knight errant

2003-06-25T12:31:00.000-07:00

I have no idea what happened. *shrugs* Must be certain karmic influences. In any case, this still stay here until further notice. Don't hold your breath.

2002-10-25T08:28:00.000-07:00

It's been a while ne?

thought process
Sometimes you wonder if you ever felt love. It's your biggest flaw, you see, analyzing every last bit of yourself in a way that falls somewhere between narcissism and self-hatred. The dissection of a soul has never been more clinical nor has it held such fascination for everyone.

Sometimes you don't even understand love. You've read about it, in the hundreds of romance novels you hid behind your copies of Ayn Rand, and Gabriel Garcia-Marquez, but when you let yourself think about it, you know that what you've read is the simpler version of it. The less complex view of it, despite the epic grandness of it, with a conflict of characters, of morals, that could out-star-cross Romeo and Juliet any day.

It's hard to think about love when you're so angry at a person and you only want to hurt them, throw angry words at them, and be happy, so happy that it sickens you when you look back on it that you've caused them to doubt themselves. Can there be love there, even then?

After all, isn't love supposed to be a constant thing? Can it go away for a little while when there's this tightness in your insides, and you spill words and pain without thought.

Sometimes you wonder if love isn't just anger with the filters on.

That cynicism makes you laugh at yourself sometimes, at the contradictions in your personality.

You aren't wearing rose-colored glasses; they've been broken and the shards are embedded in your eyes.

You think you may feel love every time you sigh at the beauty of words you've read. At the appreciation of perfection that touches something inside of you. And you wonder at yourself, at the romanticized notion of falling in love with words. But what about people?

Sometimes you wonder why it's so hard for you. You've even joked that in the future, you'll be weeping on a therapist's shoulder about how much you regret not showing them you cared. It's hard for you to accept even the barest, most casual of touches. And it's even harder for you to say the three most overrated words in the English language.

You think that it's easier to say it in a language other than the one you call your own. 'Te amo', 'Je t'aime', 'Ich liebe dich'... they seem to lose their meaning because they sound alien, and foreign.

But you still can't say it.

You think that's the root of it. That love doesn't need to be said in any language made by man. But you can't even use your actions to express how much you care. So you've contradicted yourself again.

So you wonder, what is love?

And you prefer this answer above all, the one you came up with yourself even though it's flawed and incomplete.

Love isn't just the flash of attraction, or the feeling of belonging, or the instinct of protectiveness.

You think that love, above all else, is thought.

It is the when you remind yourself that a person is tired, sick, or in pain and you bite back a retort and try to be patient. It is when you remember that your friend enjoys this group and blow the money you've been saving up for that copy of "The Color of Magic" you saw at the bookstore. It is when you realize that no matter how hard it is for you to say it, someone may want to hear you say "I love you." just once in a while.

And with this realization that you return to your original problem and understand the biggest problem with your concept of love.

You wonder if you've ever loved because you can't actually do it.

---------------------------

Also posted in my Upsaid account, and my LJ.

2002-09-27T03:21:00.000-07:00

A T T E N T I O N
Eyes Unclouded by Hate, my old weblog, will no longer be updated on lux-lucis.net until further notice. I will continue the journal on Livejournal.com thanks to the kindness of Kala.

The new URL is:
http://www.livejournal.com/~errare

As to what will happen to Eyes Unclouded by Hate and to Knight Errant (since I will be posting ficlets there as well...) I'm still undecided (I seem to have a problem with coming to decisions lately.)

2002-09-26T05:19:00.000-07:00

And comedic coffee-spray-inducing discovery of the day IIIIIIS: Metal Gear Solid slash

And I thought I was *quite* the little know-it-all when it comes to yaoi and slash. And here comes a revelation to knock me off my smug little pedestal of omnislashycience. It's one of those whodathunk it things. I mean with Meryl... and Sniper Wolf... Well they *do* seem to have a thing for the female characters dying all over the place... or turning out to be traitors... or just plain have bad voice actresses (*smirk*)

*coughs* A-NY-way. Ahhhh nostalgia, how you attack me. My first FF7 shounen ai epic was Sora no Kumo's SOLDIERS (yes even +before+ Twig-sama's "A Long, Hard Road" [y'know drop one letter from the last word and you get... a pun in really bad taste, ehehehehehe]) I fell in love with this story. And duuude I actually got to see its completion! I mean, WHOA, I admire authors who can finish their epic WIPs as that seems to be a quality I don't possess. ^__^ ^__^ ^__^

I actually got some work done for the... still untitled original work. Feck, I coulda sworn I gave the damned thing a title already *scratches her head* Hrm... early senility.

Memorable first line for: wonderland girl

"Everything about her was a long, complicated story."

XD XD XD Deferring from Quill actually led to Good Things. The excessive free time lets me hang around the Third World Studies Center and Main Lib in typical freshman fashion, get some studying time, write a bit, brainstorm a bit, nap a bit, look like the freshie that I am a bit...

...come on inspiration... I know you're theeere. Somewhere.

y'know I get the most weird ass spam e-mails. Just thought I'd share that.

2002-09-26T03:04:00.000-07:00

Hrm... I think I just might do the challenge on Metro (just to prove to Hannah that I still lurk there... once in a while... ^__^ ) We have to write about what we think is happening in this picture, and I think Orgy's "Fiction (Dreams in Digital)" is just perfect for it. That's the first thing I thought when I saw the pic anyway. Just check out the lyrics:
"Fiction (Dreams In Digital)"

She's lost in coma where it's beautiful
Intoxicated from the deep sleep, deep sleep
Do you wonder what it's like
Living in a permanent imagination
Sleeping to escape reality, but you like it like that

Guilty by design she's nothing more than fiction
She dreams in digital 'Cause it's better than nothing
Now the control is gone It seems unreal, she's dreaming in digital
She dreams in digital

And your pixel army can't save you now
My finger's on the kill switch
I remember I used to compose your dreams, control your dreams
And don't be afraid, to expose yourself, before I shut you down
You've made some changes since the viurs caught you sleeping

Guilty by design she's nothing more than fiction
She dreams in digital 'Cause it's better than nothing
Now the control is gone It seems unreal, she's dreaming in digital

'Cause it's better than nothing
Now the control is gone It seems unreal, she's dreaming in digital

She dreams in digital
Guilty by design 'Cause it's better than nothing

Now the control is gone It seems unreal, she's dreaming in digital
Nothing more than Fiction 'Cause it's better than nothing
Now the control is gone It seems unreal, she's dreaming in digital

Lyrics taken from this site

Anyone know anything about the anime .hack//SIGN? I saw the manga at this shop at Katipunan (where I must not visit every day to worship at the Neil Gaiman section. They have Hellsing! And Gravitation! And Count Cain! *squeeeeee*) and I have an mp3 of "Obsession". I MUST SEE THIS SERIES! *snickers*

And I just may continue writing "The Hanged Man". Or rewrite it entirely. More emphasis and analysis on the tarot card meanings (and fucking around with it) rather than Standard Mitsuki Angst(tm) Must... improve... writing...

My sister is whooping like mad upstairs. That must mean Ateneo won. *shakes her head*

2002-09-26T00:30:00.000-07:00

For everyone wondering about what happened to Eyes Unclouded by Hate (all three of you) there were some problems with Movable Type. I can't make any new entries but the old entries were saved. I don't know how soon the problem can be fixed (if at all) Just stay tuned here. I *might* be getting a Livejournal account soon. XD

2002-09-14T07:07:00.000-07:00

Slam Dunk fic checklist...

I can't help it... sarcasm... taking... over...

And it ain't even witty!

__ nighttime basketball training session
Sakuragi/Rukawa/any freaking basketball player in Kanagawa decide to extend their practice time (what are they masochistic?) and train into the night... but a prematurely senile player returns for his forgotten basketball shoes/bag/brain... an empty gym, two sweaty guys, a little accident, FORMULA FOR ROMANCE! Or at least a lemon. Or two. Or three.
__Basketball players do it everywhere.
In the shower, in the locker room, on the gym floor (and after they spent the night there cleaning it up! semen stains!)
__Everyone wants Sakuragi
It's true! 'cause red-headed, self-proclaimed tensais are irresistible. Rukawa (often homicidally possessive of his 'Hana-chan'), Sendoh (so THAT'S why he's always smiling. He must be constantly picturing Sakuragi errr.... -BLEEP-), Youhei (best friend pffft, he's just making sure no one horns in on his territory), Miyagi (Ayako who?), Mitsui (that's kinda... no REALLY hot!), Kogure (so he somehow cleaned up his glasses enough to see someone OTHER than Mitsui?), Maki (just waiting to show him the possibilities of an "older" man. 'cause he ain't as old as he looks... not where it MATTERS), Fujima (pretty-boy seme!), Kiyota (they were separated at birth didntcha know? incest! well...at least it won't be interspecies mating...), Akagi (what about Uozumi and Aota?), Aota (oh... "judo" huh?), Takato, Taoka, Fukuda, you, me, Barney... everyone but Haruko and possibly Anzai-sensei. Except on the rare instances where she (Haruko) realizes her love for him too late and can only watch from afar as Sakuragi is borne away on a sea of rampaging players and yaoi fans.
__Everyone wants Sakuragi... to be uke...
Including me.
__Basketball players have stalker tendencies.
Just ask Rukawa. And Sendoh. And maybe I should just give you a complete character list for Slam Dunk to make my job easier?
__Sakuragi is ALWAYS oblivious.
I guess he's what you'd call an idiot savant.
__Insults are the best form of endearment.
Do'aho, while an insult to us, actually means "You hunka-hunka burnin' love!" to Rukawa. It takes a long complicated thought process for that though. Trust me. After all Rukawa spent five and a half pages brooding over how he can't express his feelings and can only use "Do'aho" to get Sakuragi's attention...

............will add to this later. It's late.

2002-09-12T05:20:00.000-07:00

inori no uta
[ a takashi/mitsuki ficlet ]

It took her a while to realize what it was that had drawn her to walk by the riverside on her own as night fell softly and slowly, as summer rain would, not a brilliant war of colors like the sunrise, but the gradual drawing of a veil over the horizon. It was a lovely afternoon, she'd reasoned, and Hikaru-san had asked her to drop by for a talk before the Kurohane departed for a mission. Never mind that she walked right past the path leading to the artist's home; she was Kagetai, and she took paths not walked by others.

There was an ache in her that moved with the currents of the flowing river, touched by the final fire of day. And reaching for it was no more successful than in those moments at dawn when she tried to grasp for the fleeting wisps of the dream she'd just waked from.

The river moved with a rapid constancy as the girl knelt by it, perched unmindfully on the bank, and leaning over it as any young woman would, dreaming of two stars and a bridge of wings and a love that needed only a day. But even as she watched the path of the moon reflected on the water, her eyes were dark with the opacity of looking inwards to a soul.

There was silence in her heart that lay over her lips as fingers keeping even sighs unreleased. It was a silence that translated to absolute stillness and quiet around her. Without even fireflies to keep her company, she was alone with moon and river. She appreciated it, the elemental sense of being with existence and not life. It was what she needed, solitude to understand the thin vein of unhappiness that nevertheless threaded through the whole of her. She could not do it if that single, watchful eye wasn't the only witness though her dagger was her thoughts and her skin was the bright smile covering that vein, and no blood would be spilled; some wounds didn't need to bleed.

Her eyes focused on the river silver-glossed, and on dark hair and eyes the blue of a flower and gray slipping into black. The silver reminded her of him and realization came with the taste of the bitter fruit of tears. It was not an unfamiliar one, but neither was it known in the waking hours. Rather it lay, dormant and still within that vein that she knew now was not unhappiness, but a kind of joy. It was a realization of a heart beating quietly in time with another's smile. It was the realization of a curving mouth for a kind gesture or word and of the slight slip of it with the knowledge that his kindness came easily for all. It was a realization recognized but hidden deep at the edge of dreams where sighs became tears and tears evaporated to sighs.

"When you first love, I pray it will be gentle." Hikaru's words, and a prayer turned truth. And it was gentle, like a song hummed into the air, with all the substance of a whisper, and all the strength of a prayer. And it was gentle, so the pain it brought was gentle too, even when she saw the beautiful geisha's eyes following the movements of the kitsune, or when remembrance would carry him to be with the grace of the Sakura. She understood; it was in his nature, for beauty attracted beauty. Just as she understood that some of that pain came from the knowledge that she had none to offer, nor even to create, that was why she loved the most beautiful thing she could find, that strange duality of destruction and creation, within him, within Kanamo-san, Takeda-sama and Hikaru-san. But not within her.

A sigh behind her echoed the one that barely escaped her, and she saw that the image she was looking at was different, hair as dark but with eyes that held the river in them.

"Shirakawa-san!"

Although he was not one to complain of her startled formality, the slight frown made her amend it to "Kitsune-san, what are you doing here?"

"The river is lovely... and I remembered that some flowers bloom at night." he blushed and tried to smile, calling up an answering one that hid that gentle pain. "And what about you?"

She wondered if she could tell him, if she could ever tell him.

"Just thinking." She always lacked the words. "But it is a sight to carry into sleep. Are you picking flowers for an ikebana? I always wanted to learn how to make one."

"I'll teach you then! But not tonight, I'll walk you back to your sensei then, it's not proper for you to be alone -- not that I'm implying that you can't take care of yourself. Mitsuki-chan is very skilled -- maybe I need you to protect me... ohhh..." That was Takashi alright, walking the fine line of ingrained gallantry and of acknowledgement of the Kagetai females' skill, and often teetering on it, so sweetly wanting to show how highly he thought of them.

He smiled at her again, and hope, that which sprung eternally in the young, raced through that vein, pursued just as quickly by sorrow.

He looked thoughtfully at her for a few minutes and said, "I can teach you, but it will be rushed since I may have to go for a mission day after tomorrow."

She could not be worthy of him no more than she was worthy of crossing a bridge of wings. But...

She smiled and nodded.

"I don't mind. I only need a day, Takashi-san."

---------------------------
*prodprod* I sense more than a large amount of Mia's influence in this fic. I blame Rilke and Peter Hoeg's "Smilla's Sense of Snow" for this sudden bout of inspiration. Even the style is a bit Mia-ish... *shrugs* Oi. And you have NO idea how long I've been waiting to use that line "--all the substance of a whisper and all the strength of a prayer." Actually the original one went "--a prayer with all the substance of a whisper and all the faith of millions." *shrugs*

I almost used another line I've been hoarding but I decided to use it for something else.

I am in an annoyingly good mood now that THAT fic is out. AHAHAHAHAHAHA! Didja know that in greatly reduced margins and in 8.5 Verdana, it's only one page?

2002-09-07T00:10:00.000-07:00

somewhere out there, Robert Jordan is sneezing up a storm. And twitching madly. It should be called "A Tale of Two Senseis" or something asinine like that. Hrm... coming up, the path of daggers (unless I come up with a more original title) feat. Shigeru and Kinnosuke, and chibi-Mitsuki with peonies, ironies, philosophies and choosing a weapon. Slight WaFFiness at the beginning but it's all because of chibi-Mitsuki's antics.

I can't seem to write right now, and I was prepared to write up that piece. *shrugs* The scene is there in my head, a repentant Mitsuki kneeling and bowing in front of an irritated Shigeru, who is, not for the first time, doubting the wisdom of taking in this girl and his own skills as a teacher, with a VERY amused Kinnosuke standing behind him, and all around them are cut peonies, an entire garden ruined. Mitsuki gathering all of them up, while Shigeru and Kinnosuke discuss the story of Miyamoto Musashi and the Sekishusai and the peony, and Mitsuki's choice of the yari for her training. I don't want it to be Ye Olde Angst Session, but I neither do I want it to be all WAFFWAFFWAFF. I want it to be poignant, and just a touch of melancholy.

2002-09-04T01:27:00.000-07:00

Chaucer is being very uncooperative, and my Math notebook (where I scribbled most of my notes on the short story that remains untitled) vanished. I am wearing mittens to keep from tearing my hair out. My vocabulary has deteriorated to a mere 500 hundred words (most of which would be strange garbled sounds) and I think I may be losing all higher brain functions. Is it possible to develop dyslexia at 16? I doubt it.

*salivates over a multitude of Enishi/Kaoru ficcies* YESSSH! The alterna-pairer in me is screaming with joyjoyabsolutejoy~! And I stumbled on a Saitou/Kaoru fic *sniggers madly and aims a deathglare at a certain someone who'd threatened to write Saitou/Mitsuki* Evilevilevil people. Would serve them right if I went ahead and wrote that Shinobu/Hikaru thing. BWAHAHAHAHAHA!

More GTA3-ness. Bwahahahaha! "How fucking film noir." said Kevin Carey, my Irish gambler and AA refugee, occasional carjacker, thief, blackjack of all trades so to speak. He's a sick bastard, but then again, so is just about everyone in GTA3 (*especially* Asuka) An experimental OC. We'll see if he hangs around. Well... 'cause y'know *somebody's* got to be running all those Pay'N'Sprays.

2002-08-21T08:03:00.000-07:00

I am slowly being driven insane. The indecision will kill me.

FUCK!

And now, my attempt at distracting myself. Why is it that my method of distracting myself is trying to write sex scenes? Eh? Freud would have a field day...

Hot Aki-Shiso/Kagami PWP. I considered making it Aki/Wei but the whole family relationship thing made it all the more hot.

decay of a mind

little boy bleeding, kneeling on the floor. scars torn and streaming.

/i'm going mad/

snapshots of a life flash behind his closed eyes, /his/ life or what used to be his life. it all changed into a nightmare, and he's changing still.

there's candles and cake smears on his face, her face, their faces young and bright, alike yet different, distorted mirror images.

once for his birthday, he had persuaded his parents to go to the carnival. in the house of mirrors, he'd run through before a glimpse at the corner of his eyes stopped him.

/aya?/

he'd seen her, long hair and wide violet eyes, running with him, beside him. he'd turned round and round until his child's eyes finally realized that he'd only seen himself in one of those crazy mirrors that had elongated his hair, the only difference between him and her in their child bodies, unripened and androgynous.

/aya?/

she's gone, and he thinks he's going too. only he knows that when he leaves he might never come back, and that he won't be going to the place where his father is, but he'd be like his mother, in that strange state of half-death.

he screams and falls down, and hands are on him, pulling him upright, tugging him to bed, carrying him, and changing his clothes. they're wei's hands, callused and the feel of them on his scars cause him to feel...

...wrong. wrong like when his lips had covered the picture of a woman with black hair, gold eyes and aya's face.

/ceres/

/my woman/

and he's frightened because he's going, adrift on emotions so alien and unfamiliar that broke over his soul like waves. they're not /his/. they couldn't be.

he would /do/ something, as himself, not directed by that strange part of him that had wrapped his body in puppet strings.

he's on the bed, staring at the ceiling, staring at a stack of videotapes. of aya. kagami had given them to him.

/aya/

aya on the floor, eyes shut. she can't cry out, kagami's kissing her, raping her lips, and her screams come out of his instead. he beat on the glass barrier, to get to her, to let her know, oh god he'd so wanted to see her but not like this. she can't see him, her eyes are closed, but then they open.

and they're no longer her eyes.

/kagami/

he knows that kagami is watching this, knows that his every move is recorded by a million detached eyes, and that he's no longer just aki mikage, aya's twin, and that's all he wants to be right now.

some part of him is saying, no, demanding that he give in.

to what?

he doesn't even know how. and because he doesn't, he doesn't really know how to fight it.

he screams again, and realizes that he never stopped, and that he doesn't know whenwherewhy

he's on the floor, like aya and the not-aya, and he feels the trickle of something, and he thinks his scars are bleeding again.

hands are on him again, and he catches the faintest scent of-

/expensive cologne, and a hint of an aftershave/

/seawater and flowers/

/her scent is on him/

-not wei. the hands told him before the scent did. they're smooth, but the tips of each finger are slightly rough, a thoroughly modern man with keyboard weapons roughening his skin rather than hard wood on his palms.

and on his scars they feel so /good/

his fingers are tugging on kagami's necktie before he realizes what he's doing. then he realizes that he doesn't really care.

/not ceres/

not aki either, but it doesn't matter as long as he's not the /other/. he pulls kagami down over him, eager to forget the feel of paper-captured lips with the reality of thin, unsmiling ones. his fingers skip over buttons, tearing and sliding past them to reach-

-life

-muscles where there were only soft curves.

-memories that weren't /his/

kagami has the advantage of being unfamiliar.

/but he's of her/

glass shatters in his hand, the hand not twined through kagami's hair, glass broken and frames twisted.

neither of them care.

he's on the floor with kagami over him, kissing him.

just like aya.

he growls and slips his hands lower; kagami's tracing over scar tissue. kagami tries to pull away, to lift this half-undressed boy to the bed, but the boy resists

/on the floor/

-shifting his body, arching, an agressor reclining-

/now on the floor/

-wrapping the necktie around his bleeding hand.

a touch and the world blurs around him. he's aki, and not-aki. he is-

/touching himself, his eyes locked on the camera, knowing that kagami is watching/

-moving his hips, in the rhythm of wave and wind. those smooth, rough-tipped hands still on his scars-

-his eyes snap open-

/he knows/

/lightly brushing his scars and his skin. they seem to feel less, to feel more/

violet and brown eyes staring into-

-sharp nails raking down-

-his scars open, as the delicious pain/pleasure tears inside of him-

and he screams.

------------------------------
...IT'S STILL NOT A LEMON! It's around R for the general wrongness of it, but... *tears up* I've misled you! It's unedited, unbeta-d, and I need to make it longer. More Aki/Kagami! MWAHAHAHA! How come there's Kagami/Wei, and Kagami/Alexander but a serious lack of Aki/Kagami. It's all Shiso's fault. But Aki is yummy all slashed. Yesssh, Aki is my favorite character, with the Shiso-ness.

....grrrrrr.... need...to...write...lemon...AGH!

hahahahaha, I gave Aki a scar kink. I always toss in this weird thing to focus on instead of the sex. insane-dominatrix!Ginny tying down Tom in blessed are the broken. And Mitsuki-on-sleeping-Hidetsuna in opacity. Yoshitomo and his insanity with Mitsuki in dollparts. It's all good.

Am writing/struggling through an original story...thing... Chaucer and Tala. *snickers madly* And imagined life of crime. And full of GTA3 references.

Trying to come up with a Saiyuki layout featuring Son Goku. Speaking of... my brother agrees with me on the Sanzo/Goku-ness of the series. MY BROTHER. (I have some suspicions about his sexual orientation but neither he nor my sister are very forthcoming. Sheesh, what do you have to do in this family? I've already come out with my slasher tendencies.) Of course he won't budge on his suspicions of Hakkai/Yaone and refuses to agree with me on the Gojyo/Hakkai thing. I will convert him yet. Still MORE SANZO/GOKU. Cookies, ficlets and yaoi doujinshi to the kind person who will write more for me? NC-17 ones purtyplease? (one more year... just one more year...)

Aki-as-Shiso is hotter than hell, oh yeah. I was inspired to do this after that seksssssy scarred!Aki-as-Shiso in the shower, and just the way his eyes look, being all insane-where-is-my-onna. I might even post it on my ff.net account. Not on the Natsumi one though.

Any mistakes in the series continuity can be blamed on not having seen the whole series and having forgotten everything I've learned from hanging around at Ayashi.net (even if I do taunt my brother about it mercilessly. "Tooya can withstand Ceres' power because he's -bleeeeeep-.")

2002-07-28T07:00:00.000-07:00

w i n d m i l l s

It is a frightening thing, when a man must begin to contemplate his own death.

And that was exactly why Iain Barclay prefered to put it off until it was completely unavoidable to do so, say a few minutes before that death took place. Not to say that Iain put it out of his mind completely. As such, this contemplation was pushed aside for his mind was filled with preparations for his death.

Having lived the latter part of his soon-to-end life in a state of complete order, he could not see why his death wouldn't be the same. In keeping with that thought, he began the duty of looking through the files he'd chronicled and adding his final notes to them. There was one file he'd kept for last, it was the beginning of his career as a member of Talamasca, and it would be the end of it.

A cabinet with folders simply labeled with a single name.

Molloy, Daniel

---------------------------------
"The author's name is a pseudonym and the roalty checks go to a nomadic young man who resists all our attempts at contact." - David Talbot, The Queen of the Damned
---------------------------------

*harrumphs* Could be done better. It's been stewing in my mind for a while now. Just wanted to get it out now. *grins* Obviously enough, Iain is the Talamascan who'd been tasked to contact Daniel Molloy, and eventually became more than a bit obsessed with him, and continued to chronicle Molloy's life after the young man was changed into a vampire. The title is temporary. Need to find a better one.

2002-07-27T22:15:00.000-07:00

Hahahahahahaha! I figured out what was wrong with it. Hahahahahaha!

2002-07-21T02:53:00.000-07:00

Do you hear that?

Nothing.

It's just... silence.

That's the sound of a soul hurting.

And it's no sound at all.

I flinch whenever I look at poetry now. It'll pass... maybe I might even NOT put the thought of writing it out of my mind completely (try to comprehend that statement. Really, how the feck did I pass the diagnostic test for English 10?) It's the most appalling thing in the world when you're faced with doubt over whether you want to continue with something you've dedicated your life to, always been sure of. I think I kinda what Mia felt like. Our situations are different however. I -chose- writing. I told my mom that I could probably shift to another course, despite my constant self-deprecating comments, I know I'm smart. I could get into a decent course. Feck, I could probably even get a pre-law course and maybe continue that. I could do it if I weren't lazy. If I weren't afraid of failing again

I actually told my mom that I could handle what-ifs in the future. If I quit, stay in my safe corner, get into some safe course that doesn't demand my heart but just my brain. Fuck I'd even try to deal with math if it came down to it.

I'm afraid of showing them my prose now because... I wouldn't be free anymore. Every time I even get a moment to myself I keep hearing their comments. It's insane, really. I've made this chant of "Get over it! Toughen up! It'll get much worse!" I couldn't bear it if I couldn't even think about writing prose anymore. It would be subjected to criticism, to analysis of style, and worth, and crap. Yeahyeah to make it better, yeahyeah for it to get published, yeahfuckingyeah I need a LOT of improvement. I just don't want to end up bloody crying. I'm an emotional little whinger.

I never thought that the first time my heart would get broken, it would be because of writing.

Am I killing you with the melodrama yet? How about now? Please do tell me because my sadistic streak is coming out.

*snickers* Okay, I AM over it. I basically shamed myself into it by re-reading the "questions from a freshman" post on my blog. I won't give up on writing -that- easily. Bloody angst crap. Sod.

Am in a strangely bitchy mood. Repressed frustration maybe? Or is the fact I've had a fever for the entire bloody weekend, a sore throat, a marathon-runner nose, and a headache like I downed two bloody kegs last night.

Unpleasant realization: Why was I willing to give up just because of /that/?! Because I'd always been given insubstantial praise? ("Yeah, it's good!" But what can I improve on? Down on the ego-stroking, up with the ripping my work and heart to shreds) Because I'm only willing to put effort into something I'm good at? Eh? Because all the time I wonder what if I'm just not good enough?

Riley said "Sometimes it's the only perfection you can offer the world." and that part of you that you dug so deep for, the sum of all the beauty you are capable of... just isn't enough.

What if it isn't?

2002-07-08T03:23:00.000-07:00

Who is Haz? Haz lives in my head, whining about not being given form, or even a personality. He is not a muse; he never does anything muse-like (then again you could say the same thing about most of my muses). Haz doesn't even have a gender, but for the sake of this entry's coherence, we will refer to Haz as a "he". Haz is desperately trying to crawl out of my head into some normal, your-every-day-life setting, that "coming of age" story we all have to get out of ourselves one way or another. Haz demands that I include nothing supernatural, or even unusual with his life and his friends. He is not to have crazy quests to save the world, charming if sarcastic talking/telepathic familiars, and he demands complete freedom from religious/mythological symbolism and devices. He only wants to live /life/ as we know it, loony, catastrophic, and unpredictable. He wants to hate it, revel in it, stumble through it, and most importantly get laid. He emphasized the last with graphic images that I prefer to forget as soon as humanly possible.

Haz will probably be a freshman. I doubt he will be like.... an avatar or anything but I suppose I can live vicariously through him.

Haz is a tyrant. Haz will not shut up.

Haz has a very odd name.

2002-06-23T06:27:00.000-07:00

d e c r e s c e n d o

God, I hate you.

As revelations go, that ranks well below "statement of the obvious". Not that it WAS obvious, but it seems less intense than it should be. If you ask me, declarations of hatred should be accompanied by thundering music, raging fires reflected in furious eyes, voice breaking over the crescendo of emotions given voice. It should be screamed, shouted, punctuated by mad gesticulations, and waving arms (preferably with guns and swords, but we can't be picky)

It shouldn't be a tired, resigned sentence verging on a whisper.

Sometimes whispers can be screams. Not so now.

What should have been a cry that tore apart clouds, splitting sky and soul, that became wind screaming on earth... was passionless, almost dead, no conviction, no force in the voice, and in the eyes.

Really, that's the tragedy of it all.

People say that hatred destroys you more than it does its object.

But you get used to it.

It's a ball of molten fury right there at your center of gravity, at the center of everything. It burns inside you, so hot and bright, that you feel like your eyes are twin suns in your skull, and you have magma flowing in your veins. But eventually it settles in the back of your mind, ever-present, but more like a distant, cyclic supernova.

And you should be so lucky as to feel anything close to that ever again.

Let me tell you a story. Once there was a boy, and he was happy. But he saw someone was happier, and suddenly everything wasn't enough anymore. After that, his whole life was consumed with envy that was so warped it became hatred.

And he never had a good reason for it.

He tore himself apart, rebuilt himself, came back over and over again. He recreated himself, best as he could to get his happiness back again, but it... he couldn't ever have that again. So he tried to ruin that other person's happiness. That didn't work either. So he went back to his first plan and found out that he didn't even know what made him happy anymore.

Isn't that sad? To not know what makes you happy?

Because if your only reason for living is your hatred, nothing can make you happy but the fulfillment of that hatred, and then it's just... gone.

Wanna know something even sadder?

That boy was me. And it's so far away now, that story, that boy... I can dissect, and analyze myself. Maybe then I'd know who I was, am again. I doubt it though. Too much misery. It's not even good misery. Deep, soul-rending, rock-bottom kind of misery. It's a whiskey-soaked, drug-numbed low grade kind of misery that's like...

Am I maudlin? Fuck off.

No, wait, don't get up. Jesus, a guy spends his entire life hating you, the least you could do is listen while he pours out his sad little life story out to you. Come on and be the good guy, listen, feel a little Christian pity, have yourself a few bad nights of doubt then wash your hands of me.

Oh, don't look at me like that. Stop playing martyr with me. I know you too well. I'm like... your best buddy in the whole world who knows you inside out... if I didn't spend most of my time wanting to beat the shit out of you.

Strange, innit? Sometimes, when people hate, they can't bear to look at you, like they'd turn into a pillar of salt if they did. Or more likely, that they'd grab you and try to choke you if they did. But me, I couldn't keep my eyes off you. Like I could kill you just be looking at you, although I couldn't but I do wish I could.

-----------------------------
I have no idea where the heck this came from, or what it's even about... except hatred. All I know is, it's not finished yet. Even have the last two lines. I could make it H/D but I prefer it where it is. Unknown, anonymous. It's not about someone really, it's about hate. Or what he perceives it to be.

2002-06-17T06:31:00.000-07:00

the first and last love song

It began with a girl, like most love stories go, a punch thrown in defense of her honor.

It ended with a boy like most love stories do, a last, final desperate attempt for victory.

It began with two boys, a mop and a basketball court.

It ended with two boys, a foul shot and a basketball court.

It began when a shot bounced off the rim and into the path of one red-haired boy.

It ended when the red-haired boy threw the ball back.

A bad fall, a foul shot, and a one-on-one game.

That was how it ended.

But this is how it begins.

-------------------------------------
Was supposed to be a beginning of a RuHana fic. But am sleepy, so will continue it when inspiration strikes. Have laid groundwork on it there. Will probably do it VEEERY slowly. As anyone who has seen the series can tell, "what began" with the punch, and "what ended" with the last ditch attempt is the Slam Dunk series (that we know of so far) What begins after that... *wiiiide grin* For Lynn-chama-chama, may she find her Slam Dunk epic to love, and may I find where I bloody saved the Uruha piece. Title came from the translation of "Saisho de Saigo no Love Song".

2002-06-12T00:00:00.000-07:00

No Harm Done has been uploaded here. I've sent it off to FictionAlley for uploading on The Dark Arts

Resistance 04 has been posted... I must admit that I'm kind of disappointed with the chapter. It's not something I can really articulate... I just expected it to be... well, better. Kind of darker, and... I don't know. Maybe it was the how weak the scene between James and Lily was. It was good but... I don't feel pulled in. And a fic like this should. Maybe it's the depth... some things glossed over... or maybe it's the fact that the beta should have caught a few more mistakes like "Thank the Havens". (eh?) or maybe it was Narcissa "jumping to her feet". I guess it COULD be part of the whole thing, how... light it seems showing how Voldemort's reign had become life, how people had settled into it (the Death Eaters at least) And the whole scene with Narcissa and Lily. Oh god, motherly pride over Cruciatus. I liked that part. And then towards the end, the meeting between the two figures, one a Death Eater, the other a Resistance member (the DE could be James, Lily or Peter. The Resistance guy... could only be Sirius MWAHAHAHAHA!)

Now I can write my sidestories! Mwahahahaha!

2002-06-11T06:03:00.000-07:00

never after : a fractured fairy tale project
in the wasteland of forgotten childhood

I'm thinking of recruiting people into doing this project... making a site for fractured fairy tales. *shrugs*

Anyone interested?

2002-06-10T04:28:00.000-07:00

m.o.o.n.s.h.i.n.e .:. w.h.i.s.k.e.y
i. spiral draft

It was raining.

There was silence between them, and a coldness that had nothing to do with the chilly wind that lashed at them. It was a silence with sharp edges that slid into and beneath the skin and won't let you bleed.

"I hate the rain." said Riley.

'Of course, he would.' Dominic thought, a surly look settling in his eyes. Riley hated everything although sometimes he wrote like he loved them.

"Well, I think it's beautiful." Dominic replied, with a touch of defiance in his voice.

"Oh really?" For the first time since they'd taken shelter at the bus stop ten minutes ago, Riley trained his eyes on Dominic, causing the boy to squirm in discomfort. While Riley had perfected his "down-and-out drunk" persona, an effective disguise as people's eyes would fall away from him like Dominic's did now, nothing he did could disguise his eyes. There was an intensity to them, like a million souls compressed into two gem-bright eyes, diamond-sharp and twice as hard. "Tell me why."

"What?"

Impatience flickered and faded into forced patience. "Tell me why you think it's beautiful."

Dominic's mouth opened and closed several times, a fish in a gray waterworld, and for a few minutes he looked as if he wanted to burst into a long speech about the beauty of the rainfall until he settled on a sullen "It just is."

Amusement could be lurking in Riley's voice, but Dominic couldn't be sure. "While sometimes I find that as good as answer as any, and sometimes the best, it's a bloody stupid thing in this instance. The rain is horrible, it covers everything in a gray curtain, not of death but of ghosts and mists. It always brings up a terrible smell, like when the first drops hit the ground it sizzles in trapped heat and sweat. Rain is of wet grass and earthmud, and it's so sodding wet." He finished with a smug smile that held challenge.

Dominic refused to look at the other man, his jaw clenched tight to hold back the spiteful words running through his head. It looked strange for Riley, the man that seemed so much like a bum that people on the street were ashamed to look at him, shame for his existence and for their own reluctance to pause in their busy lives to help, to have words slip so easily into his mind and off his tongue. This scruffy, unshaven drunk that Dominic disliked so much now could speak like he couldn't. It was as if all the beauty he was capable of was expended on his words.

"Fuck you." Dominic replied most eloquently.

"Succint. Brevity is something to strive for, but it's such a trite response." Riley had assumed that maddening "I expect better of you" expression.

"But that's the only thing you're getting!" Dominic rounded on him, a glare meeting Riley's eyes. "I've had enough of you, and your stupid lessons, and stupid challenges, and just leave me the fuck alone!"

"Why won't you just answer my question?"

"God, it's so easy for you that you wouldn't understand!" Dominic ran a hand through his still-damp hair. "I just... I just can't be like you, okay? I don't, sometimes, sometimes I can have these words, running in my head, and they're so beautiful they make everything beautiful, but they just... they won't... fuck! I can't form them into proper sentences, descriptions, and shit." Frustration nearly covered the quiet despair behind those words. But Riley caught it, because Riley had spent five days trying to pull that despair out and into the open.

"You think it's easy? Sometimes it is, sometimes it's not, don't you get that?" Riley struggled for patience, a virtue long unused. "Shit, do you know how many times I've crossed out words, lines, pages, drove myself mad just searching for that perfect word. Sometimes it doesn't come easily, and you have to dig, dig deep into yourself for that perfection." And sometimes, it's the only perfection you can offer to the world, but he didn't say that.

ii. sensory perception
iii. aftersight
iv. desperately seeking dominic
v. somnolence

2002-06-10T02:13:00.000-07:00

*groans* I'll write the rest of the prologue later. Am throwing The Radiance of A Thousand Suns WAAAAY into the backburner. Am still put out about the no-longer-original-concept part. Tituba did it waaaay better than I ever could anyway. *grumpily* Have an Aurorfic planned for Veteran's Day challenge (not that we celebrate that here, *grins* but we have our own war veterans!), said Aurorfic being tin soldiers. The "Imagine" part was supposed to be the epilogue but kinda sucked so off it went as a sort of intro. Or plug. Ooooh, plug!

Have lovely, lovely resources, and have lovely, lovely "Voldemort Years" thread for reference, and with poetry provided by Wilfred Owen, Tennyson, and Larkin. "Never such innocence again." is from MCMXIV (or 1914) by Philip Larkin.

Still have lots to figure out, most importantly the identity of the narrator in the prologue. Tossed around ideas as to how I would approach this story. Basic idea being the experiences of a young man during the Voldemort years, wherein he and his three brothers become Aurors and are thrown into the resistance. It's all sad and tragic since you KNOW the other two are going to die. I wanted to not make it ye olde typical warfic. I wanted it to be from the POV of two people, the old Auror, and his uh... young relative to whom he relates his story to. I wanted the contrast of the boy's innocence and the older man's experience. At first, I thought I would do it like, kid has assignment for History of Magic, and owls his ex-Auror uncle to tell him about it, and it's through the letters that the story is told. Then I thought it would just be from the Auror's POV. Then I said "to hell with it" and just wrote the first thing that came into my mind.

I don't even know what's going to happen with the story. I don't want it to be all looooong, and endlessly angsty. All I know is the other two are going to die.

*grumps* Need map of UKGB.

2002-06-10T01:24:00.000-07:00

Imagine.

A man sits in the darkest corner of a room filled with looming monoliths of the past, so still that the sound of a chair rocking covers his breathing. A figure creeps hesitantly through this maze, sometimes calling out, sometimes stomping to make noise in this quiet room. The man seems to not notice, only smiling blankly at nothing. The child walks past the rocking chair and viola case, and greets him.

They sit beside each other, the older telling stories, reading stories, with the child listening raptly.

The child becomes a boy, and one day the man tells the boy to sit on the rocking chair and to listen.

And the man begins a new story, a story he’s never told before.

Once… there were three brothers, as different as could be. The time came when they had to go to war.

And only one came back.

t i n . s o l d i e r s
Never such innocence again.

Prologue

I found him sitting in the darkest corner of the attic, hidden away behind Grandmother's rocking chair, the one that rocked on its own, and an old, dusty viola case. It was so quiet up here; you wouldn't know that there was a noisy reunion downstairs. No, up here there were only shadows, and dusty things, and the strangely frightening sound of rocking chair creaking was the only thing you could hear. Atmosphere, that was what he was all about.

When I was younger, I hated having to come up here. Walking through those old, old things that generations of my family couldn't bear to throw away, it was like walking through a graveyard, just as dark and as silent. We used to play hide and seek here, and I was always terrified that they would never find me up here, and they'd close the door and I'd be left behind. And that rocking chair scared me the most, not because I was afraid of the sound itself, but because I was afraid it would stop, and I'd never find him. The rhythmic rocking of wood was the only guide I had.

2002-06-09T00:28:00.000-07:00

Bloody hell! It is that awful Britney Spears song again. It always ruins my mood when I'm writing *groans* Just one last part, ONE LAST PART, and I'm done with "No Harm Done". And my brother is singing along, ye gods.

later edit: Now it's Aaron Carter. Now I'm not virulently anti-pop. I'm not the type to sneer at genres. But the songs ruin my concentration and when that happens, I am NOT A HAPPY PERSON.

AND HE'S SINGING AGAIN.

2002-06-07T08:02:00.000-07:00

Am writing another T/G fic. T/G is so easy to write. Dangit. I need Cho/Ginny inspiration! I want to at least finish "The Theory of Flight" No Harm Done, canon interpretation fic, The Chamber of Secrets in reverse. I really like the structure of the fic but inspiration kinda... got lost when I got to the part CLOSEST to the ending. It sucks, dangit. Have written temporary part for it, but will rewrite as soon as I get back the uber-angst mood.

Here's a snip:

There has been no lasting harm done, Ginny.

They thought they understood her fear, the way she would sometimes stop smiling in the middle of a conversation, her eyes going opaque.

They thought it would be fine, just a few months of care and loving attention, back in the noisy, happy Burrow, she'd be all better. Soon she'd forget, how a handsome boy stepped toward her and smiled and covered her eyes with his hands and told her to sleep. She'd forget the feel of paint red as blood dripping through her fingers, of thin, fragile necks between her hands. After all she never knew.

Didn't she?

Never trust anything that thinks for itself, if you can't see where it keeps its brain.

They thought she's learned, thought she knew better now.

Then again they had thought she knew better before.

But Ginny's not… Ginny hasn't been…

But that was the problem, you see. They always thought that Ginny couldn't. Wouldn't.

Even her.

…has she?

----------------------
Parts in italics are from the book.

2002-06-04T08:43:00.000-07:00

------------------------------
Drunk!Tom
or where Ginny gets some
------------------------------

"So let me get this straight... And I hope that we're clear that if there's ANYTHING, anything at all that I misunderstood, you can correct me." Ginny spoke in the slow, measured tones of one who is talking to the insane. Or the dangerously drunk. Or a dark wizard that just revealed his (ludricous) Master Plan. Or even all three. "You kidnapped me... because you wanted to lure Harry down the Chamber *again* and defeat him, and regain your position as Dark Lord of All Wizardom?"

A very inebriated Tom Riddle, who is incidentally, not at all transparent, and wraith-like, or dare we say memory-like, nodded, half-sneering, the other half having forgotten muscle control after the fifth case of butterbeer. "Yes, Virginia." Ginny bared her teeth at the mention of her full name. There were few people who could make a name, any name, synonymous to anything that deserves being sneered at, and said with all the derision exclusive to those in Slytherin. Tom was one of them, even drunk, and apparently getting his jollies out of making basilisk skin do a jig.

"Am I the only one who can see the flaws in that plan? Actually, yes, seeing's that we're the only two people down here, and it's obvious you don't with that stupid, insufferable, smug look on your face." So there. Virginia indeed.

"You do realize that answering your own question may make people doubtful of your sanity? Better not do it." Tom advised her seriously. Then he frowned and held up his hand, moving it in front of his face and focused all his concentration on it, as if it held all the mysteries of the universe.

Ginny was exasperated. THIS was the boy who had so completely controlled her that she still had nightmares of drowning in rooster blood and feathers. THIS was the feared Dark Lord. This was - Ginny paused in her mental rant. It occurred to her that she had yet to ask a most important question. "How are you still alive, anyway."

"Tut, tut, dear Virginia." It also occurred to Ginny that she really hated him. And that snotty way he said Virginia. "Why would I reveal this to you? So you may destroy me while I am battling Harry? No evil tyrant/dark wizard is stupid enough to do that. The Holy List* forbids it! Now be a good girl and shut up. And I'm not really ALIVE remember. I am a memory."

"And... that means the only way we can really destroy you... is to forget you?" A grin bright enough to shame Lockhart lit up Ginny's face.

He snorted. "Hardly. Don't think I wasn't made aware of that little Merlin-esque method of destroying gods."

"I remember the diary..." Ginny lapsed into silence. It stretched on until every second seemed like a year.

A curious thing about drunk Tom was that while he disapproved of Dark Lords foolish enough to reveal their master plan at the slightest hint of victory or interest, he was not averse to answering very specific questions, and he told her so. Anything was better than this boredom that had caused him to abandon his dancing basilisk skin.

"So... you plan to kill me, but you want to play Twenty Questions first?"

"It's a good way to pass the time as any!" He sniffed indignantly.

"Was the diary destroyed?"

"Yes."

"Oh great. Erm... was the ENTIRE diary destroyed?"

"No!" He smiled brilliantly. It must be said that Tom Riddle had a very charming smile. And as he was drunk, it was very sincere. It's enough to cause any girl to swoon, and even Ginny had to repeat "dear Virginia" to herself to keep from blushing.

"So this means a part of the diary... a part of the memories weren't destroyed?"

"Yes!" Dear Virginia. Dear Virginia. Dear Virginia.

"And... uh... was Lucius Malfoy involved in restoring you?"

"Right!" Dear- oh sod it all.

"I knew Harry shouldn't have given it back... grrr.... when Ron told me... wait... so how come you're drunk?"

A pointed look.

"Alright... your memories... so the part that wasn't destroyed... was... your memories when you were drunk?!"

He smiled at her benevolently, proudly, like a father to a daughter that had successfully cast Crucio on a small animal. Well this IS the future Lord Voldemort, thus descriptions must be suitably vile.

"Oh, this is bloody brilliant. No wonder you made suck a half-assed plan, if you can even CALL it that."

"Listen," Tom was testy, and drunkenness only served to make him more dangerous, due to his lack of self-control. "I just got tired of all the sodding business of making plans. See, I made all these grand plans, moving pieces like a chess game, so subtle, so diabolical, but then Potter comes strutting, rushing in with typical Gryffindor foolhardiness, or should we say, brainlessness, and foils it all, without a single plan at all! No, he goes in, all wand, and scar, and cannon fodder, but he STILL wins. So I figure that I'd give his method a try, and see if it works for me too. Can't hurt. I'm a memory after all. And if megalomania would work for anyone, it would work for ME."

Apparently, the only danger was that one would fall asleep during his long speeches, and hit his/her head should one do so standing or in some similar position of HNICWG (head not in contact with ground). Some people are cheerful and happy drunks. They smile, and sing, and prance. They don't pass out, so much as be knocked out by some irritated person. Others are noisy drunks and are stuffed in some closet. Others are maudlin drunks, capable of endlessly relating the story of his or her life, and his long litany of complaints the first of which was being born.

Unfortunately for Ginny, Tom is all three.

"Y'know it used to be all about cunning. And guile. And connections. And being more Machiavellian than your foe. Now it's all 'Fight Potter, fight.' No dignity anymore. Defeat at the hands of some short, runty, little kid with ugly glasses and an uglier scowl." Ginny's head began to ache when she realized that Draco Malfoy would probably sound like this when drunk, and resolved to stay as far away from him in such a situation as possible.

"Now, Dumbledore, THERE was an opponent. Funny old guy, quirkier and odder than cage full of drunken Cornish pixies, but he had that wise old wizard thing going for him. Merlin-like. It's the eccentric ones you watch out for. 'cause his power's all hidden and like... maybe I should contribute that to the list. Hah! They kept taunting me about that y'know."

Left with no other choice but to distract herself, or go mad, Ginny continued her own mental rant. I could have gotten Harry drunk. I could have someone who strips naked and dances on my lap. But NO, I get a drunken has-been evil wizard. Although I wouldn't mind seeing him strip naked. Or have him dance on my lap. He does look kind of... An evil gleam, worthy of instant Death Eather acceptance, appears in her eyes.

"Said I was some little upstart Dark Wizardling, and that I'd never be taken seriously as a Dark Lord if I couldn't add nothing to the list. 'Cause it takes experience. They kept sayin' 'Now look at Grindelwald. HE was a real Dark Wizard. Took one of the eccentric ones to get rid of HIM. Contributed at least FIFTY to the list. Well, I'M the one who was able to drive Dumbledore out of Hogwarts! Take that you old bastard!"

It has often been remarked upon, the amazing things a human, once faced with a situation of extreme danger, pressure, or boredom, can do. And it is even more amazing what one is willing to forget, or not listen to in such situations. For instance, that little voice in Ginny's head screaming at her for even daring to think what she was thinking. For you see, several things are occurring to Ginny. (A night for occurrences, isn't it?) One is that if Tom doesn't shut up soon, she will have to kill. Even if she had to strangle him with the basilisk skin to do it. Two is that in romance novels and movies, the poor hero, on the verge of imminent discovery by the bad guys because the heroine is ranting way too loudly**, has one surefire method of getting her to shut up. Of course this method always ends up with the hero getting slapped. And three, she was sure that Tom WOULDN'T slap her. Avada Kedavra her maybe, but it is not bloody likely that he got some as a student, or as a memory, and if she were him, she'd be DAMNED grateful. And four, that he was tangible, therefore snoggable.

It need not be mentioned that it is strange that Tom's state of er... tangibleness and therefore snoggability*** was the last thing that occurred to her.

With a poor attempt at a long-suffering look (it looked more like sinister lustfulness), Ginny uttered the lines handed down from the very first romantic hero to be slapped, to the very last.

"Tom, shut up." And she kissed him.

There are many ways we could describe this kiss, the way Tom froze like she'd cast Petrificus Totalus on him, how he got into it very quickly, how perfectly they seemed to fit against one another, how his hands tangled in her hair, and how he kissed her like he could never stop.

But that would be if they were in a romance novel. As it is, the thing most notable about this kiss is how enthusiastic Ginny Weasley was snogging Tom Riddle.

It definitely dispels all illusions about "sweet, innocent Virginia" in more ways than you know. (the virgin part for example... or soon enough it will be the way those two are going at it)

"A-hem. I'm sorry. I thought I was coming here to rescue Ginny, but it lookslikeyou’rebothbusysoI'lljustgoawayandmaybedrownmyself."

It certainly dispelled Harry Potter's conceptions of Ginny. Almost as fast as Harry removed himself from the Chamber.

In a show of amazing strength of will, Tom managed to pull himself away from Ginny.

"Was that Potter?"

"Why do you even care? Snog or Potter? Priorities, Tom, priorities."

"Right."

And they recommenced snogging.****

------------------------------------------

Somewhere else in Hogwarts Castle

"Hermione, what do you mean that Harry's experiencing delayed trauma and shock?"

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! I think I'm going blind!"

"That, Ron."

"I think we're experiencing it too."

"I agree."

Beat.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

le fin

1 Was butterbeer already a popular drink back then? Tom certainly seems to think so. Or remembers so.
*the Holy List being Do's and Don'ts of an Evil Overlord.
**and wouldn't you know it. The /woman/ always gets the hero in trouble forcing the hero to kiss her to get her to shut up. What a cheap attempt to force them together. Feh.
***it has been debated as to the proper grammatical form of this word, whether it is snoggableness, snogalicious, or even snogaliciousness.
****And no, Tom never slapped her. Or cast Crucio or Avada Kedavra on her. What he DID do to her will remain unprinted in order to protect the innocent from sexual corruption.

2002-06-03T07:31:00.000-07:00

*stares gloomily at the screen* I do NOT need new plot bunnies! Blasted Auror fics challenge! Away with you!

...y'know Dulce et decorum est is a good poem for it...

*groans and surrenders* Must have new piece for Lynn-chama-chama by tomorrow. Sayaka/Kesshin/HIkari piece.

2002-06-03T07:20:00.000-07:00

New layout featuring Haruhara Haruko from Furikuri (FLCL), with the image nabbed fron Deux dei. I know, I know, what the heck am I doing with a new layout, eh? I still love the Kenshin and Kaoru one but to be honest, I wasn't completely satisfied with how it turned out. And the scrollbar did not like it. The Scrollbar is Almighty and Powerful. It is my Master. So here we have the third version of knight errant, titled 'je ne sais quoi' appropriately enough because I didn't have a real theme in mind. Just had an idea on how it should look and went out and looked for an image from a series I hadn't used yet and found this one. Needed some more text and all and snooped a bit and found the very appropriate Hybrid Rainbow, part of the Furikuri soundtrack. Coincidence? I think not. And then there's the rather piratical terms I've been throwing around. I blame it on Pei Yi for leading me to that pirate name quiz. Dangit.

On other news... I must build a shrine to syrupjunkie. Artistic License is my fave FFnet column. Love it.

Must...resist...Sirius...songfic...Only the Good Die Young...

2002-05-22T21:36:00.000-07:00

late night paranoia

I come while you lie awake at night, afraid to breathe for fear of disturbing the silence that covers the room like a shroud. I sneak up on you, sending tendrils to creep and tangle around your body to tie you down on your bed. My web spans your body, it is IN your body, lattice veins of icy blood. I speak to you in sibilant whispers and your screams are part of my language of fear, your whimpers notes on the scales of chimes moving in the windless night.

I am the cold wind on a hot summer eve. I am your shadow that seems to move on its own. I am the brief image at the corner of yours eyes that makes you snap around only to see nothing. I am like a lover, your most faithful and constant lover, for I make your heart race, your breathing quicken, and my kiss is the brush of the night on your skin.

I am what keeps you from closing your eyes for fear of seeing monsters behind them, and what keeps you from opening them for fear of seeing them for real.

////////////////////////

Thus ends the bullshit. How many times have I used "sibilant"? And my grade school teachers would kill me for blatant ignorance of sentence structure, and grammar. What the fuck is a gerund again? I've forgotten all my grammar lessons. Gaaah, product of overly dwelling on May Day Eve (that stupid legend which creeps me out endlessly) I was so freaked when I first wrote that. I was trying to sleep but I couldn't because those words were running through my head, so I had to get up and write 'em down with a pencil. I was trying to exorcise my demons but I think I just scared myself more.

Will not post the second piece of crap. It was just me following Sean Connery's advice on Finding Forrester.

2002-05-22T21:21:00.000-07:00

This one is more along the lines of Papaver Somniferum, but more on comparison of addiction to drugs and to people than the outright SAY NO TO DRUGS theme of PS. It's just the start, got lost while attempting to elaborate on Ginny's thing for Potions. Ah well. Warnings with Harry/Ginny, Tom/Ginny and Cho/Ginny.

w i t h d r a w a l s y m p t o m s

It may surprise some people, but Potions has always been my favorite subject.

It's funny, but no one in the Weasley family has ever really *liked* Potions. Even Bill and Percy disliked it; Ron downright loathed it. It's not shocking really, Potions is the art of precision, the science of patience. It's the most sensory branch of all magical studies, one must distinguish the minutest difference between the hues of the potions, the scent of the ingredients of whether their freshness was proper for the mixture or not, the texture of herbs. It is a measured, methodical process. That old bat Snape was right about one thing. In Potions, you could grasp power in a mere vial, slim cylindrical death, or life.

But that power was never the allure of Potions for me.

Sometimes I wonder, what do you call someone who is addicted to addiction?

--------------------

And it's supposed to ramble *coughbullshitcough* about being addicted to addiction (?!) and how Harry Potter is her fairy tale, her dependency on Tom, and slight obsession with Cho.

In my hands, Ginny becomes a sick, twisted psycho.

Now another stupid, pointless, I-really-should-stop-calling-it-humor Sirius Black deal:

On the night before his 19th birthday, Sirius Black stood outside a noisy Muggle bar, holding a lit cigarette and cursing one San Tiller to a horrible and prolonged death as a dragon snack.

He glared at the entrance of the club, as if by the power of his stare alone, he could pierce through the thick walls and thicker crowd and treat Tiller to a stare as deadly as two on hours on a fucking COLD January evening could produce. He couldn't even cast a heating spell to warm his cold hands. Even though he knew that the people passing by were either high or drunker than the Three Broomsticks combined customers, he couldn't take the risk of his wand being seen, and he really wasn't in the mood to deal with the lewd jokes and proposition he'd get from THIS crowd.

He lifted his cigarette to his mouth and took a long drag, his gaze still fixed on the doors of the bar. Men and women went in and out, and it was those departing that he paid special attention to. A steady stream of people exited the club, and each time the doors opened, it let out a blast of heat and music. Occasionally, someone would approach him, drawn by the dark hair, sullen eyes, and the sulky set of his lips, but a scowl would send them away, leaving them more intrigued.
---------------------transmission interrupted

I hate the last paragraph. Was going okay but then it became annoyingly jarring. Oooh, I hate typical character descriptions. Still have a lot to improve on my writing style. Feh. It's become added to the long line of fics that are unofficially part of "The Misadventures of Sirius Black" thing. With Aid and Abet (the motorcycle fic). I'm too addicted to him for my own good. He's supposed to track down this guy that stole this magical artifact thingie... *grins evilly* that we all know from the books, but of course it's still an experimental thing. Bwahahaha! Let's just say that it will save his life later. Oh! And Sirius/Ep2-Anakin comparisons abound on the Sirius thread! And I brought up Remus/Obi-Wan. Silly me.

Have two non-fanfic pieces. Stupid as hell.

2002-05-22T21:00:00.000-07:00

*guilty look* I HAVE been writing. But am also thinking of changing the layout again. Too... un-scroll-friendly. Have five snippets. Will post one now. It's Tom/Ginny, and with my typical abstract bullshit style.

s o m e w h a t d a m a g e d

So broken, so needy.

She wanted to laugh at the reflection in the mirror, but she slammed her fist against it instead.

She wondered why it didn’t hurt more.

She appreciates it, the aesthete in her, in Tom, marveling at the picture shards of broken glass and a bleeding hand could make.

Striking. Painful. But so beautiful. It was an image so poetic, so disturbingly exquisite

They’d always known how to make art.

so impressed with all you do
tried so hard to be like you
flew too high and burnt the wing
lost my faith in everything

She smiled all the time now; everyone noticed it. Smiled even when she got detention for not paying attention during Potions. Smiled even when word got out that Harry Potter had been rejected by Cho Chang again. Smiled even when she held shattered glass in her hand.

Everyone thought that it was just another fantasy of the Boy Who Lived.

Everyone was wrong.

That was because everyone didn’t hear that little song in her head, the one that whispered “I’ve got a secret.” No melody, no tune, just the secret hymn echoing.

lick around divine debris
taste the wealth of hate in me
shedding skin succumb defeat
this machine is obsolete

Thrill; that was the word.

That was the word for the shiver that took hold of her, skittering up and down her spine, dancing on curved ivory.

She thought she liked it; it came to her whenever that secret teased her mind, always coming with a laugh that sounded like his and hers joined in dissonance, and that small smile that curved coral lips. A smile too adult on such a young girl.

Such a young girl.

made the choice to go away
drink the fountain of decay
tear a hole exquisite red
fuck the rest and stab it dead

She knew they knew.

Harry would glance at her, sometimes, fleeting looks that once would have made her heart race, cheeks flush, and stutters fall from her mouth. She just smiled, and he would flinch.

But she wanted more from him, always had, more than he’d ever given her. She wanted his hand to rise up and touch his forehead, his curse mark.

Sometimes she saw his hand involuntarily twitch to move upwards.

Hermione’s eyes would fall away from her face whenever she smiled. Then she would look at Ron, always to Ron.

Ron tried to talk to her once, and all she said was “What’s the matter? Don’t you want me to smile?”

Stupid thing to say.

But Tom liked her smile.

Because it was his.

And Tom hated her smile.

Because it was hers.

broken bruised forgotten sore
too fucked up to care anymore
poisoned to my rotten core
too fucked up to care anymore

Because he knew what it meant when she did.

She was thinking about her secret.

It was simple really. Something she’d known since she had been a child, so new at Hogwarts. And it was enough to delight her through months, and years of waiting for him. Waiting until she could tell him.

Tom hated her.

Tom had spoken harsh, cruel words, contemptuous of the naïveté of the child that had trusted him, of how weak she had been. To him, she was tool, a vessel, to be used and discarded. He’d postured about how worthless she was, how little he regarded her, so insignificant.

Oh she’d memorized them now, over and over, he’d said them. Theme and variation. As if the first fifty times had not convinced her. And it hadn’t.

Because he hated her.

broken bruised forgotten sore
too fucked up to care anymore
poisoned to my rotten core
too fucked up to care anymore

2002-05-09T02:25:00.000-07:00

original works swimming in head. can't deal. v. messed up right now. one of those "everything i've written is tripe" moments. will pass. should pass. has to pass. fuck melodrama.

- daguerreotype - college kid does project for some class (hum?) has to find out what happened to people in certain pictures. he/she picks daguerreotype. have already done research.
- on a similar note to the above, another assignment, pick a day, list all events that happened to it (not to person doing it) and write about it. more stylistic than anything else.
- daniel and armand talk about the original sin, one of my typical abstract pieces daresay allegorical?
- fascinating concept of sin and absolution of sin, blame it all on the inferno and the memory that won't die. memory of report in english class about the logician demon, and poor da montefeltre/o

remember to blame mia for the link to inkstigmata.net and subsequent discovery of "muse" dogma/azrael fic that blew my mind. writing is the best mindfuck EVER. must re-read "the isolation of comprehension" again and go on another "will never be this good" trip.

problem is I'm not mature enough. I don't know enough about life. I am the ultimate poser. Now everyone get off the self-pity trainwreck and I blame hunger for such sad thoughts. Have only eaten peanut butter sandwich. HUNGRY.

2002-05-07T07:48:00.000-07:00

It was on my yawn that I tasted the smoke that had gathered and swirled behind lips. Afterwhispers of long-killed fires that continued to burn inside my mind, fueled by paranoia at the heart of which is fear not black but the pure blue of the core of candlelight.

Swallow and savor the aftertaste of burnt ashes. It is of dry leaves and sun glares. Soot-marked, it tastes so... gray. Insidious. It calls up the memory of dark trees backlit by flames over the gate. It's molten orange-gold, a color that blazes in mind and night. Won't remember the scene, the words, it's already faded, blurred to indistinct sounds that was once panic watered to worry by mere minutes and the promise of safety. But the color is trapped behind lids that won't close for fear of a third burning, and blazes in each blink.

But it will pass, this I know. It won't be long before time and life brush it away to forgotten dead fields, burning slowly beneath the cover of mast, to blaze when least expected. Mortality will be forever associated with fired gold with the backdrop of night.

I tasted fear, and it was like smoke.

2002-04-30T05:47:00.000-07:00

l e a f w i n d

one heart.

they are weeping, weeping, weeping. the man for having lost someone, the boy for having been lost.

two souls

a pulsing rhythm. like heartbeat.

one heartbeat.

it echoes even in their pain, lancing through as scarlet lightning, a searing red behind their eyelids. his eyelids. only one. but both see and feel.

two souls.

a collision of pain, of memory. of souls.

Had to get it out. All confusing and angsty. It's all Fushigi Yuugi's fault *hears groans* I KNOW it's not the best anime/manga, but shit, it knows how to tug at one's heartstrings. It's not the moments concerning the big characters though, it's the scenes with the minor ones, Rokou and Chiriko. Miaka was trying to suck the poison out of Taka, but since the poison causes Taka to feel pain when one of Suzaku (miko/seishi/memory stone) touches him, he isn't exactly the most docile of patients. Nuriko tries to hold him, and asks for Rokou's help but Rokou is just scared. Chiriko gets pissed (HE IS SO COOL! I can't believe I'm squealing so much over a thirteen year old boy. Who is dead. And looks about seven.) and tries to take over Rokou's body saying that if Rokou won't step forward, then HE will make him. But err... I forgot who said it, I think it was Chichiri who said that Chiriko could not enter a body that has not opened it's heart. Chiriko and Rokou are hurt by it, and Chiriko is thrown out of Rokou's body. He is crying and says that Rokou is alive, and he has the chance to DO something, even though he claims that he doesn't have the strength. Chiriko then says that Rokou should give HIM his body because Chiriko is willing, but doesn't have the physical body to do it.

So I want to write that scene, explore what happens, what those two felt, what those two saw, what Rokou realized. After all, their two souls have come in contact.

Then I'll do an epilogue scene with Rokou visiting Chiriko's family.

W00T! (I don't even know what that means. Net-people and their slang.)

INSPIRATION!!!!! I've found you in the form of a cute and cuddly seishi by the name of Chiriko!

I just need a title. leafwind is nice and all but it's not appropriate. one song soul duet. Hrm.... souls in counterpoint

Chiriko is cute, that is all I can say.

OOOOOH! Second Chiriko fic! Inspiration again! Must kidnap him to be muse... NOW I can use leafwind. A Chiriko and Amiboshi fic. Which would be fun if you know FY and their story (despite their non-contact with each other except for that ONE scene)

2002-04-27T07:54:00.000-07:00

Matters of Consequence, the 2nd Quarter CWJ requirement I never finished *looks nervous* Hope my teacher doesn't know about this blog. Anyway, our requirement was to write a short story. Some wrote romance, one friend (my seatmate, and partner in crime during CWJ class, WHY ARE YOU GOING TO UP MANILA ARTHEA?! We got close in senior year, then you go off up UP Manila! *screams*) wrote a Tagalog, modern version of El Filibusterismo. I persuaded her to write in a character named Noelle *snickers* who ended up marrying Isagani. *snickers madly* I luff yew Arthea! And I wanted to write a quirky, funny piece about this idea that I had. What if a modern-day psychiatrist met the Pilot from "The Little Prince"? I broached the idea to my friends (the most frequent response was... "Oh. Good." I BLOODY hate that! And I despise "It's OK." How...how... unspecific!) and my teacher, who asked me "What do you intend to happen with this story?" *harrumphs*

Instead of the light, funny piece I wanted, with the nearly driven insane shrink, and cameo by his ODD daughter, I got *this* piece of crap. *grins* But at least I got a 97 on it (originally, but 10 points were deducted from it because I was late in submitting it. Told you I was lazy) My teacher is just too generous with grades. But I think it was the poem that did it. I submitted that poem to the school newsmag but it got rejected (even after the ed-in-chief recommended it... that would be Arthea, the seatmate and partner in crime)

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tears as precious as pearls

silver paths
like the caress of the moon
sweet, like the kiss of the night
salty, like the taste of the sea
tangy, like the subtle bite of fruit

like the barest whisper of the stars

I stared down at the page in frustration. I rubbed my fingers against my temples; my lips pursed as I struggled with the next line.

“…Like the feather touch of the night breeze?”

There. That sounded good. I picked up my pen and wrote it down, the silence broken by the scratch of the tip against paper, more musical to me than anything.

I inhaled deeply, and slumped back into my seat, noting absently that the squeak had been fixed. To the outside observer it would seem like I was waiting. But for what? Inspiration that would never come?

“Is this what they call writer’s block?”

I sighed, and shook my head, fighting down the urge to laugh bitterly. Of course it couldn’t be writer’s block. I’m not a writer. Not even close. Just a fool looking up at a field of stars and wishing to hear them sing.

With a burst of frustration, I slammed my pen down on my desk, and watched it roll. Roll, roll, roll over to the edge. So close, will you fall off? God, I felt sorry for my patients. They got a psychiatrist who was even more neurotic than they were.

Hanging over the precipice, on the brink of the chasm of obli-

“Do you always stare at your pen so?”

The voice broke through my concentration, and I brought my head up to see an amused young man looking at me. The moment I looked away from the pen, it fell over the edge with a clatter.

I felt my eyes narrow, and struggled for composure. Just because I knew I was fraying at the edges, it didn’t mean complete strangers had to. I succeeded, and my tone was simply mild. “Oh, it’s you again.”

“Careful there, some people might get the impression that you don’t welcome patients.” He was leaning back against the wall beside the door. How had he managed to do that without alerting me? You would think that I would be able to hear my own door opening!

I could still remember the first time I saw him here, in this room. I had just been returning from lunch, when my receptionist, a temp from an agency, told me that there was a patient waiting for me in the room. Irritated, I told her that patients were never allowed into my office before me. She tried to look properly ashamed but failed, with that small smirk dancing around her mouth. God, I really needed a permanent receptionist.

Finally I asked her about which patient it was. Her smirk grew into a full grin.

“The Pilot, doctor.”

“A Mr. Pilot?” I must have misheard.

“No doctor, he-“ I could tell she was trying to keep from laughing. “He says he’s the Pilot. You know sir, from the Little Prince.”

I had tried not to groan. God they got loonier all the time. I wondered about the woman’s reaction. Would she call up her best friend as soon as she got home and regale her with tales of what went on in the Psychiatrist’s office? Or would she ring her mother to ask for some money so she could quit this job, which required her to interact with whackos. If only I could do the same.

As I stepped into my office, I wondered briefly whether or not this was my ex-wife’s attempt to get back at me. Perhaps one of those “When Hidden Cameras Attack!” pranks?

At first I did not see anyone, but as I crossed the room to my desk, a voice made me pause.

“What lies beyond a field of stars?”

The question infuriated me; convincing me all the more that it was just a prank. No one but my parents and my ex-wife would ever ask me such a question. I rounded on the speaker and found myself gazing at a most unusual man.

He wore a flight jacket, obviously in need of a good wash. Hell even better, ditch the ruddy thing completely! A pilot’s wings were pinned over his left breast, and a scarf was draped over broad shoulders. He wore tan, fitted trousers, and high boots. His clothing spoke of a man long-traveled. All in all, my Pilot looked disreputable and dusty.

In the face of such unusual circumstances, my stress over the upcoming legal battle with my ex-wife, I suppose I could hardly be blamed for being rather abrupt with him.

“Who the bloody hell are you?”

Perhaps abrupt may not be the appropriate word for my manner.

“Is that how you greet all your clients? Just call me Pilot.” He answered cheerfully. Great, I seemed to have amused him. Perhaps I should charge him extra for entertainment services.

“I beg your pardon. You disconcerted me there, you have my apologies.” I gestured for him to take a seat, but he chose to keep his position, leaning against a wall. It irritated me but I shrugged it off. Doctors must never show such irrationality of manner towards patients, current or future.

“I seem to recall asking you a question.” That caught me off-guard. Were we back to that ridiculous-

“Doctor?” His voice was odd. He spoke with an unusual accent, rather French at times, but sometimes lapsing into the clipped accents of a British citizen. I groaned inwardly; I had played the Guess-the-Accent game with my daughter enough times to never want to do so with a complete stranger ever. He prompted me again. Frowning, I strode to my chair and seated myself, studying him intently over clasped hands.

“What lies beyond a field of stars?” I asked him as if I didn’t know very well what he had said earlier. I’d certainly asked that question in my childhood often enough myself. When I’d been a younger, more imaginative child, I’d always seen the sky as a field of stars. And I always believed that something lay beyond it. Heaven? I’d always imagined it as a place where all the angels would dance around and sing. Sing a song of miracles, of beauty.

Of dreams.

I didn’t want to answer. I had none.

“I’m sorry, I only have a few minutes to talk with you. Perhaps next time, you might schedule a proper appointment with my receptionist out there? I normally make the first consultation free of charge, but since our first meeting is so short, I’ll make the second appointment free as well. For now, tell me about yourself.”

He met my gaze unwaveringly; I could see his eyes were dancing with amusement. “Answer my question first.”

The nerve! Everything about him set me off, from his voice to his impertinent questions.

When I had been a child, I had dreamed of being a writer. My first love was literature, and I was convinced that I had been gifted by God with a facility for words. But eventually, after finally realizing how harsh reality was on dreams, I abandoned my course on writing for Psychology. The same way I finally understood what lay beyond a field of stars.

I looked at him calmly, and said in my blandest tone, “Nothing. Nothing lies beyond a field of stars.”

The sound of a passing truck sounding its horn caused me to look at the wall clock over the Pilot. His time was up, I realized with a feeling of… relief? Apprehension? Was I glad that my time with this exasperating, unusual oddball was over?
-------------------------------------------------------
My LORD that was stupid. I think I'll rewrite it as the funny piece instead (assuming that I can WRITE humor) Or to be more honest, I will write the psychiatrist as me.

Feedback? Feed the writer, yeeeees, feed the writer! And that poem never got any feedback when I posted it here either. *grins*

2002-04-27T07:29:00.000-07:00

Here we go again with Natsumi's self-confession posts.

I want to outline what I want to say lest I forget them. Being the random person that I am, they're all unrelated, and just some thoughts I've had in my mind.
1. why I constantly put myself down (journeys of self-discovery crap)
2. when I was young, I wrote crappy stuff
3. I think I'm in love with Daniel. VC Daniel. Drunk Daniel.

Now, why do I constantly put myself down? It's because I'm afraid of coming across as too arrogant, too conceited, too self-confident. Do you know what I am? A poser. That's right, a poser. I once wrote this thing, The Escapist. It wasn't very cathartic for me because I didn't get everything out. My life wasn't all angst, and that story ended with suicide. See, I was 7 years old when reading became a hobby. What did I start reading? The Sweet Valley series. I read and read and read. I never really ventured into reading classics. So I was never any child prodigy, I was never any smart, bookworm-ish child. What I had was a good memory, and the luck of the devil himself. I threw myself into that fantasy world, distancing myself from my classmates. They all thought, yo, she reads a lot, she's smart. Riiight. Just because I learned to speak English fluently from that and (apparently) talked with an American accent (*gags* what is with the people who said that?) they all thought I was smart. And I believed them. So I had this whole isolated world, drifting from crowd to crowd every year, and not really having GOOD, TRUE friends. I could throw big words around which I got meanings from just from their context. But god, not to put down the SV series, but you gotta admit, it's not exactly classic literature. Feh. I was lazy, and used reading as an excuse. Since then, I've never developed the discipline to have a good study schedule. I got decent grades without even really working for them. I got way too used to just getting by gettine a line of 9 now and then. I never challenged myself. Because I was too afraid that I wouldn't make it, that I couldn't really do it. And it all comes down to me lacking the discipline to be a good student. I was lazy! I never studied. I read instead because I wanted to do it. Never mind responsibility! That is how much I suck ladies and gentlemen.

So I got lucky and discovered that hey! I can write! Great, following in Elizabeth Wakefield's footsteps. And I was good at it! Not great, not spectacular! Just good. So I got into the Theresian mag, but it was more of a self-affirmation thing, an ego boost, not an actual responsibility that I took seriously. So I went through high school, all comfortable with my niche, I was the bookish, writer-ly type (which sometimes got abused... if I had a dollar everytime someone asked me to write their paper for them...) I was convinced that I was *good*. But you know what? I never really submitted anything for publishing (will explain more on that later) Then I was confronted with others just as good, and most likely better than I was. It threw me off, made me doubt, made me hide. So instead of rising to the challenge, I just throw out these self-deprecating comments. Because then everyone will think "oh, how humble". I guess what I do is best explained by the answer I gave to a friend who asked me why I never tried for the debate team. They said I was good at that, but when I got a good look at what they really did, I doubted I would last (not very thick-skinned) I said "Well, as long as I never try out, there's always this uncertainty, right? People will continue to think that I'm good and just never tried out because of prior commitments, rather than be certain that I just suck at it." And that's what I'm all about. Uncertainty. I never did handle rejection and discouragement well.

I have this huge stage fright. I am scared of venturing out into groups and even Net communities for fear of being mocked. I'm deeply afraid that my writing just won't measure up. For Kagetai, I just squirrel away what I've written. And I rely on "Oh-what-the-hell" attitude before I put anything up. I think I got too comfortable with the anonymity the Net can give. So now, I'm going to go to a university where the people are just as good and are MUCH better.

Boy, I just broke my personal record for the longest post that made no sense!

Right then, I think I may skip the when I was young, I wrote crappy stuff, til I get ahold of my old notebooks where I wrote my ideas down.

Off to Danny then. Danny, Danny, Danny. Reporter boy. I think I love him. I will always have a special place in my heart for the Beautiful One (portrayed by the dead sexy Brad Pitt *swoon*) but I connect more with Daniel. I mean he's a *writer*. I can give him writing-related angst! And he's such a... cheerful, modern, amusing character! And the whole Armand thing... is that boy in love with death or what? So now I'm more intrigued by Armand/Daniel than I am by Lestat/Louis. And he's a drunkard! Or was!

Heh, I'm not making any sense. But you've gotta love someone who hitched a one-way trip to hell.

But just what the fuck is *ash* blond? Having lived in a country populated by brunettes, I'm afraid that I can't really visualize the description. Am I to assume that it's a grayish sort of blond?

Some resolutions: I will write something every day. I've always been bloody lazy. Buttglue, buttglue man! Talent is long patience as someone once said!

Next post, Matters of Consequence snippet. I will FINISH that if it kills me!

2002-04-25T03:42:00.000-07:00

Testing, testing, checking out our new blog layout! See, it's Kenshin and Kaoru! Okay so the layout sucks oranges, but I'm too lazy to change it. And the info thingie was just copied off the previous layout. I'll rewrite it next time. Online pre-enlistment had a NASTY effect on me. I think I hallucinated my mother telling me that my new PE was ice skating. WHAT?

I'm depressed. Looks like my idea The Radiance of A Thousand Suns isn't very original anymore. Tituba wrote Unforgivable, a sort of short version on how the Unforgivable Curses were created. At least my fic will be longer, so I won't be accused of copying it, and I certainly posted about this idea long before the fic was posted but it's just so frustrating! I really thought I had an original idea now I have... nothing. Dammit. And I had a fantastic ending scene for Ambrose. *grins evilly*

2002-04-24T07:40:00.000-07:00

When was the last time you woke up to the sweet sound of owls hooting? Huh? Huh?

Hah, I thought so.

In retrospect, Hermione probably should have taken their unexpected owl wake up call as a sign that this was going to be a stranger than usual day. But "usual" bears some proper definition as does strange when you consider that Hogwarts was the focal point of all things bizaare, from poltergeists, to disappearing staircases, to Professor Snape. Still, however strange Hogwarts is to those unused to its... unique charm, the student body had never before been treated to such a cacophonic, eardrum-shattering rendition of school song, excepting that one time when Ebenezer, an unfortunate young Hufflepuff, had an accident. All they got out of the temporarily defeaned boy were "musical charm" and "Valentine". Beautiful. symphonic, auditorily pleasant... everything the endless hoots of what seemed to be all the residents of the Owlery was not. Especially not when it began at 2:20 AM and kept up 'til the many a student ran off to the Infirmary due to bleeding ears.

At first, Hermione had thought it had been nothing more but a prank by the twins, but when a battered Weasley (Fred or George, they couldn't really tell) finally shouted to the mob attacking him that it wasn't their doing, they had no choice but to believe him. After all, the twins were too proud of their own cleverness not to claim responsibility for such an act, and prized their own survival to perpetuate something that caused a grumpy, half-asleep crowd to cast hexes galore on them.

So it was a VERY vexed Hogwarts student body that stomped off to their respective classes, barely able to keep awake, excepting the fortunate ones in History of Magic, put to sleep by Binns' lullaby-like (well they were sleepy!) droning. Rumors spread like a detonated dumgbomb as to who could have been responsible for the morning serenade. Some claimed that it had REALLY been the twins, only they were too afraid to admit it now, others said that it had Slytherin all over it, popular opinion was on Peeves, but certain students maintained that it was really Longbottom's fault. Not that anyone was actually going to admit it, unless the unfortunate soul had a death wish. The Hogwarts students, especially those with Double Potions (for Snape had been sadistically tormenting them that day) were out for revenge. Only a total fool would own up when faced with the wrath of students kept fueled through the day by only Pepper Up potion and murderous rage.

So it was rather surprising when, in the middle of the Hogwarts library in-between classes, complete with shocked gasp, pale face, and wide eyes, Ron Weasley announced, "It was my fault!

Fool indeed.

the oracle complex - because Ron REALLY should know better.

Formerly "A Comedy of Errors", this fic is ANOTHER lame attempt at humor (the other being the Sirius/Harry/motorcycle fic, please don't take that as pairings because then I'd have to shoot myself. It remains untitled as of this moment but I'm considering Aid and Abet, and maybe Joyride, or SOMETHING. Help!)

I love Ron, I do, but I needed a scapegoat for this fic, and his number was up... besides it's all in good R/H fun, even more H/G mocking fun, and even MORE Cho/Ginny fun. It's all good!

I wish I was better at humor. I wish I was witty. I wish I can recall whether or not I should be using was or were. But I can't even be sure whether or not I used complex properly.

With me having used it? Probably not.

2002-04-23T06:22:00.000-07:00

I haven't even *started* on First Blood, yet I'm researching for stuff for The Radiance of a Thousand Suns. I have decided to make Hector a child prodigy. A brilliant and utterly gentle soul. He'll create the Cruciatus Curse. Basileus is as intelligent as Hector, only more strong-willed and filled with resentment. I think he wants to run away from the wizarding world because of how his family was treated after Hector created the Cruciatus and goes mad. I don't know what particular period to put him in yet, but I might write him prior to Hector or after him. Could be that his creation of the Imperius Curse was what built the family fortune and ensured their high-standing in the wizarding society. A long line of brilliant and powerful wizards and all. Rags to riches kind of story? Then there's Ambrose. He is the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts. He creates the Killing Curse.

I want to write one of them into the time period of the Black Plague. I want the wizarding society to approve of the Imperius Curse first (or something) One of them will be in the turn of the century period. Possibly Basileus or Ambrose, but I could also put Ambrose during the 1940s and become one of Grindelwald's supporters and even one of those actively working against him. Who knows? All the thoughts are jumbled in my head, and I can't even explain WHY I would think the wizarding society may even approve OF the Imperius Curse (on another note, it's also possible that they could see the Killing Curse as a necessary evil, since even Aurors are allowed to use 'em during desperate times.)

I think I am in love with Basileus. I want to coddle Hector, and I want to kick back and watch Amrose teach. Incidentally, Ambrose could also be the start of why people would think that the DADA position is cursed. Actually I was thinking of writing a humorfic based on that idea (except it's all Sirius' fault. *grins* young!Trelawney and MWPP pranks. What fun.)

There is this strange guy named Wolfgang who is haunting me. He's like this spirit that wants to be given a solid and tangible form. He wants to be in a new world. I want to shove him into Providence, and make him one of the agents, but he demands to be THE main character. He wants something supernatural horror-ish, but he refuses to listen when I tell him I can't write it. He is mean. I think I'll go back to pimping Basileus out. He not only has a cool name (Basileussss!) he is DAMNED sexy. I feel bad for Hector, he will be the one most tormented in TRoaTS. I also think that there is a quote from Einstein I can use. We'll see.

2002-04-21T03:22:00.000-07:00

*squeeeeeeeeee*

Right-o, will probably make a Kenshin and Kaoru layout. Must come up with it soon because I am completely blocked. In layouts AND in writing. I can't even write snippets, and I did so want to write this awesome ficlet idea I had for a Ginny/Cho thing. I want to mock those awful characterizations of Cho and Ginny, specifically slutty!Cho (really, what is UP with this? She turned HARRY down because she was going with CEDRIC to the Yule Ball. Does that sound like a slut to you? If she *was*, wouldn't she have strung Harry along?) and crybaby!Ginny (she was eleven, and had just come from dealing with Tom Riddle [and *survived* it, might I add] of course she was crying! But come on, someone with SIX brothers, especially with brothers like Fred and George, would have learned to be able to handle herself). 'Tis all good and angsty and all very fun. *mad giggling* Oh yes, giggly!Ginny. I will have to write that Mary-Cho and Ginny-Sue fic someday.

*recalls why she was squee-ing in the first place* Check out Hellsing.nu. I think I'm in love *__* with Integral-sama! (okay, she's female, but damn, she rocks!) AlucardxIntegral! Someone write thiiiiis. Check out the Alucard fanart too... and the Walter fanart. One sexy mofo. *fangirl squeal* But no one can beat Integral-sama!

Bwahahahahaha! Oh yes, fic recommendation Two Worlds and In Between by Minerva McTabby. Meet the students of Hogwarts in the year 1855, Albus Dumbledore, Aberforth Dumbledore, and Julius Marvolo. Fantastic storyline, featuring an all-boys Hogwarts, wizards duels (YESSSH! and it's for status, man!) and elving.

Hrm... lunar calendar for 1977...

2002-04-17T02:40:00.000-07:00

ATTENTION (the two or three of you that read this blog)
knight errant will be no longer be hosted on this space. The wonderful April offered to host me on her domain. The new URL will be http://www.spin-edge.net/errant. Please change all links accordingly. To celebrate the move (byebye ads) I'll be making a new layout (*much howling is heard in the background*)

Thank you.

This is what hunger, lack of sleep, and a desperate craving for Coke does to me. I sound like a zombie. A cute zombie but an undead creature that eats brains (*puke*) nonetheless.

Why can't I ever have conversations with my muses like G and Mia. They have cool muses. Mine are horrible and resentful, because I kidnapped some of them. Especially Mikagami who's still trying to figure out how I got around the restraining order he had on me. He's so anal, isn't he cute? Desperation and fear does wonderful things for those baby blues of his. *sadistic cackling*

I just answered my question, didn't I?

2002-04-13T04:09:00.000-07:00

*glares* Can anyone recommend a decent Lodoss War site? So far I know the basics for Ashram and Beld, but I don't know nearly enough for me to be comfortable in looking over the fic.

2002-04-13T04:04:00.000-07:00

Hrm.... another discussion on FictionAlley Park caught my attention: on why first person POV is often misused and badly written.

My gut reaction is to flinch, because I'm guilty of using first person POV quite a lot, and usually in angst fics. I use first person POV a lot in what I've written (non-HP fiction included) I can't say I write it well because I'd be biased if I said that. But yes, in one of my earliest works in fanfiction, I used a first person POV, because it was more of an exploration of the character rather than an actual story with plot. (Still Waters Run Deep, even if others see it for the piece of crap it is, I still love it, because that fic was what made me fall in love with writing.)

In one of the (two *snickers*) HP fics I've written, I used a first person POV, again sort of a character study but it wasn't ABOUT the character who was speaking. The 'speaker' in the fic was describing/talking about/talking to another person. In the end, the fic revealed more about the other character than the speaker. So why write it in the point of view of the character I used, and not the actual object of the fic? Because said object was not the type to go into long soul-baring descriptions of himself. Do you honestly see Tom talking about how he became so corrupted was probably because of how he was lost and abandoned and crap? It doesn't suit.

So Ginny was the one who talked instead, with all those stupid metaphors and whatnot.

I liked what the poster said about why she disliked the first person POV. Yes it comes across as kind of... uuuuuugh, melodramatic when you read a character going "I felt as though he had stabbed me with a million knives."

"That's parody. No, the power of first person pov in angst is in laying bare the facts, in such a way that the reader feels the pains without being told it."

I see her point. Do I fall into the same trap? Probably. I'm going to take a long brutal look of what I've written before, and tear 'em into little itty-bitty pieces. *fierce grin*

My standards for a good first person POV fic is simple enough. The fic has to draw me in, draw me in so completely that even if I'm so different from the character written, I can empathize and even identify myself with him/her. Because why use a devise that is so emotionally open if you don't really intend for your character to be understood? So next post, I'm going to feature one fic of mine to criticize and analyze and tear apart.

Oh and someone reviewed Airborne, and another Mnemosyne's Lamp. I feel guilty for neglecting Mnemosyne's Lamp. Now that is one is going to be uberangsty and uberdark.

2002-04-12T22:37:00.000-07:00

Ooooh! FF.net columns! I generally don't read 'em but the new ones are really interesting!

syrupjunkie's Artistic License is the voice which all of us non-conventional, experimental style writers can express our loathing for grammar sticklers. Grammar is important and I've winced my way through many a story with bad "grammer" and incorrect spelling (my main irritation is the misuse of homonyms) but sometimes, the author *knows* proper grammar, but foregoes certain rules for the sake of style/atmosphere/effect.

In conclusion, I love and worship this columnist.

Khaydarin9's Shining Armor is sort of a guide for those writing fantasy (fan)fiction. Perfect for The Bound Word (Yorke, stop sniggering!) I remember the days when I wrote this piece of crap fantasy story of mine. *smirks* I even had a videogame planned for it (yes, a videogame! Dream high, reach for the stars and all that) I went through so many story plans... eventually I gave up on all of them. I really need to wait for myself to mature, and for my writing to mature with me. Sometimes I look back on how AWFUL I was when I started out (*winces at Ange*)

But I love all my works, crappy or not.

2002-04-12T06:27:00.000-07:00

HOLY DIPSHIT!

Rabid plot bunny bites again!

Having dropped my recluse status, and ventured out of lurkerdom in the Flame of Recca ML, I made a post about fandom stuff, how I hoped that the end of the manga would mean fresh plot ideas (since we don't have to worry about contradicting anything mentioned in the manga later on) and other stuff.

I'd been toying with crossing a series over with Chrono Cross. Not *actually* cross it over, but use the very interesting premise Chrono Cross is based on. There are certain pivotal moments in a story, where one event, a life and death situation perhaps, could change the entire story. Like say... a certain character is faced with death. This is where the worlds split. In one world, the character dies, certain events occur because of this, like this character was supposed to avert nuclear war, hence this war goes on and the world is destroyed and few mutated humans survive. In another world, this character lives, averts nuclear war, saves the day, they all live happily.

In Chrono Cross, the protagonist, Serge is this cause for the split of two worlds. In one world, he drowns. In another... he lives. And because he had a very important part to play in the world where he drowned, he was pulled from HIS world, and into that world where he is essentially dead. There's this whole crap about the Frozen Flame, and Kid Ashtear/Schala Zeal, and being the Assassin of Time but I haven't actually gotten that far in the game so what the fuck do I know?

But it's interesting ne? In the Rekka no Honoo world, many such possible split points exist.

And I was bitten by one of them. One such variation was already written by the brilliant Bottou-chan: The Wrong Father, wherein Recca is found by Mori Kouran, and Kurei is found by Hanabishi-san.

Now... what if... (I just love what-ifs)... in our world, Mifuyu Mikagami died, trying to protect Tokiya and the Ensui. But what about in another, different world... it had been Tokiya who had died instead of Mifuyu? Tokiya was a central part of the defeat of Kouran in his world, so he is PULLED into that other world, in order to play it.

It may have been done before, and it would be cool as heck if it was well-written.

I DON'T NEED ANOTHER ONE DAMMIT!

2002-04-12T03:52:00.000-07:00

beginnings:

to string a line of paper stars

once he owned a star.

now, not many twelve-year-old boys could claim that he owned a star, but he had always been special.

to those who still have hope.

requiescat in pace

forgive me father, for I have sinned. my sin is... my sin is... I kill.

what happens to those who have been given the Dementor's Kiss? A moral dilemma: mercy-killing.

ISCARIOT

"How could you Sirius! Lily and James!"

companion piece to JUDAS. Not many people know this but there was a second Judas among the 12 disciples. Thaddeus, I think. That's why I picked Judas for Sirius, and Iscariot (which is the full name of the Judas that betrayed Jesus) for Peter.

Just so you know, I love this author. Read "Prayer for an Innocent Man".

Sometimes I wish I had a cheerleader. Or a fan following. Someone who claims to be my wife/whore/bitch. Or worships me.

Then I wake up and smack myself in the head and realize that I should be glad that at least some people review my fic. I will never achieve my status, and sometimes I think it's better that way.

2002-04-10T04:29:00.000-07:00

Right now in my HP fics, I'm working only with certain characters. I definitely stay away from writing the Trio (Harry, Ron and Hermione) and the really popular ones in fics (Draco and Snape) simply because I am afraid of being crucified if I mischaracterize them (sometimes it's about interpretation really) So I use minor characters a lot. Not that Sirius is all that minor but I love him too much not to use him ^__^.

In most of the fics I write, I'll be using Sirius Black and Ginny Weasley a lot. Tom Riddle, Lucius Malfoy and Cho Chang are also main characters. Peter Pettigrew became the third major character in First Blood (how the hell did that happen?) So how will I write them? Characterization is my weakness, simply because when I write I think I Am God and make them obey to how the muse wants them to sound like or come across. This is Not Good because of this particularly large and opinionated fandom, proper characterization will make or break your fic. And I suck at it.

So sometimes I write down thoughts on how I see the characters and how they will act in the fic, the reasons why they do it, everything. Pretty necessary since I'll also be taking on OC-heavy or ones that use mostly minor characters. *makes a face*

2002-04-10T04:20:00.000-07:00

to mia, to get her stated on the vampire fic.

He prowls around her, each step a statement of smooth, predatory intent; fluid motion and leashed hunger. She can't help but watch him, helplessly, with her mind frantically racing through possibilities of escape, of the arrival of help, of death imminent and brutal. Her eyes are held by his, both gleaming, hers with fear, his with anticipation. She fears what she sees there, what she can read there, but every reflex, every instinct of escape has been bound by ropes and will. She can only watch, and only wait.

The dull pain settling in her temples cannot distract her from her terror-stricken study of what held her captive. His eyes reflect light like an animal's, but he is a mix of man, beast and demon. He has the movement of a stalking panther, the nature of a hyena, the watchful eyes of a scavenger, and his voice the sibilant hiss of a serpent. He is all of these yet none of them. He is a hunter like no other.

She thinks that there can be nothing worse than this waiting, a drawing out into eternity of chilling fear and expectation. In this wait, she makes him into a larger monster, multiplying those that would feast on her. Every shadow was another of his kind leaping at her, the slightest sound the restless haunting of those he'd killed before.

She is alone in the darkness, too long deprived of light and she thinks that if the sun shines upon her now, it would blind her. Too long in wait, fear slips away and despair settles in, a death as true as if it had sliced her throat as well. She is no stranger to this loss of hope. She is not unfamiliar with the acceptance of death.

He sees this and smiles at it. Human nature was curious in its unending will to survive, yet this girl seems to have been broken once before, shown the futility of life, and the inevitability of death, that in dignity or in poverty it is the same, final, wretched, and beautifully his. She has been broken before and never healed because those who have lost this will to live will never recover from it.

He thinks he will give her his gift, thinks he will let her take part in the unholy nectar of immortality and show her the joy in death. But he knows she will never hold this black glory in her hands and shape it with her will.

He decides to give her a different gift: a conversation with death.
--------------------------------------
My mind is so fecked up right now. Aaaadvil. Tyleeeeenol. Heeeelp. I know I suck. Feel free to remind me.

2002-04-09T02:28:00.000-07:00

Finally have a title for the original fantasy fic. "The Bound Word".

Well, we can't always have brilliant, profound, poetic titles.

Finally got organized.

HARRY POTTER WORKS
A. Multi-chaptered
1. Mnemosyne’s Lamp – (T/G) Riddle’s memories find a new home in Ginny Weasley.
2. The Theory of Flight – (Ginny/Cho) Understand what it means to fly
3. Signed, Sirius Black – 12 years in Azkaban, seven letters written. Everyone thought he was guilty, including himself.
4. The Radiance of A Thousand Suns – Three generations. Three Unforgivable Curses. Follow the tale of one family, the rise and destruction of the Bonifatius clan, and how they affected the wizarding world.
5. First Blood – Sirius Black’s Seventh Year is all about breaking as many rules as possible. Alone, vulnerable, and emotionally fucked up, Sirius Black is drawn into the world of underground wizards duels, where power plays and manipulation is the second game to play, which doesn’t end upon drawing first blood.
6. The Case of the Missing Motorcycle – It was an innocent afternoon of godfather-godson bonding… and it turned into a crazy trip across the British Isles where Sirius and Harry come across the Headless Hunt, love-struck bus drivers, and Quidditch hooligans. All this for a flying motorcycle?

B. Oneshots
1. Airborne – Ginny on flying, the Golden Snitch and Tom Riddle.
2. A Study on the Courtship Methods of the Adolescent Wizard – Hermione has an unusual assignment for Muggle Studies
3. The Nature of Courage – a First Blood sidestory; Peter and Sirius have a talk about knights, and the true meaning of courage.
4. A Comedy of Errors – A mishap during potions class, and a nap in Divinations leads Ron Weasley to think that he has prophetic dreams… which means bad news for Harry and Ginny. Meanwhile Cho falls prey to an enchanted book. Well-meaning matchmakers, confused crushes, Enchanted!Cho and InDenial!Ginny lead to one crazy mix! Can Hermione ever sort this… and Ron out?
5. Cho/Ginny triple vignette – Quidditch match, a drink, and the Interrogation
6. ISCARIOT – Who really betrayed whom?
7. Requiescat in Pace – He offers absolution to those who will never be forgiven. He takes care of worse than the dead… he takes care of the soulless.
8. Sirius snippets – Finding a dog. Ode to Joy.
9. Spinning Wheel – The perils of chasing a fairy tale.
C. Cloak and Dagger
1. The Millennium Curse – It’s 1999, and it’s the end of the wizarding world as we know it. Unspeakable!Ginny and spy-mentor!Sirius have a try at saving the wizarding world from itself.
2. Tower of Babel
D. Resistance Universe (Where Is The Light?)
1. Paper Sun – James – A divergence of roads. One man wonders about the choices he’d made, playing roles, and the courage it takes just to get up in the morning. All for the sake of those he loves.
2. Circle Moon – Remus – The werewolf wonders.
3. String A Line of Paper Stars – Sirius – Why hope is the greatest evil.
4. Letters of Gold – Peter – The cock crows.
5. On A Snow White Kite – Lily –

FLAME OF RECCA
1. Rekka Muyo! No Need for Plot (or Sanity or Originality or Good Taste) – Natsumi gets tired of false rumors of a second season of Rekka no Honoo anime and takes matters into her own hands.
2. Knight of Swords – The blade is the soul of a swordsman. What happens when it shatters?
3. La Temps des Fleurs – the language of flowers takes the most sensitive ear to hear it, and the kindest heart to understand it.
4. On An Unfamiliar River Bank – the river flows, but where does it lead you?

AYASHI NO CERES – Tanjyoubi – A father contemplates his children’s sixteenth birthday.
RUROUNI KENSHIN – Temperance (Kaoru/Yahiko fic) – A sword must be tempered before it can be used to protect life
ALMOST – (Recca/Fuuko) – Almost is never enough.
HOLDING ON TO A WHISPER – (Kesshin/Hikari) – Why are words so important?

ORIGINAL WORKS
“…But you must have at least one ambition.”

“Yes, I have one.”

“What is it?”

"As it happens to every man at least once in his life, I was once raised by Satan to the top of the highest mountain on earth. From there, he showed me the whole world and said to me, as he said to Christ, ‘Son of man, what wouldst thou have in order to worship me?’ I thought for a long time, for a terrible ambition had been devouring my heart, then I replied, ‘I have always heard of Providence, yet I have never seen it or anything resembling it, which makes me think it does not exist. I want to be Providence, for the greatest, most beautiful and the most sublime thing I know of in this world is to reward and punish.’ But Satan bowed his head and sighed. ‘You are mistaken,’ he said, ‘Providence does exist, but it is invisible; you have never seen anything resembling it because it works by secret springs and moves in hidden ways. All I can do for you is to make you one of the agents of Providence.’ I made the bargain with him; I may lose my soul because of it, but if I had to do it over again I would do the same thing.”
-Monsieur de Villefort, and Edmond Dantés, Count of Monte Cristo in “The Count of Monte Cristo” by Alexandre Dumas

Surface and Symbol
A young writer grows up and learns about the meaning of life, of writing, and of the soul.

Matters of Consequence
What does a modern-day psychiatrist do when a fictional character pays him a visit?

The Bound Word
A bard searches for the past, the truth, and the answer to a question that will set him free.

2002-04-08T06:44:00.000-07:00

Note to self: Hug Mrs. Weasley for telling off the nosy reporters.

It had been Mr. Weasley who stumbled over Harry's little habit.

"Amazing!" he had gasped. "The things these Muggles come up with! It really is quite admirable the way they get on with their lives without magic~! What do you call THIS latest invention? It's absolutely superb! Marvelous!"

"It's called a Post-it, sir." Harry had long since admitted to himself that his life was far too chaotic and that in his busy schedule of "Wake up. Go to class. Narrowly avoid a painful and prolonged death from Death Eaters. Save the world. Listen to Ron and Hermione bicker." it was too easy for certain little details like his History of Magic assignment to slip his mind. Or so he said to Ron when the boy had found out from his father. Ron himself was of the opinion the Harry liked to amuse himself with his own attempts at dry wit.

"Really?! What an unusual name! How does it work Harry? Why did they call it that?" One might wonder why Harry won't just use a journal or a notebook. Two words: Tom Riddle. The events of his second year had left the boy wary of journals and diaries.

"Well, there's this thing on the back that acts kind of like glue. And you put it up where you can most conveniently see it and it sticks there. That's why it's called a post-it."

"Ingenious! These Muggles and their technolostry! Can you show me Harry?" And so Harry proceeded to demonstrate to Arthur Weasley the subtle and complicated art of Post-its. Hermione had been delighted to discover that Harry at least was learning the value of being organized and had presented him with an organizer with a pointed comment at Ron that at least SOMEONE was learning the value of being organized and someone ELSE would do well to follow Harry's example. Harry had half-heartedly protested that it was too bulky to carry, ("So you just carry around a pad of Post-its everywhere you go?") trying to forestall another argument. Surprisingly Ron had not taken the obvious bait, and had simply left. But the next day, he himself presented Harry with a Quick Notes Quill, innocently saying that he had won it off a familiar-looking bag lady, and wanted to help Harry with his Post-its habit.

--------
AH SHIT. Can't write half-decent humor to save my life. Nearly falling asleep. Sleep good. Will continue and fix tomorrow.

2002-04-08T05:01:00.000-07:00

I'm thinking of dropping Eyes Unclouded by Hate. I just don't blog there anymore. But when I feel like ranting or posting, I can't do that here. I'm taking on too many projects and I need to learn to stop. I'll focus on my writing. So I guess I'll only post on Unclouded when I feel like it. Seems stupid though.

Ah well.

Ooooh! Chapter 2 of Resistance has been posted! Looks like James in the story will be perfect for what I'm planning for the spin off ficlet! Already have a title "Paper Sun" nabbed from "Kites" from Angel Sanctuary. Yesssh mad grinning is imminent. I need to get started on First Blood dammit! I have to stop relying on "getting in the mood". Arse glue! Arse glue!

Rabid plot bunnies must die.
1. Ron Weasley gets into a freak accident during Potions class, and he falls asleep during Divinations. He dreams of something which actually comes true (at least... close to it) and thinks that he has prophetic dreams. Thinking that it was his Divine Duty to the Gift given to him, he tries to make his other dreams come true... unfortunately for Harry and Ginny. In the meantime, Cho falls victim to an enchanted book. Can Hermione ever sort this chaos, and Ron out?

WHAT SORT OF ENCHANTED BOOK???

2. Ginny has to write an essay for History of Magic class, about the Headless Hunt. She then receives the Long Tale of the Bitter Rivalry Between Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington and Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore.

*harrumphs at ideas for the Sirius-Harry humor fic* Drag broom racing and the Headless Hunt. Sounds like LOADS of fun. *starts falling over giggling madly*

2002-04-04T05:46:00.000-08:00

SQUEEEE!

I am squeeing because of All Torn Down Chapter 12! Yesss! Oh god... Ron... *weeps*

The Cho/Ginny fic is here to the interested parties (suuuure, there are)

*grumps about house prejudices* I will be a Ray lemming and ask WHY some people are prejudiced against Gryffindor?

2002-04-04T04:07:00.000-08:00

Well, I have one person who has expressed interest in reading the fic I plugged below. Too bad it isn't written yet XD

I find I am greatly disturbed. I just saw the sig of this person who says that he/she is on SS Firefly when I know for a FACT that he/she is not because I'm the ruddy captain of the bloody ship and I think I'd KNOW who my crew members are! Not that I mind that this person likes Cho/Ginny (despite the other ship he/she is on which frankly squicks me. It's a large ship.) but I wish said person would at least make his/her presence on the ship known.

I am anal that way.

And Kakia came to FAP! I have a Co-captain! And monkeymouse has this wonderful Cho/Ginny fic. It's wonderful, and makes me squeal with joy and envy since that is great writing, and I want my Cho/Ginny fic to be that good. Will edit to add link once I've located the fic.

2002-04-04T01:24:00.000-08:00

Motorcycle-fixated? Of course not!

Sirius is not Sirius without the flying motorcycle. And the sex appeal. And the leather. Can't forget the leather.

I just realized... I've been posting a lot of fics/snips haven't I? Not just being a little whinger (yes I meant the h to be in there) and complaining about lack of inspiration or making comments about fics I want to write but actually posting stuff I've *written*.

I bask in happy productive joy.

*snarls at her little bunnies* NOW GET TO WORK! At the moment, I have seven multichaptered fics planned (Mnemosyne's Lamp, First Blood, The Radiance of A Thousand Suns, The Theory of Flight, Signed Sirius Black, the motorcycle fic, Cloak and Dagger: The Millennium Curse) and several oneshot angsty pieces. If I get the inspiration for it, a humorous Ron/Hermione piece. 'cause they bicker so cutely like a certain couple *casts meaningful glances around*

*harrumphs* On second thought, maybe I'm NOT so productive. MUSH MUSES MUSH!

I just realized I have no HP muse. I have Sato-chan and 'Kiya-chan for Rekka no Honoo, the two irritating OCs Sayaka, and Ayame (Kesshin-kun is a sweetie), Mitsuki-chan for Kagetai works. I had to let go of Existentialist!Dai and Genki!Ken because Dai-chan finally got sick of the vents all over the place and huffed off. Ken of course followed him ^__^

I need an HP muse. *snaps fingers* Whoever writes me a tempting offer of an HP muse (preferably Sirius incarnates) will... get my undying, eternal devotion? I will happily be your slave! I think.

2002-04-04T01:22:00.000-08:00

"And Sirius told me to just smile, it could always get worse. So I did smile and it DID get worse."

2002-04-04T01:18:00.000-08:00

Thanks to G's continued fascination with Quidditch hooligans ( XP ) I've come up with a whacked out, high on something (probably helium), humor story. I -think- it will be humor for I am an apallingly unwitty twit.

It was supposed to be an innocent godfather-godson afternoon of bonding...

"Come on, Remus! We won't be long. We just pick it up, have a quick lunch, bond a few, and badabing badaboom, we'll be back in no time!"

"Forgive me if I don't trust the sanity of a British man using 'badabing badaboom' in a serious sentence."

...that turned into one crazy trip across the British Isles...

"No, I just don't see it anywhere."

"See what?"

"Let me see. Go to Diagon Alley. Have lunch. Pick up Sirius' motorcycle. Go home. No, I just can't see CROSS THE FUCKING COUNTRY ANYWHERE on the damn To-Do list!"

"Ah-hah! Lesson number one: never trust a man with a to do list!"

...with one ex-convict, troublemaking Animagus...

"Sirius, I love and respect you, you're the salvation of my hellish home life. I tell you everything, right?"

"Yeah..."

"And you tell me everything, right?"

"Yeah..."

"So of course you'd tell me if you have a mental condition that makes you a complete NUTTER, right?!"

...a boy too long without fun or family...

"Harry, are you SURE this is the right place?"

"Sure I am."

Long pause.

"This is a classic case of the blind leading the blind, isn't it?"

"Are you questioning my authority?"

"Harry, I hate to break this to you, but you're seventeen. You don't even have authority over your hormones."

Just how much trouble can they get into in five days?

"Ireland?! We're in IRELAND?!"

"Solicitation?! You've been arrested for solicitation?!"

A lot.

"I just don't understand how picking up Sirius' flying motorcycle could turn into a five-day long road trip."

"It's *Sirius*, Ron."

"It's *Harry*, Ron."
-----------------------------------------------------------------

that was fun. I think that'll be something I'll work on the side when The Theory of Flight gets too mushy on me, or when First Blood gets too... hot... or angsty...

I've always loved Sirius-Harry bonding fics. I'm a fangirl with a closet-liking for WaFFy Sirius-Harry fics.

Someone do something to improve the pluggy thingie above. The part with "I just don't understand..." kinda sucks.

2002-04-02T06:26:00.000-08:00

Ah... fond memories of early ficdom.

*grins* We all have an embarrassing Mary Sue in the closet. Don't look at me like that, I'm not ashamed of what I did as an ignorant child. It was a juvenile bit of fancy that didn't really hurt anyone, since I never actually WROTE them.

The first is *gasp* Kaelyn. No last name, but the daughter of Buffy Summers, the Slayer, and *gasp* Angel, the vampire with a soul! Nyahahaha! Yes dears, not only CAN Angel and Buffy do the dirty now, he can father a child despite his technically being dead! Just one of the amazing wonders of the fanfic world. Dear Kaelyn picks up Mumsy dearest's sidejob, and as the Slayer, she runs around the world staking giant vampires while jumping from motorcycles. For some reason she comes to Japan to help... Kurama! Who of course falls madly in love with her, but she has angst. Major angst. Especially since Hiei stalks her at night and watches her while she sleeps and curses Kurama for taking her heart away first.

*snickers* Okay, so I lied. Kaelyn's not my Mary Sue *gags* Not even *I* was that self-delusional.

It was fun typing that though. My actual Mary Sue is: Satori Narazaki of "The Kissing Booth" fame. She wasn't so bad really, I got to beat her around some, drop hints of future torment and angst, but wrote her in one fic and that was it, and you wouldn't even NOTICE just how Mary Sue-ish she was. It was a humor fic. She got to kiss Domon. And beat Mikagami around. And a slight hint of a Mikagami/Satori pairing. But that was it. I was too lazy to write anything with her after that (although I occasionally brought her out for my posts on the FoR ML, and some muse-abuse, and she had a cameo in Rekka Muyo!: No Need for Plot (or Originality or Sanity or Good Taste) my little mockfic wherein I get tired of all the rumors of a second season for Flame of Recca [you hear that Chris-kun?!] and take matters in my own hands)

I never developed Satori-chan much. I think she was supposed to work for Mori Kouran. Befriend the Reccatachi and spy on them then deliver their heads to Kouran on a silver platter (SIX Hokage heads ah-ah-ah-ah-ah! ala the Count dude on Sesame Street) And she was doing it because Kouran was holding her parents hostage. And she wields the Tokkan. Similar to the Raijin. (foreshadowiiing) and um... had a mysterious past (every Mary Sue needs one!) and of course, she's smarter than Mikagami but goes to a private school different from the Reccagumi. And um... I think she does bring them to Kouran's Fortress-of-the-Mo' but she pushes Yanagi out of the way. And Kouran tortures her for her betrayal. Or something like that. Then Raiha slays her torturers then dumps her on Mikagami's doorstep. (Satori: how sweet. I love you too, 'aniki'. Next time you're injured I'll dump you on Fuuko's bed. She'll kill you, for sure.) And soon they discover why... parents hostage yadda. Then we learn more! Those parents aren't her real parents! We learn that was... adopted! She was raised by wolves and her real name was Mowgli! I'm kidding! Her real parents were separated, and her father took her older brother (foreshadowiiiing!) and she was left with her psycho mother who took advantage of her brains and basically used her. Yeah. And then she sees her cousin use the tokkan, which kills him because he couldn't control it, and she faints and when she wakes up *gasp* the tokkan is around her wrist! (it's in bracelet form. The better to be hidden by long sleeves, and a nice accessory, dear!) She's been afraid to use it ever since, but she couldn't get rid of it, unless she dies! Bwahahaha! (killkillkill! Wait... I like Sato-chan) She refuses to be bossed around by mummy dearest, and psycho mother is driving somewhere, totally reckless, texting while driving (oh no wait... that was *coughclaudinecough*!) and she crashes into something, and the car is set on fire. Satori, in the meantime, was flung out of the car (lucky girl!) and basically sees her mother die. Yesss! Angst ahoy! She becomes catatonic and refuses to speak until her uhhh... mother's cousins adopt her. And... uh... right! But she is walking by a burning building (and we all scream "FOOL!") and one of the burning debris falls toward her, and she faints but is saved by the tokkan (and we all scream "How the frack is lightning supposed to STOP burning debris?!") And... Mori Kouran happened to be watching. So adoptive parents are kidnapped and uh... uh... for some reason, they're brought to see her memories where they see an image of her older brother, a younger version of a certain raijin-wieldin'-fuuko-lovin'-ninja! That's right folks! She's the 'touto-chan of... RAIHA! How many of you saw that coming? HOW MANY?!

God that was fun! *snerks* And... there was no Mikagami/Satori-ness in the whole of it!

And no I never wrote that either.

Someone actually said they liked Satori. I wonder what that someone was on.

Boy that was cleansing...

So... what's your skeleton?

Have other questions too, nabbed from the FAP. Where do you draw most of what you write? I wrote Yoshitomo, a completely psychotic vengeance-driven swordsman (see Yami no Naka E) and there's my VERY unhinged, borderline manic-depressive Sirius Black, and there's this new oneshot niggling at my mind about the guy who takes care of the criminals given the Dementor's Kiss.

I for one, have never killed anyone, been abused emotionally, nor do I perform mercy-killing. But where do I get them? Where do I get their personalities, the words that ring in my head like they're my own, but they're not really? I certainly don't draw from actual experience. I think... I tend to explore the darker side of people... because I have no qualms in plundering my own soul, I can pretty much dig around the abyss and yank something out? The words just sort of... *shrugs* come out... in the strangest instances.

But I have the tendency to add certain aspects of myself to the characters that I write. I gave Ginny my phobia of snakes, Tom my absorption when it comes to reading... small stuff like that to help shape their personality. Sirius has my hard-headed pride, Mitsuki has most of my moral values... *shrugs*

Then there's showing people you know in RL what you read. Do you? Do you let your parents, your RL friends, your fanfiction writing, your original works, what? I've noticed that some people replied with a negative (on the FAP)

I guess... it depends on what I've written. For the most part, I'm shameless. I DEMAND my friends to read what I wrote, and nag them to give me comments. I whore myself for feedback. (read elixir) To some friends (like Yana-chan) I'd thrust my slash fics in their faces. To others... only certain things. To my parents... NO!

*shrugs* This long post courtesy of utter boredom and not finishing Chrono Cross before my brother kicked me off the PS.

2002-04-02T06:17:00.000-08:00

Some people say that it's in sleep that a person is most vulnerable? His breathing slows from harsh rasps from the work of the day to the even exhalations of a body settling into nightly rhythms. His face softens as his slender, life-weathered body relaxes degree by degree. He drops all guards, all shields from the daily battle with the world, and rests.

They say that in this place between life and death, one finds some measure of peace.

Not true.

At least when it comes to Tom.

When he sleeps, he remains tense; his face looks as though it had been sculpted in marble even when he is free from the waking world.

He sleeps the unrelaxed sleep of one too used to being in the grip of nightmares. His eyes flinch from unknown tormentors, and his mouth becomes a taut line as though he was trying to keep screams inside.

He sleeps curled up, like he had always slept beneath blankets far too short, shielding himself from the cold. He seems to be trying to make himself as small as possible, a physical defense, subconsciously trying to make himself invisible by taking up as little space as
possible. It is a drawing in of self, of being, of awareness, trying to fit into a small ball, never mind that his limbs are too long, more suited for sprawling on the bed like a lord claiming rule over the expanse of sheets and cloud-soft mattresses.

He does not sleep the sleep of kings, arrogant even in slumber, the cloak of power still draped over reclining form. He does not sleep the sleep of an innocent, secure in the knowledge of the beauty of the world, wrapped in warmth and swathed in blankets, knowing nothing of cold of fear.

His slumber is a picture of unrest, floating just beneath the surface of wakefulness, ready to come awake at the slightest motion. His dreams are not of smiling in the sun, of playing in fields, of wounds being kissed by mother. Those long arms are wrapped around his middle, though filled with supper, is the habit of one used to hunger and chill.

He sleeps the sleep of a lost child, wary, and guarded, expecting nothing of the night but more demons and tears.

Tom finds no peace in sleep.

Indeed, if I were to say when he loses his mask, when he drops all guards, I would say it is when he reads.

I've heard that there were some people who read like their eyes were devouring the pages, as quickly as flames consume dry leaves. Words flash by like bullets of thought; taking only seconds to absorb, to understand, before moving on. I've always thought it was rather silly. Where's the fun in reading if you cannot let the words sink in, that the tongue can almost taste their flavor and savor each phrase, and digest each line carefully, indulgently.

I always thought that such a way of reading was for show, speedily skimming over the print so that it was possible that a word could be missed, a sentence misunderstood. An impressive skill certainly, but to me it seemed that you can only get the faintest ghost of
the inked lines, and almost disrespectful to the effort exerted to breathe life into the words, by sparing no more than seconds, like a glance.

I thought all this before I met Tom.

For me, reading is a hobby, a pleasure. For him, it is a voracious need.

His speed does not detract at all to his absorption of the books. Rather, it is a by-product of his craving for it. When he reads, it is with all the focus of a laser. His powers of concentration awe me, the way he closes everything out, all his attention, all his being
centered on the words before him through those blue eyes. He seems to lose all awareness of his surroundings then, truly slipping out of his body and existing only in mind. He loses himself in words and thought, finding a haven in this world that he could not in dreams and starlight.

He shuts out the world, deaf to all sound, numb to all touch. If I were to fill his room with Filibusters Fireworks and lit them all at once, he would not notice.

Nothing touches him, in that almost tangible world of his.

-----------------------

It began and died. Never got anywhere with it. Was supposed to be the start of a series of Tom/Ginny snippets in my happy, wholesome Tom/Ginny universe where Ginny is corrupted, Tom is his hot, evil self, and the GnT sailors are joyful. *harrumphs* And The Meek Shall Inherit the Earth was the start (corrupted!Ginny)

2002-04-02T06:13:00.000-08:00

-------------------------------------------------
painting the story of creation
a hikaru/iryoki abstract ficlet
by a very embarrassed Natsumi
--------------------------------------------------

she had promised to paint him. and so she does.

her hands stroke over roughened, weathered ivory, alternately delicately then forcefully, but always graceful. painting with oils, that was what she was best at. colors that ran in thick and slender rivers over moonbrushed canvas. her hair was charcoal stark, ink spilling over paperskin, midnight swirls and curls on spidery veined transluscence.

slender fingers brushing on paleness, sliding color, coral and filmy peach, black veiling white and green.

it is a landscape, her painting, sketching over plains and mounds verdant with life, rising with breath and exhalation of gasps. he arches, the light she had chosen this afternoon for wrapping him in nimbus radiance, throwing dusky shadows over his face, crowning the long, gleaming hair with infinite diamondlight. He bends to slide tender lips, memorizing taste and texture.

her eyes are closed, hands warm with the joy of exploring each line. the spectrum melds together, radiance swathed in darkness, creating a perfect harmony of the play of light and shadow. she knows this. she is an artist.

she thinks about perspective. then she forgets.

with teeth and touch he demands her to open her eyes, and he loses himself in the brilliant green of them. he is not alone in this euphoric state of grace. she is as lost as he is, locked yet exultant in the beauty of creation, of the creation of beauty.

the colors swirl around them, violet silk, and russet cloth. they do not notice for they have reached the end. it is a study of slender forms held in suspension of eternity in seconds, a portrait of still life in glory.

he has always loved beautiful things, and she creates them.

she makes him beautiful.

------------------------------------

pretentious artsy abstract sex. will wonders never cease.

I wrote something that does more than HINT at sex. Hell HAS frozen over. Good, 'cause I'll prob'ly be going there.

God I suck.

2002-04-01T04:30:00.000-08:00

for Yin and second chances, with love.

Graduation

they sit in neat rows, legs carefully aligned, feet firmly on the floor, hands clasped laid on their laps, the picture of the perfect ladies they'd been molded to be.

it lasts for all of five minutes, before one girl shifts restlessly and crosses her legs, right over left, then left over right. another grabs her liturgy and leafs through the pages, as if the words would afford a distraction as name after name is called. one class stands, one girl walks forward and accepts the diploma then takes a bow.

she thinks she should be more excited but she isn't. she thinks that the practices did it to her, failing to drive home the point that it is over. four years of her life is OVER. age doesn't matter to her, really, birthdays pass with little ceremony. time doesn't seem to pass, at least not in the way she thinks it should. she thinks it should be more than the startled realization that it seems only yesterday that she was moaning over the start of another school year. her memory is strange that way, becoming clear then vague at different moments. often the special moments are a blur, and the insignificant ones are. and she wonders whether those insignificant moments should mean something.

she thinks that she should feel more mature, feel more worldly, feel more joyful. all she feels is a deep wish that it would all be over and so she could leave. days of mind-numbing singing is culminating to this moment, and all she thinks is "I want to go home."

she thinks it will be different when HER name is called, when HER hand is being held, when SHE takes a bow.

she thinks of the mass, and finds she can barely remember. even though she's heard the words enough times that she knows them by heart, she finds that she can't remember the actual moment.

her class is called, and she stands. all she thinks is that her hair might be a mess and she needs to fix it again. her heart begins to pound but it is not from excitement but fear. she does not want to make a mistake. she has waited for this end for so long. not the moment of graduation itself but of the idyllic summer days that will come after.

her name is called, and it sounds no different than the names called before hers. she thinks it should, but it doesn't. she walks forward, /remember walk gracefully, slowly/, and holds out her hand /remember to smile/ and accepts the diploma, /say thank you/ says thank you, and then shakes the hand of the principal /walk slowly/ and moves to the marked spot /wait for the camera FLASH/ and takes a bow /not too low, don't fix your hair if it falls in your face/, and goes down the steps. she thinks that of everything this descent is most significant. she does not know why. she walks done the aisle, back to her seat.

she still feels no joy, thinks that she doesn't feel it but probably does, only this almost sick feeling of relief, delayed relief. and she realizes that her hand is shaking. she takes her seat, and then she looks at her diploma.

she wonders that if she had done things differently, would this moment matter more? but she cannot go back only forward. so she wonders if college will be different. she hopes that it will. she remembers that song then, and wants badly to return to childhood, but never be a freshman again. she thinks she has not graduated yet.

only after her hands sting from the applause, and the night has fallen, and artificial lights fill the area, does she realize that she wants to cry.

but she does not. four years of living day to day. she realizes that she wants recognition but does get it for she has never really worked for it. she thinks that if she has not prayed so much for this moment, resented the days so much, she would be sadder. she should be sad that she was leaving.

but she is sad because she is happy. and because...

because it is over.
---------------------------------

the ending is crappy because I forgot the proper one. *swears* I KNOW if I brood over it long enough I'll remember.

*broods*

2002-03-31T00:16:00.000-08:00

DAMMIT! I just realized... there's a good chance that either Balthamos or Baruch could die! AGH! Lee Scoresby already died (so heroically! I <3 Lee! I mean really, who wouldn't love a Texan named Lee? *grins again* And then John Parry! I'm spoiling this for you aren't I?)

Don't DIIIIE!

2002-03-31T00:13:00.000-08:00

Am finally done with The Subtle Knife! Yesss! Only The Amber Spyglass to go! *grins* And I've been told that this is where everything finally makes sense! Intriguing actually... God is not God but the first angel, and Dust comes when a consciousness is formed...

NO.... head... hurts...

Balthamos and Baruch are cool though. And they love each other. *grins toothily* Lyra is Eve... the mother...

And because of them... they will destroy destiny. And we will Fall again.

*snerks* 'cause right after I finish The Amber Spyglass, I have The Spellcoats and The Crown of Dalemark. Then if I'm feeling particularly sadistic enough, Crime and Punishment. Or The Picture of Dorian Gray. Or The Scarlet Pimpernel. Or my Sherlock Holmes books. Or FINALLY finish The Bear and the Dragon (which I have been reading then stopping then reading something else, then reading it again)

I am SUCH a bibliophile.

2002-03-30T19:39:00.000-08:00

*shrugs* Should I use this for the poem tag? *ponders* This was from my original short story (not so very original *smirks*) Matters of Consequence. The short story is about... well it's the Pilot from "The Little Prince" meets this psychiatrist guy. I planned on making it humorous but... it morphed into something else... NO IT WILL NEVER SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY! I just wrote it for our CWJ class. I love it muchly, but it sucks crap.

tears as precious as pearls

silver paths
like the caress of the moon
sweet, like the kiss of the night
salty, like the taste of the sea
tangy, like the subtle bite of fruit

like the barest whisper of the stars
like the feather touch of the night breeze

moonflower petals
like the palest cherry blossoms upon flesh
snowdrops, purely wept for joy
white roses, shed for the blush of love
orchids, nymphs of the air

like the blossoming flower’s gentle sighs
like the morning dew wrapped in pale mist

luminescent drops
like the marks of stardust
spectrum, a rainbow of colors
prisms, melted illusions
glass, stained with emotions

like dreams brushed on a palette of faith
like pearls glistening with the hues of miracles

wishes as treasured as fine porcelain
hopes sweeter than nectar
dreams as fragile as rainbow-spun silk
miracles rarer than diamonds

tears as precious as pearls

And this is the reason why I should stay away from writing poetry.

2002-03-29T16:46:00.000-08:00

*goes into shock*

I just found a Lucius/Ginny fic on FF.net. An NC-17 Lucius/Ginny fic. With a follow-up chapter with Draco/Ginny, also NC-17.

ARGH!

*whimpers* Sirius and Lucius, snog and get the bad mental images out of my head, please?

*huffs* They're so uncooperative.

2002-03-29T04:25:00.000-08:00

This is the Yuffie/Reeve plotbunny I mentioned. I don't have time for this fic. I don't have the inclination to write this fic. Therefore I am giving it up for adoption in hopes that someone will give it a good home. I want to read this fic more than I want to write it. Good luck.

EVENTS:
A bombing at Neo-Midgar – blame being pinned on Avalanche
Stealing plans from a big-ass new Shinra-ish company
Plan to colonize Wutai
Turks hired to be bodyguards of said company
Kidnapping girls to turn them into whores?
Reeve offered a job by big company
Scavenged materia
Don Corneo not dead… or Scarlett, or Heidegger?
Make them all 3D characters, backstabbing etc.
Plans stolen for an alternative energy source aside from Mako reactors
Ransacking Gast’s hideout at Icicle Inn for plant layouts for Mako reactors
Reeve’s patent for alternative energy source
Taking over Midgar to harness the concentration of Lifestream there (certain citizens don’t want to leave Midgar)
The creation of a Mako reactor that duplicates the flow of Lifestream as a continuous energy source
Avalanche declared as outlaws and going off to hide in Wutai
Reasons for Wutai-Shinra war
They discover that Corneo’s little prostitution ring runs a little deeper than they thought

What's the basic plot of the fic? Basically, after the defeat of Sephiroth and the Meteor was destroyed, life does NOT get better (sounds like the intro for Cloak and Dagger: The Millennium Curse *grins wryly*) The loss of Shinra left this power vacuum, and the economy is crumbling. Yuffie Kisaragi is taking her sweet time journeying back to Wutai when she meets with Reeve, who tells her that someone offered him a new job, which he turns down. A bombing at Junon is blamed on Avalanche, and the former heroes are declared outlaws, and are forced to go on the run and into hiding. Reeve, and Yuffie run into Reno, and his Turks, and the new high profile company head they're guarding.

Take it from there. Just remember to use the neato plot points I listed above. Oh yes, it HAS to be Yuffie/Reeve, and it HAS to be convincing and be developed. Stick Reno/Yuffie in there if you want. Hell throw in yaoi if you want. But the final pair MUST be Reeve/Yuffie. Mail me if you want to know why.

2002-03-29T04:01:00.000-08:00

Oh. My.God.

I love Kick Flaw's works, and this fic just leaves me speechless. Reading Remus/Sirius fics will never be the same again (not that I read much of THAT pairing in the first place) Brutal poetry in prose that left me raw and gasping. Desire at it's darkest and gives a whole new meaning to bloodlust. Shit, shit, shit. Writing like this compounds the inferiority complex like hell. This fic is how I wish my own Yami no Naka e would be like, and how I want First Blood to turn out to be (the writing!)

I love darkfics that aren't angstfics. Dark, dark, dark. I like staring into the abyss of the human soul, and finding the animal within, the devil, the stripping of all "civilized" layers and tearing out the heart of darkness and holding it out for the world to see, to fear, to cower from. Because it's the truth, and the truth isn't pretty, and is so deeply hidden and for someone to be able to write it to make it into such a grotesque lyrical symphony makes me want to weep, and just leaves me awed.

Why am I so in love with darkness? I'm afraid of it, afraid of the monsters than dance and party in my imagination, but I can pull it out of me and love it.

This author has much the same effect. Shit, brought me close to hating Sirius, and left me feeling violated. God.

Romie's Love Ridden was one of the first H/D slash fics I ever read, and made me fall in love with it. Chasing the Dragon is... WHOA. Disturbingly enough reminds me of Papaver Somniferum. Shit.

2002-03-28T06:46:00.000-08:00

Again with the sad humor posts.
-------------------------------
His control was already tenuous at best. He tried to remember to be calm, tried to remember what his loss of control had caused before, tried to remember that this was just MALFOY and not worth his time. But it was getting harder to remember any of that in the face of the other boy's taunts.

"Walk away. Just walk away." he whispered to himself, earning a bark of laughter from the Slytherin.

"You don't walk away from things, Black. I *know* you. It would kill you to turn your back." That sentence rang true to Sirius' unwilling ears. Malfoy shouldn't know him so well... shouldn't speak like Sirius had spent hours confiding in him, shouldn't sound like he could look right into his soul.

"Shut *up*, Malfoy." His snarl echoed in the empty dungeon corridor. His skin felt like it was on fire, that sick explosive rage once again building up inside him. His senses felt stretched, painfully so. His pupils had widened, drinking in the sparse light of the dungeon, but Malfoy was the only thing he saw.

Desire struck him like a devastating blow, leaving him gasping and staggered. His hand snapped out to close around Malfoy's pale throat.

"Just...shut *up*. Malfoy."

..............

"Don't even think about it."

Now, Sirius was DEFINITELY staggered. He threw Malfoy a confused look, desire disappearing faster than Curse-Me-Muggle dolls at Death Eater meetings. "What?!"

Lucius gave him a pitying look. "This is the part where desire overwhelms you and you lunge at me, then slam me up against the wall." he clarified, "And I'm telling you, no way in bloody hell am I going to stand for that!"

Poor Sirius was lost, befuddled, puzzled...

"I mean, honestly! Who can keep an erection when your head hurts like hell, and your ears are ringing and your eyesight is swimming? It's not romantic, it's not sexy, it's PAINFUL!"

baffled, bewildered...

"I mean, most fic writers don't even have the consideration to have your assaulter apologize to you. There's nothing arousing about having some lout shove you up against the wall, misjudging the force of the push and letting your head slam into it. Head wounds do not a passionate night make. Blood trickling down the back of your head is NOT "hot". Unless you're Goyle and into pain." Lucius ranted on.

Perplexed, mystified... "Fic writers?"

"You know, THEM! Believe me, I've had a lot of experience with them... How many times have I been pushed up against walls by James? Or even Snape?"

Bemused, befuddled... wait a second...

"JAMES?!"

Lucius nodded absently. "Yes, your best friend is a good lay. You've probably experienced the "wall-shove" and "corridor-sex" with Snape. I can't see you doing that to the werewolf, but who knows with these writers?"

It just kept getting worse. Sirius' brain had shut down at the word "Snape" so he could only make one-word shouts.

"Snape?! Remus?!"

The word werewolf registered on his mind and re-started his brain.

"Wait, how do you know about-"

The pitying look was back. "Poor child. Poor, ignorant child. I guess it IS bliss, considering the circumstances."

Sirius glowered at him. "I am not- hey, what's that sound?"

"Oh that was just the author weeping at how uncooperative we are being. And don't bother yelping 'Author?!' because it gets tiresome and you sound like a parrot."

-Sirius' reply was censored-

"Oh yes, about the corridor-sex thing. I'm a Malfoy. I will not tolerate having sexual intercourse in drafty dungeon corridors. Nothing kills the mood more than cold, wet, SLIMY stone on your skin, and it's hell on your back the next day. When our shagging scene comes, I want roses, silk sheets, and a soft bed. "

From Sirius' gaping mouth came a wheezing gasp that sounded like "Shagging scene?"

But Lucius, having said his piece, was already walking away.

Sirius turned to Natsumi and asked despairingly, "Are you *sure* I can't kill him in this fic?"

2002-03-26T18:40:00.000-08:00

Some fics to recommend. Dammit, I love reading other people's fic recs.

Josephine Sawyer's Saving the New World - interesting premise, wonderful characters. And the plug is fantastic, yo. All they wanted was an education, what they got was a crash course in saving the world.

Tess' Love on a Quidditch Pitch - Remember the entry on a week-long Quidditch match? Zany characters, humor (one of the funniest fics I've read!) what more could you want?

Soz's Russian Roulette - I can't praise this fic enough. Sirius/Narcissa/Lucius triangle stretching from the illegal disco dance clubs of Communist-controlled Moscow to the Soviet prison camps of Western Siberia. Find what made and broke Sirius Black before he set foot in Azkaban. (straight from the summary)

Iniga's fics - Genfics rock our world, proving that you don't need romance to make a fic interesting. Ships? Outta the door, thataway!

Viola's Dreamwalk Blue - yo, if it's Tom Riddle, it's gotta be good! Youn!Albus, Lindy Hop Tom... Featuring some of the best OCs you could ever come across.

The Long Road to Damascus - I'd be an utter git, if I failed to mention this brilliant Snapefic.

Well, that's it for now. I'd also like to steer everyone to Hyphen's fics. Really, her/his (don't really know) fics make my parents doubt my sanity, especially when I start howling with laughter.

2002-03-26T16:41:00.000-08:00

What the hell is the Latin for block? For that spell Lockhart mentioned to block unfriendly spells. *frowns* That strange wand action thingie that Lockhart did.

Am I the only one who is strangely amused by the phrase "wand action"? It makes me think of...other... things....

2002-03-26T16:39:00.000-08:00

No... I am not going to be taken in... not going to give into another plot bunny... I don't even know HOW to write james much less this AU one... no... must resist...

Oh damn. James as Minister of Magic fic, possibly making a speech, possibly under Imperius Curse, possibly corrupt, coming up.

So many possibilities there. Will be eliminated as soon as Cat gets back to me.

*harrumphs* Am coming up with argument between Sirius and James for First Blood. James yelling at Sirius for hanging around Lily. Sirius trying to defuse the argument with humor "Have you been reading your mother's Muggle romance novels again? You make it sound like I'm a bodice-ripping philanderer of women!"

No, wait, that sucked.

Someone give me a new videogame to play.

Am also considering an Aramaciliél piece. Kinda tied with the Niaeidé. *snerks* So, little prince, which do you choose? Three golden apples laid out before you. The controversy over the ending. Aramaciliél's search for the true manuscript. Yesssh. Yorke rocks my socks! Go, my mage man!

2002-03-25T01:47:00.000-08:00

*curses Malfoy and his rotten progeny, and all other rotten progenies to come*

How the hell do I characterize the little bastard?!

*swears some more*

2002-03-25T00:08:00.000-08:00

Really, it's not as if you love her, you think. What it's really about, what it's always been about was lust, and hormones, and who knows maybe even Veela charms, and you ignore the fact that Veela spells don't work on girls.

And so you push away all thoughts of guilt, all thoughts of fear of the strangeness of this desire. After all, she's already charmed one Weasley, why should the younger one be any more immune? And so you push your thoughts away, the ones that scream "but girls don't like other girls!" and put all the blame on Her. It's not like you could control yourself. Really, who could? With those clouds of silvery hair, and that scent that's a like a tumble of flowers, it's not really you, it's HER.

Feck. Head hurts, fingers frozen again. Hopefully, will be able to pick up this thread again when I get home. Shit going numb... someone give me TYLENOL! RIGHT NOW.

2002-03-24T22:30:00.000-08:00

Curse it all! Oh well, Denzel certainly deserves to win. *pouts* I wanted LOTR to win.

2002-03-24T21:40:00.000-08:00

In answer to your question in the e-mails ( as I wanted to tell you this sooner than I could reply), sure I'll beta it, though my skills as a beta-reader leaves much to be desired. Nor do I know anything about Lodoss (if it's Record of Lodoss War, then I only know that it has a kick-ass ending song "Kiseki no Umi") But, yo, in exchange for your help, I'm willing to pimp my ignorant self out. Yeah.

And you're right, he IS sociopathic. Much joy.

*grins* I posted the Judas snippet on the Sirius thread on FAP, and they liked it! *glows with joy* We-ll, I guess I might be writing "Signed, Sirius Black" sooner than I expected. Those 13 Muggles... oooh yeah.

This wonderful fic has been updated, and this too. Snape/Sirius fics are becoming an addiction. *weeps* Pity the child!

I'm trying to resist an insistent urge to write Ginny/Fleur. I need to resist until I at least get started on The Theory of Flight. Getting an inklings of a Vincent/Yuffie fic too. Not outright pairing fic... just a discussion between the two... y'know when Cloud and co. are about to go down into North Crater and Cloud tells everyone to leave and go back to their families etc. and he'll understand if they don't want to come back. Wanna see the two of them interact together at that particular time.

2002-03-21T04:50:00.000-08:00

*howls yet again* WHY is Smooth Criminal playing in my head? It wants to be a theme song for First Blood. NOOOOO. It doesn't fit! Would probably fit Guilty by Association but not First Blood!

*harrumphs* I have the strangest feeling that the fic is coming out a bit like "Fight Club" when I never even got through the movie (the tape lies forgotten in the far corner of our collection.I -knew- I said I was going to watch it but I never got around to it. *sulks*)

But the well "essence" is different. manic-depressive!Sirius, hedonist-fatalist!Lucius, and MorallyConfused!Poppy Pomfrey! Yeees. Plot is coming along nicely, but the proper way of describing the reasons WHY are not.

Summary: It’s his last year of innocence and it’s all about wizard duels, thrill-seekers, desperation, and breaking as many rules as they can. On this irresistible ride to hell, Sirius discovers that love is a duel that does not stop upon drawing first blood.

Summary is piece of crap, but the plug is going to be fantastic. Live fast. Die young. Leave a good-looking corpse.

Been researching the hell out of dueling. Found this helpful site about Code Duello. Am patterning stuff in wizarding duels after it. I'm also thinking of making it dark humor-ish but we all know how much I suck at humor, ne?

Oh and I love this quote "It may be that your whole purpose in life is simply to serve as a warning to others." If I hang around the site I got it from long enough, I may just end up being witty, and be able to write the dark humor stuff. But until that fine day...

And the James/Sirius brawl... trying to come up with wittiness for using the line "I never hit a man with glasses."

"I'd insult you but you're not bright enough to notice."

Dude, I have gotta read The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy!

"All this wheeling and dealing around, why, it isn't for money, it's for fun. Money's just the way we keep score." for Lucius. Some line that goes along the same theme. And "Order is for idiots, genius can handle chaos" sounds like something Sirius would say.

2002-03-21T01:05:00.000-08:00

*HOWLS* TASUKETE!

I need to exorcise the Sirius/Lucius idea SOON, for it is driving me MAD.

What've I got so far? Well, erm it'd probably take place towards the end of Sirius' sixth year, and most of his seventh. I can't really recall WHEN the incident with Snape occurred,but let's just pretend it happened then ('til I manage to check my copy of PoA)

So, there's this huge fallout between the MWPP because of what Sirius did to Snape (telling Severus to sneak beneath the Whomping Willow and nearly getting him killed) Remus is furious at Sirius, James is acting cold and distant towards him, and Peter is caught in the middle but chooses to side with James and Remus. So we have Sirius cut off from his closest friends. While he's popular at school, adulation by people who don't know him really isn't what he needs. He's lost, and he mixes with the wrong crowd. Lucius Malfoy's crowd.

Now, the year itself is pretty important, seventh year, at the cusp of childhood and adulthood, on the brink of finally joining the adult world, therefore the war against Voldemort. It's the last year of "freedom" and of innocence.

Now, where do the wizarding duels come in. I kind of thought that some students (desperation for excitement maybe? For the forbidden?) would go against the rules and hold some sort of underground duels. And Sirius falls in with them.

Yaaaagh. So you can see why I need HELP. It inadvertantly reminds me of Shoujo Kakumei Utena, and Soz's Russian Roulette. Then I go on Fanfiction.net and find this fic. I need someone to discuss it with. Someone to smack me if I get too out of character. HEEEEEEELP.

*pouts* Everyone (the three people who actually read this blog *waves to G-sama, Mia, and Rei-chan* I <3 you!) replies on the (crappy) humor posts but the Sirius one gets ignored. I know it's twisted and so bloody screwed up (and even Yana-chan who actually LIKED Airborne despite her disgust for the Tom/Ginny-ish-ness of it, was rather ambivalent about it) Oh well. *broods* Back to the old drawing board.

2002-03-19T04:23:00.000-08:00

Oh yeah, I forgot to post this a while back.

I'm on a hunt for Chiriko fics. He's my favorite among the Suzaku shichiseishi (sure he's not the best-looking, or the strongest, or what could be deemed as "coolest", but there's something about his innocence and bravery that just makes him adorable.) Send 'em to me, write 'em for me, I want them ALL. Not just oneshots prosing about his past, or his death scene (which was what started this off. SO BRAVE. And so cute! "How have you been?!" "I've been dead!") but plots, and character development. And stuff.

Hug your local Chiriko today!

2002-03-19T04:04:00.000-08:00

Because sometimes I just can't help myself. In reply as to Sirius' reaction to Harry/Snape:
Hrrmmm.... as for Sirius' reaction... that's a tough one. I can see Sirius sending a Howler to Snape. *grins* Yes, it would come as a huge shock (and horror) to him that his godson was with his *gag* worst enemy. He'd be a very tough sell, and he'd probably try to talk to Harry about it (aaah, wouldn't it be cute to see Sirius giving Harry "the talk"?) You know: "Are you sure? Are you very sure? He's a git, he probably takes a bath once a YEAR..." and that kind of stuff. He'd probably TRY to dissuade Harry at first. But after some smacking around the head, he'd probably want the best for Harry, and if he sees that Snape makes his godson happy, he'd back off... although not that much. Can't you just see Sirius interrogating Snape about how well he's treating him? And threatening to hex him should he ever cause Harry any pain?

Godfather-of-the-errr-groom!Sirius

And oh the glares and the gruffness and the grumpiness during reunions and meetings... *falls over laughing* And no, I don't think Sirius would be an utter bastard about it.

"I'll kill him!"

"Calm down, Sirius!"

"He's, he's DEFILING my godson with his awful greasy, Potions-making hands! Agh! I'll curse him so badly that'll he be using his bloody wand with his mouth!"

"You're NOT cursing him!"

"He probably seduced Harry, that evil git... probably brewed up some love potion... fiend!"

"So you think they've gone that far?"

"BLOODY HELL! Thanks for the mental image! I'd prefer not to think about the words 'sex' and 'my godson' in the same sentence! Much less with *Snape*."

"But -you're- the one that-"

"He's deflowered my godson! That vile, sick, disgusting-"

SMACK!

"Calm down. Take deep breaths. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Now imagine a calm and peaceful ocean..."

"This is ridi-"

SMACK! "Imagine! Now picture Harry. Harry is sad. He has friends, but said friends are likely snogging every chance they get."

"You sound like a Muggle kindergarten teacher."

"I'll ignore that. Now, you don't want Harry sad anymore, do you? Now see Harry -smiling-. Why is he smiling? He has someone now, someone who cares about him, THAT way, Sirius, so don't bother to protest. Harry is HAPPY. He is -happy- with Snape."

"I think I've gone blind!"

"Now you're just being dramatic."

2002-03-19T03:28:00.000-08:00

I know, I know.

J U D A S

I hear them whispering to each other, and it makes me want to laugh. But then again, just about anything makes me laugh. But nothing is funny, and my laugh sounds more like a scream. They flinch whenever they hear me laugh, and glance towards each other and think 'Look, he is a madman.' And it makes me laugh even more.

It's all a blur to me. That's what they always say, as if all the screams, and blood have faded together into a veil that dropped before their eyes while stabs and curses flew by in fast-forwarded motion. They who? Those who came before me, those whose screams are trapped within ghostly walls. Those who have stood in this spot I am standing now, denouncing, denying, accepting, repenting. They stood here, charged with crimes horrendous, numerous, deeds as different as the million shades of darkness that exist within the human soul. But this is not a trial, for the damned never are, only confession. And they all said the same thing. "It's all a blur to me." because we're all the same, no matter our crime, no matter our innocence, no matter our guilt. It doesn't matter whether it was our principles, whether it was our country, whether it was our family, whether it was the law, whether it was the natural unspoken rules of respect for life, we're all the same.

We're all betrayers.

But it's not a blur to me, instead it's a sharp crystal stabbing and tearing at my mind until I think I'm bleeding, and I cry tears of blood, but I'm not, I'm just laughing.

It's perfectly clear in my memory, like our eternal photographs that tell a million stories but never the reasons behind them for they cannot speak, and only show, because those who made them forget that sometimes actions do NOT speak louder than words. Because the words unspoken are the most deafening of all, and the cry of my conscience has shut my ears from the words they spoke.

I am charged with a crime, of betrayal of the wizarding world, but it was not the world I betrayed but my brother, my blood, my friend. And they hiss "Traitor." They cry "Murderer." And they shout "Monster." They ask "Where are your thirty silver pieces?" And they say "Betrayed him with a kiss."

And I cannot reply for I am a betrayer. And it is the worst thing in the world to be.

Three hours ago, I stood in the middle of a cratered street, in the middle of destruction and devastation and death. 13 they said. 13 were killed. And they say I killed them, but I did not. This is the crime I am charged with, but it does not even come close to the true horror of my betrayal.

Ten hours before that I stood before a charred house, the scene of murder, and salvation. And I saw the terrible consequences of my actions, and sanity was lost in a torrent of grief and rage.

A week before that I stood in that same house. And that was the scene of my betrayal.

It's perfectly clear in my memory, an endlessly repeating play in my mind, a single scene in a tragedy, and I know all the lines, and know all the actions, but never knew who really was the actor, 'til now.

It's perfectly clear in my memory; I can tell you what color was the Muggle shirt James had been wearing, and the faint scent of Lily's perfume. He wasn't wearing his glasses because Harry'd grabbed hold of his wand and turned them into spiders, and Lily was scolding him for leaving the wand where the baby could reach it. The house was filled with the smell of the potpourri Lily loved to make, and the sun shone brightly, too brightly that Lily lowered the shades, and then she turned to me and asked why I had called.

And then I told them. And then I betrayed them.

Murderer, monster, I am all those things, but betrayer? I gave them to someone who betrayed them so does it mean the same thing? Did it matter what I would have died before I would consciously betrayed them or that now I am tormented far worse than whatever punishment they would mete out upon me? Did it matter that I had meant for them to be safe and instead caused their death?

The road to hell is paved with good intentions, and I have sent them on this road with mine.

Now, I only wait to join them.
--------------------------------
Crap, I needed to get this out. I have NO BLOODY idea where this came from either. I was just writing up my thoughts on how I would characterize Peter Pettigrew in my fic, when I recalled Penelope-Z's wonderful fic and the irony of Peter (Thrice denying "rock", holder of the keys to heaven)'s name and his actions when Sirius and how he would be seen as Judas came to me. And this seized me by the throat and demanded that I type it STRAIGHT into the BLOODY text box thingie of Blogger.

Go ahead, tell me what's wrong with it. My only excuse is, I MEANT for him to sound unhinged. Or yeah, completely out of his tree.

Sirius Damon Black. It has SUCH a nice ring to it.

Yes, Mia, this is the niggle fic.

2002-03-17T03:31:00.000-08:00

Ode to Joy

I see leaves of paper before me, and my hands are stained with ink. Line after line is scrawled over the faded parchment, still fresh and damp, glittering beneath candlelight. The candle itself is almost gutted, a small, wavering firefly in the enveloping darkness; wax once molten spilling over the holder in frozen cascades. The dark words were written in my hand, yet I have no memory of a quill between my frozen and cramped fingers.

I read through them, one page, two, five. I wonder how many hours I spent comitting these thoughts to paper; hours I cannot recall, hours that escaped me again in this eternal, cursed existence. What are hours to me, days, or even years? What is time to one forever untouched by its usual marks? But these missing hours disturb me, as though they'd been spent wallowing in oblivion. These words that I wrote certainly gives proof to that. Did I sink so deeply into grief and melancholy that I lost myself so completely? If so, how did I even resurface?

I stand and stir the dying embers in the fireplace. It would take little to revive the flames again, and I had the perfect kindling for it. One page, two, four. The last I keep to myself. The last is the only one that matters. Page after page after page after page, immolated and burned to ashes. Is this how words die? Do the reality of those thoughts vanish once their physical manifestations are destroyed? I hope so. The despair in those words astound even I. Truly anguish is a bottomless pit.

Bitter words burn and rise into the air, grey ghosts and black ash. Bleak thoughts exorcised onto parchment and inkblood.
------------------------

Dare I continue? It's a rambling piece that even I have no clue what it is about. I just had to get it out. Makes me think it's a Louis spec, but the title makes me snigger if so. But yeah, I could probably make it work.

I'll pick up this thread again when hunger is not screwing up my thought process.
Mikagami: YOU have a thought process?
Shut up, boy. I have a keyboard, and in your world it makes me GOD. *cue maniacal laughter*

2002-03-15T04:30:00.000-08:00

*groans* Now I'm getting into a NEW fandom. Feeeck. Vampire Chronicles specs. Louis/Lestat. Oh the joy... the pain... the angst... the prettiness! I'm going to watch Queen of the Damned with my Anne Rice-loving friend. *squeee* We've been told it's utter tripe. Do we care? As fangirls NO. I don't think they even have Louis in it! Feeeck! I wanna bask in the Louis/Lestat fun.

Anyway, I won the Gryffindor Common Room logo contest on FAP. *indulges in joyful squealing* I think someisa's banners were better, but hey.

Have title for Sirius/Lucius fic: First Blood. It's all about wizarding duels, and rapiers, and so much angsty fun. And yes, that's about how much I have for it right now. I'm focusing on developing my Mikagami fic. So far, I have the outline. The three tests rock my skinny little butt. Need to mail plot ideas to Lynn-chama-chama, but will lay off as to keep her from being distracted. She has important exams.

Who can I BEG to write me Sirius/Lucius? Soz's Russian Roulette is fantastic, of course, but the Sirius/Lucius isn't all that evident yet. Heck it's all subtext, and probably wouldn't even be noticed if Soz had not stated that she was a fan of Sirius/Lucius.

Now, Rei-jester-chan asked me why I'm so fascinated with Sirius/Lucius. Aside from the fact that I just love Sirius, it's the INTENSITY of it. Not as much as Snape/Sirius (Dear God I love Snape/Sirius fics... not enough of them. They're my guilty pleasure. Yesssh. I haunt Thin Lines daily) I posted something about this on the Sirius/Lucius thread on FAP:

Granted, I also ship Snape/Sirius, because I *really*like putting rivals together. The contrast of personalities. In my view of Sirius, he's dynamic, impulsive, and VERY clever. He's like Fred and George Weasley in that he's a prankster at heart. He LIKES causing chaos, and is probably something of an attention-seeker. Cunning and charming, he can probably talk his way out of anything. Also, I sort of see him as someone who does not apply himself to his studies. He's naturally talented at magic, and is very intelligent, but he dislikes being bored more than anything. And hyper too... (but maybe Hyphen's fics swayed me to that...)

Sirius is multi-faceted. On one side, he's a great friend, and VERY loyal, caring and kind. He'd do anything and everything for you, and if he intends to court someone he'd probably go over the top (if you want a bouquet of roses he'd be the type to give it to you EVERY. DAMNED. DAY) He knows what he wants, and he's not afraid to get it. He's upfront about his feelings, and quite STUBBORN. Tenacity, thy name is Sirius Black.

We see glimpses of this side of Sirius in his interactions with Harry, and the way he's been described. The rest is just my interpretation.

But Sirius is also hot-headed. Perhaps also a bit irresponsible. He's ruthless when crossed, and quite unforgiving. He's prideful and would simply DESPISE admitting to a mistake. The whole Snape incident... well it shows that he is quite capable of cruelty (but I'm of the opinion that he didn't REALLY want to kill Snape. The other probably said or did something that pushed him too far, and he just lost it completely. I'm not making excuses, what he did was inexcusable. We all make mistakes after all, and his are usually disasters)

As for Lucius... *grins* Well, I'm not really a Lucius fan and would prefer not to be skewered if I say something wrong.

So take Sirius, add Lucius, and you get a molotov cocktail. The way I see it (behold the way I cover my errr... nether regions by adding such phrases!) It's lust and hate, and perhaps fascination all tangled and confusing and would drive our boys NUTS. It's passion, toeing obsession, and oooh, violence, two forces of nature just COLLIDING.
---------------------
*whistles* Also said that it reminded me a BIT of Ron/Draco but nowhere near the same.

2002-03-09T02:22:00.000-08:00

WARNING Contains shounen-ai content. Do not proceed if you are not comfortable with it.

*hums*

*twiddles thumbs*

*If you go further beyond this point, any mental trauma caused by my writing or the pairing can no longer be blamed on me.

-------------------------

Sometimes it was about desire.

Sometimes it was about the slide of skin, and heat, and gasps and...

oh shit. Lost the thread... *shrugs* Well, this -was- going to be for Rei-jester-chan for her wunnerful stalk - er - patronage of my comments box and the HxD joy she delivered. Now if I could just convince her to write Sirius/Lucius... or Snape/Sirius.

2002-03-07T02:57:00.000-08:00

Three generations. Three Unforgivable Curses.

See three very different men, with the same blood flowing through them, create three different curses, for three different purposes, with the same result.

I am become Death,
The shatterer of Worlds.

Read it all in: The Radiance of a Thousand Suns

----------------------------------------------

Three Fatal Sparks

"Avarice, envy, pride,
Three fatal sparks, have set the hearts of all
On Fire."

Because love is an unforgiving inferno.

Either that or:

He was pride, he made a world bow to him, and fear to speak his name.
He was envy, he wanted what others had but only received bitterness
He was avarice, he had money, power and influence, but he still craved for more.

Three men. Three deadly sins. Three fatal sparks.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++

AAAAAAGH! Why the hell do I have FIC PLUGS for fics I haven't even BEGUN to -WRITE-?!?!

But they're good plugs. At least I think they are. I can't write decent plugs to save my life.

2002-03-07T02:32:00.000-08:00

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

*sighs happily* Sounds perfect for a Hikaru-fic. I will never achieve such a level of verbal beauty. Ah well.

YYYYYYYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEESSSSSSSS!!!!!!!

Final exams are OVER! Only have to report in for unfinished requirements but otherwise I AM FREEEEEEEE!

Am looking for Sirius/Lucius plotbunnies. Did not find any plot bunnies at all except for this random angst plot bunny demanding that I write something about the Imperius Curse. There was some discussion on FAP about wchi Unforgivable Curses were errr... pardon the term, most favored, and so far I think Imperius is winning. My vote was on this too.

Am planning on returning to my Mikagami fic. Need someone to act as sounding board for ideas since Lynn-chan has so many things to deal with, but she's still wonderful enough to help me out with it! *huggles her Lynn-chama-chama* Everyone MUST have a Lynn-chama-chama in their life!

And before I forget, yummy ficlet Rei-jester-chan! Much numminess! HxD joy abounds!

*grabs the Cho/Ginny plot bunny* Let me write Theory of Flight dammit!

Oh and since Mia-chan apparently reads this blog, HI MIA-CHAN! *giggles* There's a comment box riiiight there! For comments aside from "More run-on sentences."

2002-03-02T01:08:00.000-08:00

It was desire.

It took him a few minutes to realize that what he felt was desire. It took him a second to understand that what he'd classified as desire before was but one facet of that emotion.

This... was not the heady rush of the blazing fire of sexual desire that he had so often felt before. No flames licked at the skin untouched by heat. What he felt was this... hollowness. A pang of yearning, edges blunted by loneliness. He stood within the shadows, just outside this house in Godric's Hollow. And wanted.

And he understood that his affair with the carnal inferno of skin and smoke and night whispers were just a way of filling his need for the hearth-fire he watched, that touched them with soothing, comforting heat.

He also knew he could never have it. He was too weary, too tainted, all covered with burn scars and handprints. He could only watch and want, and only want, what his best friend had as he had always. A wife, and a child. And a home. Most especially, a home.

-------> sirius drabble.

2002-02-25T06:01:00.000-08:00

Am tempted to write sirius snippets, just to get in the mood but am not able to write much of anything lately. Still have not done religion project. am completely screwed, aren't I?

Hey, what's the timezone for Romania and Egypt? Need it for my entry to the Gryffindor fic contest thingie.

O.o when typing out "Signed, Sirius Black" I have it "Sirius M. Black" I accidentally typed. "Sirius Marvolo Black."

*cackles Lord Voldemort: Sirius, I am your father.
Sirius: Shouldn't that be Harry?
LV: Too Star Wars-ish. And the author is a Sirius fangirl, not a Harry fangirl.
Sirius: So I'm Sirius Thomas Marvolo Riddle Black eh?
LV: That explains the darkness in you *leers* Join the Dark Arts, my son.

My Sirius has pretty violet eyes *heart* There's gotta be some Sirius fan cliques or something! *pouts*

2002-02-22T04:01:00.000-08:00

*sighs* Losing touch with anime fandom. Barely get to watch anime anymore (even Vandread! Even Taiho Shichauzo! I missed the Toukairin/Natsumi eps! and THE Toukairin/Natsumi ep: 48! And am I the only one who got distinctly yuri vibes when it came to that inspector lady and Natsumi?) Am now mostly focusing on Kagefics and *coughs* HP fics. I feel terrible for stalling most of my anime works *frowns*

Am trying to figure out the timezones in Egypt and Romania for Gryffie fic contest. Help? You know, to the few, the strange but happy few who read this blog (rarely, as it is)

Also struggling with G/C plot bunny. That's Ginny/Cho to the uninitiated. Fellow Fireflier suggested My Sacrifice as our official ship song. Imagination ran with it. Songfic, aesthete!Ginny and angsty!Cho. Am not happy. Too much stuff.

And because it makes me feel like I'm being organized (when my life is an utterly fucked up mess), the list:
+Mnemosyne's Lamp
+And the Meek Shall Inherit the Earth
+Spinning Wheel
+Airborne
+Virgin Sacrifice (a Riddikulus fic! *hoots* Ginny and Cho get sent to an all-witches' school... frack title reminds me of Sacrificial Lamb. One of the funniest things I've read and introduced me to Ginny slash.)
+The Theory of Flight
+Distant Sunsets (the songfic)
+Signed, Sirius Black (the dark Sirius-in-Azkaban fic. In letter format. You'll see.)
+something Snape/Sirius-ish or Lucius/Sirius-ish. Because Sirius Black is my Sex God, yeah! (because sometimes I feel like saying fangirl things)
+Cloak and Dagger series: The Millennium Curse

A while back, I said something funny about cutting down my fic list?

Oi, YYH the movie is on IBC 13!

2002-02-22T03:30:00.000-08:00

They say that he was mad

Little winter blossoms, falling to the ground. A white, white blanket, and the earth slumbers beneath pristine covers. Step, step, step. Drip, drip, drip.

Ivory, so pure that it made him want to splash it with color. Any color. White was the absence of color, they said. If he sliced his own skin, to let blood pour out and stain the snow, would the frost just absorb it? Just let the color sink, sink, fade. The snow would again be unmarked, unstained.

He'd always been fascinated with the image, this picture of blood on snow. It was such a poetic contrast, beauty and scarlet death, innocence and hatred, anger, lust, all the trappings of the flesh. It was a sacrifice he was willing to make, to bleed, bleed for beauty, for art.

They say he was a shadow, a terrible ghoul. A twisted ghost of his former self.

He remembered better days. Better days when he was not haunted by the pictures of broken flower stems and crimson-spattered lace curtains.

But those better days tormented him more than the demons that snarled within his mind, clawing at his inner flesh, letting him bleed on the inside.

They say he was never the same after the Vision

But those days past could never compare to the horror of the days to come. Not blood, but snow, snow, snow. A veritable glacier shining beneath a distant sun.

Everything was so white.

No color, just white that stretched endlessly, a white that swallowed everything even what blood was let willingly, like an infinite ivory void.

They say that he saw tomorrow

And it drove him mad.

And it made him blind
------------------------------------------------------

I guess I'll have to wait until college until I can throw around those literary words and terms about what the frack I am doing.

No, I still have no idea what is going on. Harrumphs. I wish my brother would go the frack away so I could have some SILENCE and write in PEACE. But he is here and the TV is fecking loud and I already shouted at him to keep it down but does he listen?

It's driving ME mad.

I despise my need to be lyrical, my inability to keep my butt glued to my seat when the words aren't flowing right. *shrugs* Oh well.

2002-02-20T03:47:00.000-08:00

*falls over laughing madly*

Imagine "The Sweetest Thing" as background music for watching clips of billiards. Who was the dumbass who picked the song? I love the song. I like billiards. They just DON'T mix.

*hmphs* Have given in and uploaded graphic files to Seiryuu.nu. Not very happy, as will be taking up even MORE of S.nu's bandwidth. Will have to find solution soon.

Am toying with giving Sirius a Squib father. More angst fodder for dark Sirius-in-Azkaban fic.*thinks some more*

2002-02-17T04:34:00.000-08:00

*squicked* I can't believe I just posted: Basilisk/Moaning Myrtle, Sirius/his motorcycle, Harry/his Firebolt. Hell, why not Harry/his Nimbus 2000?

*gets struck by lightning*

2002-02-17T00:17:00.000-08:00

AWWWWK!

*squawks in dismay* GAAAH! Okay, so there is absolutely NO HOST that allows me to direct-link my graphic files anymore.

*swears*... I don't want to add to Seiryuu.nu's bandwidth...

*swears even more*

2002-02-17T00:05:00.000-08:00

He told me he'd never flown before.

I believed him.

Certainly he's ridden a broomstick, but to fly, to soar free and beautiful into the sky, racing the wind and chasing clouds... I don't think he's ever done it.

Flying is a miracle.

I don't think he believes in them.

I think he's always ridden a broomstick simply for the purpose of traveling from place to place. He's never ridden for the pleasure of it, for the sheer rush of feeling your heart pump as you streak across the sky, every infinite second borne in air a challenge to the sun, to the land-bound creatures.

Flying is freedom.

Something he's never really had.

He bought his first broom with money he'd saved up from working industriously as apprentice for Sir Thorpe. It was second-hand, a bit of a sad sight, with unclipped twigs, and unpolished handle. Splinters dug into his skin the first time he held it, but he didn't mind. It was his. The ultimate freedom, a defiance to laws of life that had been beaten into him. People do /not/ fly, Tom, and they don't make things happen just by willing it to.

That first time he rode, it was an uncertain, graceless ascent, fear and insecurity dragging him down much like the pull of gravity.

He fell.

That first taste of freedom frightened him.

So he'd clipped his wings before he could take flight.

Flying is a dream.

He had dreams torn from him.

So his dreams became twisted ambitions instead. For that flow of freedom, he had power. He traded miracles for great, impossible, DARK magic. He learned to Apparate, and put his broom away.

And he learned to break the wings of others.

Flying is an act of defiance.

He's been defying everything that has been said of him since birth, and in a way affirming them.

But that was never an act of defiance he committed.

A pity though. He would have made a brilliant flier.

I watch him now; he mounts a broom again. For the second time, he tries to fly again.

It's a miracle, Tom. Believe.

Believe that you can do it. Believe that you have it in you to make miracles.

He's never played Quidditch, he told me. Never even watched it. He told me that it was because he hated how mad everyone was about it, about the complete uselessness of the sport.

For Tom, everything has to have a use. And he indulges in his own craving for the trivial things he's denied himself in such unspeakable cruelty.

I think it just hurt him to see others fly when he could not.

He grips the broom tightly. I know he's afraid, but anyone else won't be able to see it. He's the picture of steely control. He looks much like a king about to ride off to a war. But there's no charge to lead, and nothing to conquer anymore.

Just the sky.

It's freedom, Tom. Break the chains.

If there's any position I think he would have played, I think he would be best suited as Seeker. Even the name defines him. He has that drive, that single-minded focus one needs to be a Seeker. You streak through the air, chasing after a single elusive gold Snitch. It's also a lonely post, perfect for him. He would fly, a lone figure, circling the Quidditch pitch. And when he catches a glimpse of the Snitch, he would go tearing after it, force personified and velocity in flesh. When he closes his hand around it, a look of triumph would flash in his eyes.

Tom would catch the Snitch not for the team, not even for victory.

He would catch it because he would not let anyone else capture it.

So now he stands, feet on the ground, broom held tight. And I hold the Snitch in my closed fist. With my eyes on him, I open my hand.

And I let go.

Breathless seconds pass before he kicks off from the ground.

He's not graceful, he's not perfect.

He can't fly beautifully because he's never learned how. Never let himself learn how.

It's a dream, Tom. For once, close your eyes. Only then will they be truly opened.

I think he's going to fall again.

I want to shout, but I keep silent, his name an unvoiced cry in my throat.

The broom stops in mid-air, and he falls, the broom with him.

I watch him, and I wonder what he is thinking, what he is feeling.

Unfold your clipped wings, Tom. I've healed them best as I could, but I can't fly for you.

It's defiance, Tom. Defy them. Defy everything you've been told you were.

Fly.

I think he heard me.

He stops, a few feet from the ground, and climbs up again, into the sky. The snitch is distant glint of gold, almost lost in the painful azure of the sky.

He flies as brilliantly as I thought he would. The ruler of the sky, an eagle, a falcon, a dragon. One day, you will glide, confidence bearing you aloft, but for today you fly like an unerring arrow.

Believe in miracles, Tom. Free yourself, Tom. Let yourself dream, Tom. Defy the heavens, Tom.

You seem almost afraid to reach out. Do you think that by letting go of the broom you might fall again? You won't, Tom. Not this time.

One hand clasped tightly around the broom, another slowly moving towards the Snitch, you draw closer. It eludes you but you chase after it. You are no longer in the world, Tom. All you see now is the Snitch. All you feel now is your own heart beating. All you hear now is the wind. There is nothing else.

And in love with the beauty of it, you close your hand around the Snitch. And my hand closes around yours.

Flying is an act of love.

A love of self.

Something you'd never thought yourself worthy of.

Until now.

I love you, and now you do too.

You've flown, Tom.

And I fly with you.

2002-01-20T01:39:00.000-08:00

Between the Shadow and the Soul

"I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul."
-I Do Not Love You by Pablo Neruda

......oh frack. Elijah Wood is on David Letterman! I'm so distracted. I actually typed "Elijag Wiid".

Will continue this later. Aside from our physics research paper, Papaver Somniferum needs to be completed. I owe Jester-chan

2002-01-17T04:14:00.000-08:00

Again, don't highlight if you don't like slash.

now its elfhood! spare me! Urrrgh, I'm not all that hot on writing Tolkien slash (Yet cackle madly over it with Fame, and Yanagi) but seriously... how about some quality? A little more plot? Something more original than "Leoglas meets Frodo, sees his pain over bearing the ring, Legolas and Frodo realize they have feelings for each other and screw madly."? That's something I'd like to see not because I am a dirty-minded little girl (though I am) but 'cause I want to see the mechanics of it. I mean, the height difference, hello? *shakes her head* Oh yeah, and at some point, Sam will make himself known and have a little angst moment himself because how can he ever compete with the pretty Elf prince? Who is completely hot, and an archer, and does not fight using cooking utensils (cool though. Yuuhi Aogiri established that YES you can use cooking utensils to kick some butt. Chopstick martial arts anyone? And I don't mean the Cooking Master Boy method of battling with cooking) and did I mention that he was hot? And can walk on snow? And look hot even when the other looks kinda funny with snow sticking to their beards/hair/pointy hats/etc? And though incomparable to his love's intense eyes is still very hot? And is... hot?

The fics I've read are good, they're not horrible, and I've certainly seen worse in terms of grammar, and implausibility, and complete lack of plot. I've just been spoiled recently reading such works like herongale's.

Does this mean I'll end up writing a Frodo/Legolas slash fic? We'll see. I'm not a slash writer. I've only written one shounen ai fic and that only had hints. I've -planned- writing shounen ai fics, but actually written them?

2002-01-13T06:25:00.000-08:00

O.o! To spare you poor unfortunate souls... don't highlight the part below this. I just -really- need to express my shock.

If you highlighted this part, then you're too curious for your own good. Ah well, you did so at your own peril.

"hobbithood"?! What the... HOBBITHOOD?!

Mark me down as officially scarred for life.

How the frack can I write the rest of the snippet after that? *grins* By cold id acding up. Why it's affecting me typing I dunno.

Frack it, I'm going to sleep.

2002-01-13T04:35:00.000-08:00

WARNING: here be slashy implications. Actually there's nothing -really- slashy here. It just seems that way to me 'cause I wrote it.

The scene was like something out of the gothic novels that Minerva was so fond of (but would deny to her dying breath and would threaten to transfigure anyone who dared imply otherwise into a three-headed cow). Stark, barren trees, on a jagged cliff that fell down into a roaring sea. Wind howling much like a banshee even as the sky threatened us with an impending thunderstorm. It was all rather picturesque really. What, you expect a different opinion from a man who has his classroom in a dungeon?

I could see him stir, slowly, and knew the exact moment when he wished that he would return to his blissful state of unconsciousness. Green eyes flinched, and then opened wide when all his memories came rushing back to him. Good, now I didn't need to worry about having to answer questions like "What? Where am I? What'm I doing here?" that would just serve to irritate me.

Those eyes swung wildly around the cliff until they landed on me. Sharpened like cut emeralds. I knew he would have glared suspiciously had he the strength. Any minute now, he would ask "What are you doing here?" in that sublime tone of wariness, anger and confusion.

But that wasn't what he asked.

"What, no billowing cloak?" Something too bitter to be amusement lurked in his eyes.

How amazing, our minds were on the same track.

"I'm afraid I could not accommodate you this time, Potter. And after all the trouble Macnair went through to provide us with such a properly sinister setting. Rest assured, the next time I find out that you had a typical Gryffindor lackabrain idea, and run off to charge to Miss Chang's rescue, I'll endeavor to locate properly gothic attire and the menacing, black stallion before going after you."

Properly snarky reply, except for the fact that I just admitted to him that I would rescue him. Of course, knowing him he would just attach some properly evil motive to it.

Again, he surprised me by turning his eyes away and forcing himself to sit up. Odd that I hadn't noticed how much I liked him that way, all sprawled and vulnerable, like someone who had fallen from too great a height, his hair like a tarnished halo around his head. Thank God he lost his glasses, that would have ruined the effect.

"Please, you're disturbing enough as it is. Your robes billow quite nicely, anyway." Typical. Here he was, completely defenseless, and instead of devising some plan to get away, he was exchanging insults with a man who he -knows- loathes him and one he trusts to help him as much as I trust Longbottom to even find the proper ingredients of a potion. Foolish Gryffindors and their lion's pride. He was too angry to be fearful.

Furious for reasons that I would rather not delve into, I strode over to him and hauled him up. He looked as if he were about to spit out his thanks but I cut him off before he could make a resentful attempt. "I'd rather not hear it Potter." As amusing as it would have been to see him shoot glares at me while fumbling with a brief word of thanks, for some reason, I didn't want to.

That reason being, I suspect, that someone afflicted me with a curse of compassion. For Potter. The mind boggles.

Not that the second one was more acceptable. That I wanted him to mean it.

Once this debacle is over I'll inquire for roomspace at St. Mungo's myself.

-------------------------

Snape is OOC. He's a bit snarky but not enough, and the language needs to be more formal. And I wrote it without sticking a sneer into it! The mind DOES boggle. Second snippet coming. It's supposed to be part of this one but I can't seem to make the transition without stalling the two of them unnecessarily when they should be escaping and escaping FAST. Don't ask me what the frack happened, I don't know because this is purely a spur of the moment thing.

Again: "What was I thinking?!"

2002-01-09T07:09:00.000-08:00

*swears*

There is something wrong with me. Limited attention span maybe?

Papaver Somniferum
By Natsumi

She sits there quietly, so quietly that it is hard to believe that if it was any other time, the woman before her would be moving with manic energy, such life and fire flowing through her veins that she all but erupted from it. In moments such as these, the girl finds it difficult to recall memories of that other side of her friend and reconcile it with this wax-doll-like waif in front of her.

There were differences, she muses, the look in her eyes is different, relaxed and hazy as though the blue that sparked with lightning had been fogged over. Those same eyes that flashed a multitude of emotions that it hurt to look into them are like dull glass. The wary, sarcastic bite is gone, replaced with a look of distance, of absence of a mind that has retreated to wherever she goes to whenever her mouth tastes the swirl of liquid flavored with the seductive essence of the white poppy.

The girl moves with abrupt force, pushing a bowl off the small table between them. The scream of the shattered bowl is unheard by the other woman; her body remains still and unmoving, with all the strength of a broken flower stem. The girl barely restrains herself, her hands clenching to keep from grabbing the pliant woman and shaking her furiously. She wants to scream, wants to shout, wants to push at the body in front of her, until the storm masked by mists breaks loose again; willing to risk feeling the lightning strike her body, risk ANYTHING to shake the other free from this unnatural state of drifting between waking and sleep.

For a moment, her desire to do so makes it real in her mind, a sharp image coming into focus. The woman’s body falls on the floor, her hair cascading midnight that hides her face until it swirls like the wind as she moves to strike back. It makes the girl flinch, blue-gray eyes closing briefly as though to banish the all-too clear mirage. She opens them again and realizes that nothing has changed; not her own position nor that of the pale-skinned woman leaning with her back against the shoji and the fragments of a bowl lying on the tatami between them.

-----

There are SO many things wrong with this fic. Papaver Somniferum BTW is the scientific name of the opium poppy. Any fellow Kagetai would be able to recognize the characters mentioned.

I already have several fragments of the fic, but I'm still digesting info on the effects of opium on the body. It turns out that since *cough* the chara mentioned has a different reaction to ingesting the opium. So before I can write the next fragment, I gotta understand it in my mind first. Damn but sleep deprivation slows my brain down. I just hope Rei-chan doesn't kill me for this.

*frowns* I thought that this style would be effective for the piece but frankly all it did was give me a headache. I HATE tenses. It confuses the hell out of me. Aside from problems with tenses, the piece also suffers from confusing pronouns. It's hard to tell that there are TWO characters at first. And believe me, later on in the fic it's all "her" and "she" and it gets difficult to understand who is doing what since I won't be mentioning names until near the end. And upon further perusal, I see evidence that slasher tendencies have sunk into my subconscious because there seems to be major subtext going on in my later fragments. *frowns* I'm REALLY hoping Rei-chan doesn't kill me. Other than the overuse of words and the abuse of research and MORE badly written angst, it's a semi-decent fic that doesn't cause brain damage and other averse physical effects aside from inducing one to vomit.

I have no idea what brought this on but it seems unfair that this certain aspect of this character gets no attention at all. So it's just my way of writing a fic with the central theme of "Say no to Drugs!" Sound familiar, Mia, G?

2002-01-02T04:06:00.000-08:00

*stares resignedly at the screen*

Lemme see. What fics am I working on?

1. Sange - Hamazaki-sama!
2. Serenata Notturna - Mia's gift fic. Currently 35kb
3. Holding On to a Whisper - Lynn-chan still hasn't picked the fandom for it
4. A Recca/Fuuko fic for oniisama
5. Temperance - a future entry for Tales from the Meiji Era fanfiction contest.

Supposedly, I should be working on Kekkon Shite! the gift fic for K-san. But it's supposed to be a comedy fic ;__; which I am not good at.

XD I should be glomping oniichan like crazy. Last night, I had this really helpful chat with him! I begged him for help on the characterization of Hamazaki Hidetsuna (I will never tire of typing his name) and he really helped me flesh out Hide-kun's character! XD XD XD <3 SUKI! Domo oniisama! *grateful glomp*

I'm trying to write Temperance. But it turns out I still need to research for it too ;__; I am becoming far too obsessed with the authenticity, and accuracy of any miniscule info presented in my fics. Ah well. I always knew I was masochistic one way or another.

Temperance
Summary: A blade must be tempered before it can be used to protect life.
Keywords: Kaoru, and Yahiko, episode 18, Kamiya Kasshin Ryu
Spoiler Warnings: Episode 18 of the anime, the Yuutarou-Raijuuta episodes, also took info from the manga

*sighs* tired

2001-12-30T02:29:00.000-08:00

WAIT A COTTONPICKING MINUTE! I am not a wuss! *pouts* I'm NOT!

Dammit.

2001-12-30T02:27:00.000-08:00

Damned bandwagon. I'm weak! Weak I tell you! *assumes the look of a sheep: docile, mindless, malleable, having too much fun with a dictionary...*

You're harried, and often have too many things to take care of to stop and enjoy life (whether from procrastinating or not). You feel safe when you're busy, though, and you're somewhat of a wuss, and often caught off-guard. You're easily startled, and may be somewhat of a push-over -- but if you think you've the right, you'll boss others around.

Effing hell! Too damned accurate for my own good.

2001-12-29T02:51:00.000-08:00

For some reason, I made a layout for this thing. Will anyone host me? Please? I'll send you a screencap of the layout so I can prove the prettiness of it, puh-leeze?