throw up again. Teaspoons of acrid bile slosh in my stomach. I feel like the bile is going to burn thruogh my stomach lining and up my esophagus and burn out my larynx and down into my lungs. The bile will explode in my lungs and splatter my lungs with acid and quickly burn through them. I need to soak up the bile in my stomach with white bread, but I have no white bread. I go to the drawer and get out a spoon and open the refrigerator door. I hold the jar of mayonnaise and unscrew the cap of the jar of mayonnaise and I scoop a spoonful of mayonnaise. I close the refrigerator door and then I eat the mayonnaise. The mustard is too acrid to eat.

Eating a spoonful of mayonnaise is like eating a liquefied tumor. The raw calories go to my head immediately and I feel them settle on top of the layer of white wine in my stomach. Jesus Christ. It is an infernal swamp in there. I lurch and hit my knee against a chair and my knee throbs but does not bruise. I want white bread badly. I lurch to the bedroom where the telephone used to be. I know my cellular phone is somewhere but I don't know where it is. I sit on the stained mattress and I pull at the fine dark hairs on my legs.

Searching For You

Thu, 09 Oct 2008 17:06:27 GMT

I have lost you...
in the folds of my quiescent mind
when reason failed to reach me
and when compassion eluded my heart.
I tried to search for you...
in the sanctuary of my solitude
for the love I had known once
and for the smile I used to wear placidly.
Yet as I begin the search, you seem very distant
constantly treading the path away from me.
I cannot reach you or find you
For even in my dreams you wander away.

photo courtesy of Dan Beck blog.outhousestudios.net/category/digital-art/