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River Morning Ritual Jun. 4th, 2006 @ 11:17 pm
"River Morning Ritual" just flew off to meet the nice gentlemen who run R U M B L E... Here's hoping...

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JETSAM: Nick Cave like a mutha

The Ice Axe Jun. 4th, 2006 @ 02:27 am
Black bladed ice axe on the pillow. He knew what it was. The adze faced his eyes. Made no sense. Alan didn't own such a thing. Somebody left it, obviously, but who would break into a fifth-storey flat to drop an ice axe on your pillow?

He reached out from beneath the comforter for the bedside table. The familiar feel of a soft pack with only a couple left in it. Brought it back. Pulled one out and twisted it into his mouth. Lighter. Another trip out into the beastly cold. Got to pay the bill before winter really arrives. Found it.

The flint didn't want to spark. Took convincing. Alan pulled on the cigarette, the smoke rolling into his mouth thick as London fog, bundled the olive drab comforter around himself and scooted against the headboard, eying the axe. Trotsky had been killed with an axe like that. A Soviet agent-- Alan couldn't remember if it was NKVD or not; they'd had a specific grudge against the old socialist --came to Trotsky's house in Mexico under cover, talked his way in, asked Trotsky to read something, then took an ice axe out of his coat and embedded it deep in dumb old suffering Leon's skull.

But assassination wasn't the case here. A gift, then. Alan felt confident enough to give the madness a miss. Accept it and move on toward breakfast. There should be links in the fridge, pink & white marbled masterpieces from the butcher's, not like those awful things you get out of the freezer. The poetic whump and whisper of gaslight when it first comes on; the thought of plunking a pair of fresh sausage in a hot pan and listening to the fat fry up-- it moistened the end of his filterless.

Still wearing socks and thermal underwear, Alan swung his legs out and slipped his feet into the insulated hiking boots under the edge of the bed.

And stared.

Ice. Ice spiking out from between the worn hardwood planks, like hell's own hedges! Alan took on a snarl. Gripping the end of the axe in his cigarette hand and holding the comforter tight with the other, he walked cautiously out into the den, his soles compressing & melting the frost, making the floor slippery. The tail of the comforter dragged through the wet, sometimes snagging.

Rounding the corner to the kitchenette, Alan saw the tile covered in mandelbrot patterns. Snow blew in through the broken window, coating the mountaineer lying facedown in the alley between stove and sink. The tool in Alan's hand felt abruptly heavy. He leaned it against the doorframe and tried to take a puff off his cigarette, but it was dead.

The mountaineer's hood was sodden. Alan saw that the corner of the oven was dented crimson. Bloke must have slipped on the tile and banged himself. Home invader or not, Alan supposed he had an obligation to check and make sure, but first... He opened a salt cellar and distributed its contents on the floor. Wind billowed Alan's comforter out as he knelt to examine the mountaineer.

Got to get myself a coat thick as this, Alan thought, pulling the dark brown fabric back. He had to suppress a gag. "Stoved in," he murmured.

He stood and stepped over the dead man. What he saw outside the window made his mouth go dry. There should have been a golden view of the courtyard and filthy, friendly city beyond, but instead he saw buildings mired in snowdrifts tall as double-deckers, with dozens of men dressed exactly like Alan's visitor clambering up and down them, assisting an evacuation. Rescue helicopters heavy with citizens sagged in a sky the color of absolute zero.

Alan spun round and shot a boot into the dead man's testicles.

"You were going to LEAVE me!"

NOTESCollapse )

Martin's Confession Jun. 2nd, 2006 @ 07:06 pm
Martin teetered in front of the kitchen closet, struggling with his belt. “I love you! You hear? Love you!” His buckle clumped on the gaudy linoleum, followed by the faint clap of leather. Martin took another throat-eroding swallow of oily liquor and shook his lips.

The Lump had had enough of love. It was tired of trying to communicate-- if that was what Martin had been trying to do, these last six years. It let loose a high-pitched bubbling gibber and slapped itself against the reinforced door. Martin returned the favor from outside, leaving a tarry mark on the paneling. “What's your problem? You woulda drowned in that ditch!” He put a corner of his flannel shirt in the liquor jar, then bent down to try and wipe off the bootprint. “No arms! No nothin'! I did you a favor!” The mark smudged.

The Lump threw itself against the door again with a shrill squeak. Martin fell backward, startled, spilling the mason jar. His hands slid in the liquid. Dust shook out from around the doorframe, but the bolt held. Martin flapped a wrist at the door. “You're not really mad.” He pulled himself up by the doorknob, and his pants slid down. He giggled, coarsely, one hand on the bolt. “C'mon. Let's kiss and—“

The Lump pushed itself through the quarter-inch open door and stuffed a pseudopod in Martin's mouth. The false foot was too spongy to bite through. With every spasm of Martin's esophagus the rippling red digit slipped farther in. They fell together, their combined weight punishing the floor.

Martin shoved at the Lump, clumsily, his fists sinking into the variable orifices of the conical alien's flesh, accomplishing nothing. He passed out and began to convulse. Vomit flowed back into his lungs. Fæces, thinned by ethyl alcohol, doused the floor, following the pattern of the textured linoleum. Martin stopped moving.

Not knowing what death was to a human, the Lump was tense for some time afterward, refusing to leave the island of Martin's body. It was an accidental & unwilling resident of Earth, and had never been moved to murder someone before-- but what the hell. Every immigrant should have a trade.

NOTESCollapse )

Atrocity Boy, part VII Jun. 1st, 2006 @ 12:35 am
My spit is thick with bile and mucous. It feels more rubbery than wet on my hand. God only knows what's living in my mouth, after the things I've eaten this week. Haven't had the time or resources to brush my teeth.

In a better time I would have thought myself dirty-- sitting in the grass, lusting after a strange woman --but right now, there are no better times. Haven't felt like this since


Now I remember why I stopped doing that. I feel ugly, unhinged, like a lovesick simian.

My Oktobriana has disappeared inside again. The album-- that's what it must be, the speakers emitted a scratching needle squawk --stops at the end of side one. All that's left is wind on water, white noise.

As if I needed a clearer signal. The backs of my legs are covered with bites, and I've scratched my ankles raw. If it weren't for my hat, my buttery scalp would be textured red. Damn stagnant water.

I hesitate to splash my hands in the river, but it's either wash or wipe, and these are the only clothes I have. I prefer to keep what illusions of humanity I have. Into the Pripyat with you, noble spurt.

* * * * *

Well into dark, I give up on watching the pale blue boat. No sign of light or life anywhere, unless you count the stars. She must be asleep. Drank enough for it.

I set off through the reeds and through the field, parchment tangles of straw making nerve-wracking noise beneath my feet. Occasionally I step too close to a thistle and curse.

Around the same time as I realize the security of the trees is too far for my liking, I hear the snort and squeal of a b

under its hooves

dumb, crumpled

spit wet pennies

y the tusks, holding it, stupid thing keeps screaming, she turns her torso, holding it, stupid thing screaming, swings herself as though heaving a sack of cement on top of a pile and the hairy pig breaks with a fatal squeak against a tree. Fat bristly mass bleeding its last.

She saved me.

She bends down and tries to figure out where is safe to touch me. She speaks in Russian. I don't know the dialect. I hope she's cursing me for a biblical pervert. I need cursing.

She re


locates my shoulder. I excuse myself, vaguely, my mouth not moving right, it's okay, the words aren't worth shit, night soil in my trousers, feeling faint, excuse

* * * * *

The last few hours have been a fugue.

I woke so many times between Reklama picking me up to carry me and being carried across the bow of her boat that when I finally came to in a hammock, gently swinging, I hallucinated being in her arms. Fully conscious now, but unable to move. A coarse, heavy blanket holds me down. I feel tape and cotton batting on my neck and chest.

All this and field dressings too?

My perspective on the world consists of one flaking wall with a porthole, a rough timber post covered in hooks, a kerosene lantern, and the ends of at least five other hammocks, all full-- only instead of sleeping sailors, the mesh nets contain clothes, canned goods, and books. I hear tender mumblings in the background. Given the tenor and my lack of language skills, I can't tell whether she thinks she's treating a sick kitten or tending to an alien homunculus.

Not that it matters either way. So long as I don't hear "I will love him and pet him and hug him and name him George", I think I'll be all right.

"Bradley Michelson" is now "First Light" May. 31st, 2006 @ 10:45 pm
...and its future is in the hands of the editors over at Futurismic. Wish Bradley luck.

Atrocity Boy, part VI May. 31st, 2006 @ 01:44 am
Shairp's eyes felt like a pair of salted slugs receding into his skull. For all the promise of flatscreen technology-- the elimination of waste, longevity, etcetera --the screens provoked serious strain, and after a week of tests, Shairp was feeling it. Strain, and frustration. Failure.

A week of tests, and no pattern in evidence.

Tipler had explained how, in theory, the transposed information would manifest itself. But it hadn't. Not yet. Perhaps because the locus for the evidence was half a world and half a century into the past.

Russia? Shairp had asked.

Tipler clarified, without answering. The Kiev Oblast.

What I mean is, why? Why not our own backyard?

Due to its size. It's a better target. And safer.

Shairp hadn't believed him. He suspected it had to do with funding. But Tipler had been feeling particularly obnoxious that day, so Shairp let it drift. Only now the drift was giving him eyestrain.

The search engine pinged idiotically and painted a picture in alphanumerical drool. "The blind leading the blind," Shairp snarled. He sprang on the screen, gripping it with both hands, applying pressure with his thumbs. Brilliant, oily distortions appeared. "I'll unfuck you..."

"Dr. Tipler said you needed an assistant."

Doctor Tipler? The honorific was a hook in Shairp's cheek. He spun around to be confronted by a woman ten years his junior, with sensibly short, dark hair, dressed in an ensemble so comfortable it chafed.

"Deanna Rusk. Info theory." She stepped into the repurposed cinderblock closet Shairp had reluctantly come to think of as his office, her corduroys riffing. She sniffed at the faded stench of paint and held out her left hand. A mug dangled from her finger. "Where do I put my purse?"

Mute, Shairp indicated a stubby, faux wood-grain refrigerator with an aluminum percolator on top. She set her mug on the stolen cafeteria tray, beside the sugar, and tapped the percolator. "What's this?"

"Soon to be your Jesus. Pardon me for asking, but why--"

Rusk waved him off and pulled apart the percolator. "Dr. Tipler thinks you're lost. Where's the filter?"

"You're holding it. And stop with the professional respect. We all hate one another down here." Careful not to get too close, Shairp took the component parts away from her. "Thank you."

"Either you accept my help, or I replace you."

He fumbled to reinsert the pump stem, careful not to look at her. "Tipler's position?"

"Mine." She smoothed the single line of her eyebrows.

"Tipler's position." Shairp took a jug of filtered water from the fridge and filled the percolator. "Let's pretend I want your expertise. Why can't I find any evidence?"

"Offhand? Cultural rift. Even with research, you don't know the region, so you don't know what to look for. Map versus territory." Rusk sat down at the computer and squinted at the screen. "Brightness." She found the control, squirreled away in a subpanel, and adjusted it. "Better."

Shairp looked at the back of her head, hating himself, then turned to watch coffee splash the inside of the glass top. His eyes fell on her cup. He couldn't say whether or not it belonged. There was an emblem on one side of the mug, a coat of arms in green, brown and gold, ornate but not baroque, depicting a mounted medieval soldier slaying a dragon. The soldier's spear pierced the creature's mouth and emerged from the back of its neck-- a detail made all the more gruesome by the lack of detail, Shairp thought.

Rusk glanced back at him. "No sugar."

Atrocity Boy, part V May. 30th, 2006 @ 11:19 am
Another slide drops into the projector. A woman.

I am both fascinated and repulsed.

She has the face of Frida Kahlo-- minus the mustache, with some Romanian thrown in --and her hair is thick like tar. There the conventional beauty ends. The rest is out of joint. She walks with a forward-falling gait, wooden, androgynous, balanced on a pair of manly legs. Her head is impacted in between high shoulders with simian arms swinging off of them. Rich, flowing rivulets of scar tissue cap her elbows.

She reminds my adolescent erection of Oktobriana.

Precious as my time here is, I have sacrificed a whole day to watching her enter and leave the suffocatingly dusty scaffolding of the factory. She laughs and jokes with the other workers, unselfconscious, slapping men and women both on the back. I hear them call her 'Reklama'.

She folds herself into a whitespecked rusting green and primer truck with a wooden bed and drives away, slowly. Out of caution or mechanical decrepitude, I cannot tell.

I catch hold of the planks in back, pull myself aboard, and bed down in the bright blue tarpaulin. Reklama is a cautious driver. I am all but lulled to sleep.

* * * * *

The whisper of water, and the sound of ancient metal complaining. I peek from beneath the tarp to see the river Pripyat. Freckled brown hulks trap semistagnant water in place, allowing lilypads to grow. Collapsed pilings. Freighters with their beds flooded, tugs half aground, patrol boats stranded on an iron deck. The port. Reklama must live in or around Chernobyl town.

In my peripheral vision, I see the truck door open. Ungreased hinges emit graceless squeals, and Reklama steps out. She sighs, then begins rearranging her overalls, folding the top down like an apron and clipping the straps so they hang between her legs. Without bothering to unroll the sleeves or unbutton, she pulls her work shirt off over her head. For a moment I am privileged to study her spine. She reaches into the cab of the truck and removes a black thermal undershirt.

The door slams, resonant, frightening off a dozen crows.

She walks over a bridge of peeling cedar onto a pale blue riverboat with tires sagging on its compass points, then drops down a orange-brown hatch. I take the opportunity to escape the truck and find a spot in the reeds. Does she live here? Or is she simply a scavenger?

Syncopated funk by way of a wah-wah comes out of the mouth of the boat in a cloud. Moja. I realize there are wires radiating off the mast. Dopplers of the sound emanate from the surrounding forest. Reklama hauls herself out of the hatch and begins to clomp heavily around the deck, a bottle of home brew in her hand, jumping and strutting to Miles Davis' horn, lumpenproletariat all the way.

Atrocity Boy, part IV May. 26th, 2006 @ 12:16 am
It isn't until after I realize I've lost my bearings that I become afraid. The oddly fleshy, round dry node of discomfort in my throat that makes it difficult to swallow, that presages nausea. How long has it been since I last ate?

Reaching in my torn left pants pocket, I find the foil packet of lime. Unfolding it, I see there's maybe enough for two, three branches. If I climb a tree now, it'll have to be one I can sleep in. It’s getting dim.

I should have reached the Exclusion Zone by now. How did I lose my way? Why haven't I seen any evidence of human life more recent than the disaster?

Swallowing, I'm hyperconscious of the layers of my throat rubbing against one another. The lump in my throat is a ball bearing.

I've stopped growing. I've measured myself against tree trunks, door frames, the doors of derelict trucks. I've stopped growing and I'm not going to get any taller. Something has gone wrong. I'm off-course. I'm scared that if I fall out of a tree I'll hurt myself, that I won't be able to fight off the boars.

The music stopped playing two days ago. I thought I was following the right wire, but it stopped once I got to the edge of the forest. I stood there, holding a stripped, frayed piece of insulation, staring across a hollowed-out field of charred timber at the sandy ditch where I first landed.

I'm beginning to doubt I even remember why we chose Chernobyl.

There was a pattern. I'm sure of that. We had found a pattern.

I tear the insides of my shirtsleeves further, climbing the tree with the highest limbs I can find, smear bird lime on the ends of the branches, and lay myself to rest against the trunk, safely cradled in three crooks, uncomfortable but unlikely to fall. I've grown enough hair to keep out most of the cold, but I can still feel the canvas lining of my hat rub against my scalp. I have to concentrate on keeping my eyes closed, or I find my mind absorbed in the striations of the bark.

I'm sure there was a patten.

* * * * *

A realization jolts me awake. I'd asked myself why I hadn't seen any evidence of human life more recent than the disaster-- but I had, at Lelyov. The concrete factory.

I'd consciously walked in the other direction. Former residents of the town had built the factory to facilitate entombing the Unit 4 reactor in a sarcophagus of concrete and steel. I hadn't even looked at it, because I was trying to avoid people.

If I went back to Lelyov by night and followed the road from the factory to the reactor, there's no way I could get lost. Maybe I could steal a geiger counter. Temporary as this body may be, there's no sense in burning it out before I reach my goal.

The branch closest to my back bounces. I hear a panicked flutter of wings. I give the carrion eater time for one anguished squawk, then there are feathers in my smile.

Atrocity Boy, part III May. 24th, 2006 @ 07:23 pm
Tipler slapped his hands together, shoved his chair back-- knocking it over in the process --and stepped around the table, placing himself between Shairp and the cylinder.

"What you are proposing is fucking fatuous. This is not your daddy's hunting rifle, Shairp!

"Every factor in an environment affects the path of a bullet. From the moment of ignition, a projectile ceases to be under human control. You may miss, but the bullet doesn't know what missing is. It's not aiming for anything."

Shairp, keeping eye contact with Tipler, tentatively moved to pick his coffee up from the table. Tipler stopped him by taking the cup for himself.

"Ignore the metaphor and listen to what I'm saying, man: We cannot aim using this device.

"What we transmit into the cylinder-- perhaps transpose would be a better term; semantics --is immediately removed from our control. A person or object transposed through time would be little better than a bullet fired at a spinning globe, creating a curved furrow along the surface.

"What you are proposing is time traveler as kamikaze."

Shairp turned a funny color and opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. Tipler stuck his mustache in Shairp's coffee and sipped. Shairp closed his mouth again, slowly, looked at the cylinder, then asked:

"If you're so god-damn smart--"

Tipler blew through his mustache, scattering Shairp's shirt with drops of coffee.

"I'm just suggesting we consider what it is we intend to send and why. A bullet's no good. Even if the transposed object's destination were to survive, the object would not. It would at best wind up as an artifact embedded somewhere. What good is that? We'd have to sift through all of recorded history, and probably a few jungles, just to find the damn thing. A forensic hell."

Tipler pushed the empty cup into Shairp's hands and walked over to the cylinder. The surface of the device shone like a phonograph record, black with silver highlights.

"If we were to transpose information, however, we could conceivably instigate objects for recovery. Strength and duration of signal would determine that... Receptacles for storing the transposed information would be created for us via art, literature, and science. We'll have to figure out what type of signal, of course, but trial & error will out." Tipler looked for himself in the grooves of the cylinder's surface, the smile hidden beneath his mustache. "Kekulé von Stradonitz was a lowly chemist until he dreamt about the worm Ouroboros."

Shairp stepped over to stand beside Tipler, and they shared a moment contemplating the device. Tipler seemed to be waiting for Shairp to come up for air, which he did with a barely perceptible gasp.

"All we'd need to do to find proof would be to instigate a search string. God hell, Tipler, that's--"

Tipler nodded and stole the cigarettes from Shairp's shirt pocket.

"The past is a storage device for the present moment anyway. High time we learned to use it."

Atrocity Boy, part II May. 23rd, 2006 @ 11:26 am
A theory of time:

It's all theories.

Leave the scientism to the experts. There's no proper way to excuse my being here, unless you credit me with god's own hubris and say I am, because I want to be. Leave it at I am.

* * * * *

The pipeline leading to Chernobyl town is a line of demarcation, going from titanium white to utter rust right where official greetings end. The wide white sign behind the pipe shows a healthy, sunlit glade filled with ferns, and the forest behind the sign follows that party line. The rude negation of paint on pipe is dissident, untrustworthy.

I damn all three for liars and press on.

* * * * *

The cabins in Chernobyl are in worse condition than those in Lelyov. Most of the houses are collapsed and grown through. The only intact roof I see is corrugated tin, its valleys filled with twenty years of composted leaves. Green-dappled sun winks at me through windows as I follow what I suppose was once a road. Vines like shed skin stretch from undergrowth to sky in tangled columns all over the place.

The only birdsong I hear is distant, imported by the combined geometries of forest and abandoned house.

Where are the deer? It's far enough into the season for them to be grabassing about. It isn't as warm as it was, but it's reasonable, and there are no predators to speak of here, no spoor. It might be me, but I'm small yet, and have no odor of my own.

A sudden and hideous clatter of cymbals, insistent & barely syncopated, the lead-in to a funk riff by what I swear is an electric trumpet. Then congas, log drums, kalimba? I can't identify all the instruments, but I locate the loudspeaker immediately and nudge it away from a puddle, dislodging a red brown and black accretion of leaves in the process. Nails must have rotted out.

Only ever intended for public address in the event of emergency, the rust-perforated bell rattles & thrashes the broadcast to the point where only an expert or a lunatic could recognize it: Miles Davis, Carnegie Hall, New York; March 30th, 1974.

'Dark Magus', part one of 'Moja'.

Someone at the power plant was using the P.A. to play free jazz.

Shit, that'd scare anyone away.

Atrocity Boy, part I May. 22nd, 2006 @ 10:34 am
I emerge in gender-neutral condition above the roadway to Chernobyl. It's 18.7 degrees, hot for April. There is almost no wind. Gravity contrives to drop me in the sand to the left of the road. I land in the skid troughs left behind by wood-bearing trucks, abrading my skin. Unable to move, I inspect the grasses at eye-level, green-black and bent like thistle. Beyond them I can see windfall piles of burnt, radioactive wood, in dozens of rows. Spent matchsticks, meticulously arranged.

It will take me hours to convert enough egg white to be able to stand again.

Largely cartilage and bleary, I decide to sleep.

* * * * *

Another slide slips into the projector, and the sky is replaced by slate.

The asphalt is enthusiastic in expelling its heat. Were it not for the tender condition of my feet, I would walk in the sand & scrub. I can see the top three rings of the red white and grey chimney coming off the Unit 4 reactor, some twelve miles off. At my current height it may take the better part of the night to reach Lelyov. I'm not sure I'm up to it, but better blistered soles than to be eaten by a boar.

Lelyov. Plenty of party officials owned homes there. I wonder if there will be any official regalia unrotted in the closets. My scalp is beginning to bubble.

* * * * *

The interiors of the cabins are disgusting. The air is impossible to breathe without coughing. The carpets are slick black with mildew. Most of the homes have been looted. What belongings the residents were intelligent enough not to take for fear of radiation, vandals have roughly removed. Radios, refrigerators, ovens and electric razors, all gone, reducing the overall appearance of the individual homes to pretechnological hovels. Doors to washrooms beaten down, cast iron tubs and enameled sinks wrenched free from their fittings, tile shattered everywhere.

There are some clothes. Nothing worth parading, just plain pants, jackets and wraps. I avail myself of a few overlarge pieces of apparel, confident I will grow into them by the time I am in town.

The last cabin before the woods end is blue, with three red stars welded to the wrought iron railing. I find a small army officer's hat on the shelf in the hall closet, perhaps the keepsake of a proud father. Apparently who-ever looted the house was too busy stealing irradiated washing machines to concern himself with ironic keepsakes.

Going in the direction opposite the concrete factory, I strike out into the woods, a bundle under my arm, my feet wrapped in rags, and a cap on my peeling skull. An auspicious outing, thus far. Makes me wonder what obstacles await.

On cue, my testicles descend.

The Umbrella Sep. 21st, 2004 @ 08:43 pm
Draft 2ACollapse )

02:45--revision before bed Aug. 11th, 2004 @ 02:57 am
took Seventime and Navan's advice on "The Devil"... at least partially... the hack-and-slash nature of it made for a quickie of a revision... let's see if this reads any better.

the devil 2.0Collapse )
FLOTSAM: sleepysleepy
JETSAM: battery "ballermine"

lo and behold, i got off my ass... Jul. 29th, 2004 @ 01:54 am
...and wrote something that can be at least marginally considered complete.

The DevilCollapse )</td>

hacking into the monster... Jul. 15th, 2004 @ 04:47 pm
so it turns out my latest eccentric--have been calling him The Roommate--was actually Shane in her male state... rooming with Lia... have to figure out how that happened, but makes things a touch more interesting than before...

god, it's such a relief to feel like i've found a soft spot to start cleaving into this beast... any commentary on Lia, the professor, shane, etc thoroughly welcomed and appreciated...

more to come... soon as i straighten a few details out. probably a bit later tonight.

FLOTSAM: moving toward accomplished
JETSAM: super furry animals "sympathy"

PROJECTS Jun. 23rd, 2004 @ 04:43 pm
the portion of my summer reading list that i haven't gotten to yet is way too unruly to list, so here's the tiny fraction i've joyfully slogged through already (in no particular order)...

1. Neal Stephenson's The Diamond Age; or, A Young Lady's Illustrated Primer
2. Ira Levin's The Stepford Wives
3. Ira Levin's Rosemary's Baby
4. Gilbert Hernandez's Palomar; The Heartbreak Soup Stories (it's big and hardbound and SO FUCKING HUGGABLE)
5. Jaime/Gilbert Hernandez's Tears from Heaven

currently in the midst of...
A. Kathleen Ann Goonan's Crescent City Rhapsody
B. Catherine Liszt and (umm, shit, i forgot her name)'s The Ethical Slut
C. kind of dropped Reviving Ophelia for the moment. will pick up again soon, probably...

I. The first real revision of "Dinner" since i first wrote it four years ago.
II. Collecting eccentrics to bounce off one another and hope it turns into something even remotely readable. Two semi-solid so far. more coagulating.
III. Ruminating on "The Change" (the nanotech/genderswapping story). haven't done any real work on it in 2 weeks. back to it today or tomorrow, i promise.

Charlie's right. i really do need to write more... Jun. 23rd, 2004 @ 03:39 am
Maybe it's just a tease. Maybe it's actually going somewhere. Right now it's just a character sketch... just one of many characters floating in my head right now...

considering creating, as navan_ghee put it, a collection of eccentrics to bounce off one another. maybe it'll turn into a story one day...

introducing jackCollapse )

draft 2, 4 years later Jun. 21st, 2004 @ 02:22 pm
so here's the next draft, the one i said i'd post last week. not really happy with it yet. haven't really touched the latter portion of it yet...

but enough with the excuses...Collapse )

and so it goes.

something like accomplishment... Jun. 11th, 2004 @ 11:57 pm
first full rewrite of "Dinner" in 4 years. as of about 3 minutes ago. will post it tomorrow or sunday, but for now, sleeeeep...

oh, and, Charlie... THANK YOU! You have no idea how much I adore you for the push that comment gave me.
FLOTSAM: accomplished/sleepy
JETSAM: Phish "Limb By Limb"

um. so. hi... Jun. 10th, 2004 @ 12:14 am
So I've been a voyeur around here long enough. Figured I'd join iffen it don't bother nobody too much.
so here's something like writing...

DinnerCollapse )

g'night, kids.
FLOTSAM: schleepy
JETSAM: dave's music just ended :(

May. 16th, 2004 @ 11:17 pm
True story. I'll leave it at that and just post the damn thing.

The Church of GodCollapse )

Not So Very Pleased Apr. 21st, 2004 @ 09:35 pm
School, and the fact that I haven't had what anyone could describe as a "decent" meal in a good month and a half has finally taken its toll on me. I'm sick, real annoying sick. But I have two story ideas, one of which is fully written on paper but needs to be edited heavily, while the other one is a neat idea (I hope), but I haven't transferred any of my ideas down on paper for it. Don't expect either of them to get done any time soon, though; illness and two term papers and three exams promise to monopolize my time for the rest of the month. Sorry y'all! I still exist, I promise.

Apr. 15th, 2004 @ 06:57 am
Here's something I've done over the course of several hours, the last couple of which have officially been at the expense of sleep. It's not part of an ongoing project, and it's certainly not something I'm likely to revisit, but as it's undoubtedly representative of what my fiction writing style would be if I wrote fiction with any sort of regularity, I'd like to know what could be improved upon, especially now as I'm with people who know me and/or the writing experience very very well.

All switch, no bait.Collapse )

I'm not very good at being serious. Apr. 13th, 2004 @ 11:20 pm
Alright. So we all seem to be outlining what this community is going to mean to us. I think we all have similar interests, so far at least. I expect as things progress, what I want might change a little. But right now, I just want what I write to be criticised so that I can see where I'm going wrong and, perhaps, improve upon it all to the point where I might attain a level of professionalism. Hey, it might happen. Who knows? Just don't be too hard on me; I'm fragile and will probably end up weeping into my keyboard and vowing to never write again.

The only thing I've written so far that hasn't been some horrendous fanfiction parody, and that I've bothered to publish on the web is this. Only two pages and a scant few paragraphs. I'm really not sure where I'm going with it yet, or even why I'm working on it, since I have ideas that are more fleshed-out than this one kicking around that I haven't even started writing properly. Enough excuses I suppose. What do you think of it? Any ideas as to what direction it should take? Anything at all?

Apr. 13th, 2004 @ 01:58 am
All right, so here's how I plan to use this community. Anything not personal (read: fictional) that I write I will probably post here, unless for some strange, unknown reason, I do not. Anyway, time to get the ball rolling. I s'pose.

The idea for the following story came to me in Shaw cafeteria today, and hopefully it doesn't sound too rushed or unoriginal or bland or, well, just bad in general. Enjoy, possibly!

The Many Loves of Rory DasenbrockCollapse )
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