fic teasers

pick in the ice - romance tool try two

Mon, 06 Jul 2009 00:02:41 GMT

War is a common thing.
Amidst these lives of normalcy it is waged silently but deadly next door, across the street, or around the corner.
Battles you did not know existed pull and plague close by and you are a stone's throw from destruction every minute of every day.
You live your lives with blinders on, happy to go about your routines.
I live in the truth.
I am soldier though not of your military nor any government, but a soldier all the same.
And, I have done things of which you would not wish to dream.

as I consider - nonfiction

Wed, 01 Jul 2009 17:34:24 GMT

Far be it from me to toot my own horn.
Still, I'd like to think the bulk of my writing is not trite crap.
Could very well be wrong, but hey at least I like it.
So herein lies the dilemma with making the Revenir a true romance novel.
I can see a comfortable crossover with adventure, but obeying the formula... I don't think I can do that.
Therefore as further thought dictates I'm going to have to come up with a more straightforward and contemporary smut jot.
ick
Ah well, I need the tool.
Must in turn drum up with a summary sentence.
mwrf

Tue, 30 Jun 2009 18:21:50 GMT

The wall was massively smooth.
It stretched upwards farther than Danea's craning neck would allow her to see and extended beyond where she could flee in a nighttime.
This wall was meant to be impassable.
There was of course a way to the places beyond, but she had no idea what it was.

~

king of demons
spawn of hell
black on black on black
Why do they associate black with evil?
Black is likened to darkness which in turn conceals truths and conjures the unknown.
Is the unknown then evil?

~

some serious chanting to be had

"Slay the child, save the mother. She can be used."

Harsh words delivered in fluid tongue were common and yet the sweet sophistication of the tone only added to the evening's chill.

~

kneeling
breathless in the winds of time
he could not move, suffocating
pushing beyond boundaries of the continuum
dying yet already dead
he was failing

Revenir drippy drip

Wed, 24 Jun 2009 17:20:13 GMT

Hard fingers increased their tension and Corvan deliberately pulled back, lips clinging damply for a moment.
She swayed forward, lost, and then snapped back to reality.

Corvan was not smiling as he looked down at her.
If he had been Danea would have become violent.
Her denial of their shared past is what sustained her in his company.
Having that belief threatened by such a jolt was painful enough and any smug, superior, or otherwise confident behavior would have bit too deeply.
He however was not smug, rather it was his turn to fear.
The hope that had led him to this point floundered under the worry of having rushed too fast; he did not wish to take another step backward.

Slowly his fingers gentled and the trepidation on his face smoothed to expressionlessness.
Danea's features quickly mirrored his own, covering her apparent confusion, and she leaned away as he stepped back.

"My apologies," he stated, though sorry for nothing beyond the worry he caused himself.
"I will leave you to your thoughts," and with that he turned and walked the stairs to places below.

~
So yes, it appears that this will be the romance novel.
Thus I am unstuck from my block but sadly must return to work.

Drippings et al a la Revenir – cont.

Wed, 24 Jun 2009 17:01:33 GMT

Something ancient she did not recognize rose inside her and lips softened beneath his own.
He smelled so familiar and good, like peppermint and musk. His arms, too the planes of his body called to some long dead part inside and she heated. Black silken strands tickled lightly at her cheeks curtaining the outside world, and though her eyes were open her heart and mind were lost in the past.
She kissed him back.

drippy cont.

Tue, 23 Jun 2009 18:42:35 GMT

Fire flashed before her mind's eye.
A burning, scorching scream ripped from her throat as her body, another lifetime, seared and boiled.
There was immense anger and defiance in her heart back then, and the sounds grinding from her throat were inhuman.
An anguished shriek emitted as something hard and heavy whipped across her back, knocking her to her knees.
Through the smoke and flames she looked upward to her family, white with death and grim.
They stood far up on a hill, watching and mourning, only her century long connection allowing the sense of their presence at all.
And then there was Corvan, so young again and uncertain, connected to her mind and burning through her.
She could feel his tears, feel his sobs even this far away.
He was likely being held, struggling to come to her, but that would mean his demise and she was grateful to the family for his safety.

As her last thoughts melted away and she crumbled to the ground a dizzying snap brought her back to the present and to the Corvan of now, who held her as she sagged, and who searched her frantically with his mind before his mouth slanted against hers.

Gishy Yuck - take one

Tue, 23 Jun 2009 17:47:14 GMT

It was a secret.
Danea's back pushed the length of his front, bodies aligned, strong arms wrapped around her waist; he provided a sense of love and safety she could not overlook.
A terribly unacceptable predicament.

"I hate you," she muttered, eyelashes fanning against pale cheeks. She was afraid to look outward. Such emotions as this were not real.

"I need you," Corvan's voice ghosted in return, skittering across her skin, his breath warm at her temple. Cool knuckles stroked up and down her throat and there was a silent glory in him because she had not yet turned away.

"You need nothing!"
Apparently that was the wrong thing to say, but too late did he recognize the folly as her nails had already slashed the side of his face, her torso half twisted in anger.

He did not react. A body made of iron would have given more yield as he beat back instinctual rage; but she was Danea and no harm would come to her.
She twitched slightly in his hardened touch but did not otherwise protest; anger was a sign that she was back in control.
One of his hands wrapped steely fingers around her wrists while the other rose to inspect the damage.
It was a minor wound and would heal in a matter of minutes, but damn if her nails weren't sharp.
His fingers came back with blood which he considered.
He considered too the fear in her eyes which meant good things, bottomless eyes of blackened red that he had looked into through how many faces?
Slowly those fingers rose, flickering beneath her nostrils before smearing his blood on her lips.
Her tongue stilled in a concerted effort to not taste, fear increasing exponentially with the rage.

What an interesting afternoon they were having.

North

Fri, 19 Jun 2009 16:40:56 GMT

02:02:03

Over his shoulder lay the body of Emily Hayes their chief Xenonologist.
She was burned where she was not bloody, which was primarily the back side.
The front side of her was torn as if some great claw had rent through her from top to shin.
The face and scalp were ripped off and laying some space away, identity now only recognizable by her exposed genitalia and suit.
Michael had not known her before this mission but she had been pleasant with a quick humor and he'd learned to enjoy her company.
His vision shifted back to blurry when he spotted Caleb, still seated by the instrument console, now black with ash.
An electrical discharge could have explained the singeing of his body but the macabre scene of Emily indicated something else.
Head pounding he stood and staggered over to the commander's corpse, finding it easier to place his focus there.
None of the routine readings had changed and Caleb's hands where hanging stiffly at his sides suggesting that he'd not been touching the console when he died.
The console itself was cool to the touch and polished which again indicated something other than electric discharge.
Michael cried out at a sudden tingle beneath his fingertips and jumped backward, knocking into Caleb who fell against him as he landed atop.
The corpse was cold but should not have been.
It also had very little odor.
How long had Michael been out anyway?

M'kay, this is inspired by a friend’s recent post.

Fri, 19 Jun 2009 14:40:32 GMT

we are eight
we are great
and we totally relate

she circles him who circles her
circle
circle

Her: Well I was created first.
Him: Maybe but I was made better.
Her: Oh yeah? But I already did that!
Him: Yet I do it better too!
Her: I've already found my finish!!
Him: I've only begun!!
Her: You suck!!!
Him: With relish!!!

~snerkles

I fill the time.

Thu, 18 Jun 2009 17:04:35 GMT

Black strands slipped silken over velvety white shoulder, there was no curl to hug the breast which hung round and high.
Her nipples stood tall with pleasure and yet she looked elsewhere.

The scene inside the room was warm.
One nude male lay sprawled, his arms and legs hanging loosely to each side.
A second male was crouched between those spread legs, mouth fastened on an erect penis and making squelchy noise.
A third was behind the second, fingers pulling at buttocks.

There were women about as well, four of them.
Three were together in a fair imitation of the male group, the other knelt at Yael's feet, mouth dripping from recent activity.

~

To me sex via word is rarely gripping.
If you've read one decent description you've read nearly all.
Even with the above passage most blanks can be auto-filled.
It is in the voice, the view, the fantasy, or the feel that arousal is found.
But then I crapped out on smut novels at the age of fourteen after having devoured a library full.

this is not interesting

Thu, 18 Jun 2009 16:43:22 GMT

To encapsulate any individual with a single term, say "sex," is unfair.
A wise person understands this and yet even the wisest person will react to the single word despite this knowledge.
I most often see a Yael who is cold and determined.
I see her driven and unyielding.
That is why I am often surprised to hear her most commonly related to activities of passion.

~a sibling

North - Prologue - etc

Wed, 17 Jun 2009 17:19:28 GMT

01:02:37

The lights, as they had expected, dimmed exactly 2801 seconds after the Hermes had disengaged. What they had not expected were the other lights that would flicker to life, nor that instrument panels which had previously been thought faulty would suddenly alight.
A low thrumming noise jostled their bones almost silent in the depth of its pitch.
Michael, the third crew mate, came careening through the only doorway with wild eyes.
Caleb and Emily looked back from their respective seats beside previously active panels.
They had been monitoring rotation, life support, transmissions, and other such functions that had become of routine interest since the Aurora's discovery some nine months prior.
Now they blinked through stunned faces before snapping back to action.

"Specialist Hayes, contact the Hermes," Caleb commanded.
Emily swung away from him and back to the dials beside her.

~

Walker, Moore, and Hayes

North - Prologue - ever rough

Wed, 17 Jun 2009 11:19:56 GMT

02:02:13

red
red
red

Well, that part hadn't changed.
Michael lay sprawled on his stomach, not too comfortably.
How much time had passed since he last blacked out he could not say, nor was he certain it was relevant.
His head lay cushioned, aching and yet strangely comfortable until he moved slightly and felt the ground move with him.
Sticky, he was covered in it.
His cheek was stuck to the floor as well, suctioned by the cushion that he could not see.

No, all he saw was red, red, red.
Red was often a bad color, especially when it was flashing brightly around you, which this was.
Red light poured over him and added strange dimension to the smooth and chill floor.
He grunted and with effort slid his arms from awkward angles to place hands palms down by shoulders.
With a push he rose to a sitting position, an unhealthy sucking noise coming from beneath his face.
There was drip and Michael became aware for the first time of the powerful metallic odor.
Blood slid in globs from his hair, down his neck, oozing from his left side to rejoin the puddle beneath him.
He lunged around and managed to retch a meter or so away.

North - Prologue - still quite rough

Tue, 16 Jun 2009 18:27:57 GMT

02:01:39

red
red
red
red
There was more to the world.

One shaky hand raised to blurred vision.
concentrate
Michael was on the floor and it was cold.
If he could only lift his head.
His vision cleared somewhat, hand coming into focus.
Blood dripped hot and sticky into Michael's eyes quickly obscuring his view.
Shaken, his lifted the shaky hand to his shaking forehead and moaned.
'Was this a dream?' he wondered as he sank back to black.

~
quite busy at the Hub today

North Prologue 1 - extremely rough

Mon, 15 Jun 2009 18:25:25 GMT

01:02:32

'Hermes, we are secure. Detaching seal in three... two... one... you are good to go.'
"That was the final broadcast from Commander Moore at Aurora station less than two minutes ago. The first habitation of an alien artifact ushers in a new era for our civilization as we expand ever outward in our quests for both knowledge and space. What will these brave people face during the challenging months ahead? Tune in to UBN at ten o'clock for the exclusive story."

There were no expectations for fanfare nor parades, no countdowns with baited breath, and yet all three of the station's new inhabitants had hoped for something more memorable than a ten second blurb.
In a society where the masses were jaded and genuine novelty had become predictable this was not a surprise. Until one of them died or an actual alien appeared there would likely be little notice.
Contemporary society was accustomed to constant change and saw no farther than the trendiest bit of ingenuity, but to those few who actually were watching, this was akin to a miracle. Men and women of great power and knowledge dissected every movement and decision silently; survival hinged in part on their calculations. Unfortunately they were inaccessible and so whatever praises were offered went unnoticed.

With mild resentment Caleb switched off the receiver and leaned his elbow on an arm, the bulbous chair whisked smoothly to one side.
Emily's mouth quirked, their new furnishings had been designed for something taller and much heavier than they. Growing accustomed to the sensitivity of apparatus would take time.

rubbery noir continued

Fri, 15 May 2009 18:00:29 GMT

I remember the last time I took a girl back to my place.
She was shocked while I was amused.
"It's beautiful," she breathed, and ran fingers over things.
All of it was art, my entire place.
By art I don't mean splashes of paint or bumps of color.
I mean the real kind that you can feel and breathe through.
Etchings in the wooden floors, carvings on the arched ceilings, a mantle that looked not so much like a place for the fire as a mouth yawning to the bowels of hell.
It was all black and crystal and the warmth of wood, completely suiting the outside of me.
I never felt at home.

We spent that day fucking with our eyes open, mine on her and hers on everything else.
I looked at the everything else reflected in her eyes from time to time and couldn't help but smile.
She spent the night stretched like a kitten, her hair falling back, head bobbing to her snores.
Ever get an urge to reach out and break something?
She wasn't a bad kid though.
I got up grabbing my flux wand and walked out to the balcony.
It was a beautiful night full of stars and somewhere, closer than you might think, my guys were raining the best kind of beauty.
I accessed my splice and felt for them, Tony, Troy, and Oliver.
They were surrounded by support people who faded to the background.
They were amid a cacophony of violence and light, but that faded too.
I focused on the heat of pain; the pain of killing superseded by the mangling abuse that hit a person more in the heart than the body. That was the kind of pain the giver would rarely forget.

I don't know how long I stood there in the sweet air, living vicariously through technology.
It seemed like minutes but probably was hours.
When Troy finally broke down and screamed, as he always did during such responsibilities, that's when I switched off.

rubbery noir

Fri, 15 May 2009 16:40:05 GMT

I lived in a building with 8 other people. Not just 8 people, but those with whom I shared blood, sweat, and irritability en masse. It was not a premeditated state I assure you, but life had a way of happening.

I watched my cousin Caro prop himself against the door jam, take a pull of flux, and close his eyes in relief.
How many times had I adopted such a posture?
How many times did I fight enough stress to warrant it?
I did not doubt that were we to switch lives I would buckle with a snap.

Flux.
The mint-like cartridge you popped in a wand, melted, and inhaled.
It was sweet, brisk, and healthful; or so they said.
Often I wondered who "they" were. Not an uncommon thought by any means, but very few seemed to have the answer.
In any case I loved the stuff.
Hot and cool at the same time, it woke you up while calming you down.
Made life easy.

a mind of Torment

Tue, 10 Feb 2009 21:32:04 GMT

From this side of life, although can it truly be called life?
From this side of being I take to my heart the longevity of wisdom, or perhaps better the wisdom from longevity.
I can scarcely see beyond the foolish youthful assumptions inspired by experience to the patient and calculating collection of uncertainty.
But when the moon is full and the quiet steals over this godforsaken city I can taste the elusive answers that tease and tempt me to question still.

It is the child who acts without question.
It is the youth who questions the act.
It is the matured who has lived the answer.
And it is the aged who knows the answer to be false.

Certainty is misleading and almost always incorrect.
Suffice it to say there are solutions for the moment but almost never do they transcend to the general slate.

I grow weary of questions and yet it is these self same phenomena that drive me to awake each day.
Were it not for the questions I believe that I would cease in mind and spirit leaving only the function.
And, it is wisdom who understands that functioning is not enough.

rough and awful, but inspiring!

Tue, 10 Feb 2009 20:23:25 GMT

of true evil ever be
a white noise of tranquility
the silent discordant violence rends
while surprising mirth sharply offends
for in true evil there does dwell
the humorous delight of darkest hell
civility apparent will confine
the savage horror behind its line

Wed, 21 Jan 2009 13:09:38 GMT

Picture if you would yourself on a beach.
You are treading upon the warm sand, your feet cushioned and enfolded in fine powder.
As you walk slowly, your arms heavy from warmth, a lassitude drugging your mind; you feel the weight of the sun like a comforting friend.
It sets slowly on the horizon, its colors iridescent and streaking across the sky.
If you were more aware of those things outside your own well being you would be dazzled by its brilliance.
You stop and close your eyes, drifting lazily in a sea thoughts.
You are floating...
And floating...
And floating...

How much time passes you do not know.
Quietly now, almost imperceptibly a white noise begins to intrude.
It is like a low rumble from a long distance or the moan of wind from an approaching storm.
A shadow descends blotting the warmth and the light and as you open your eyes you see a wall before you.
It rises and roars, towering twice your height, three times, taller than the trees, taller than a building.
Your eyes push upwards trying to see its top as it rushes toward you.
Water, it is a wall of water, straight and cold, and frothing like disease at its top.
You have nowhere to run.

When this wave crests as in seconds it will, you will be swept under, pulled into chaos and fear.
When it slams downward you will be crushed and no out will be open to you.

Now imagine this wave is sadness or anger.
Negative emotions you've tucked so deeply inside you've forgotten they were there.

How do you run from this?
What do you do?

inspired bump

Wed, 15 Oct 2008 18:54:11 GMT

Green tinged geysers of sewer flatulence rippled upward from vent and drain to diffuse against the black sky.
This motley of locus and vector created a pleasing obstacle course that Gus was fond of navigating during the cold dark hours.
There was a teetering kilter to his bobbing that suggested frailty and idleness.
This posture had taken decades to perfect and was made especially difficult by the floating.
It was now his signature stance and he was rather proud of it.
An imagined frost from breath mingled with one of the green gusts disrupting its course, however it was actually mischievous fingers playing tricks with dispersion.
Slight of hand was a useful trick during any state of being and Gus fancied himself the most 'alive' specter this side of the river.
In fact, had it not been for the obvious protoplasmic residue he left when agitated he believed he could go full time.
An icy wind knifed itself Eastward blowing the gasses full through his form, disrupting his edges as he flickered like a guttering candle.
Gus paused to brush off the momentary irritation then smiled and moved on.
It was but one more challenge to face and he thought himself thinner to help accomplish his exercise.
A tramp sighed from a nearby grate; he was covered in newspaper and clutching a bottle. Restless sleep turned his angle to warm some new part as something mysterious whispered through his cracked teeth. This was a normal landmark of the area and he was paid no mind.
It was strange really, this suspended afterlife of purposelessness. If one had asked Gus where he was going or how he would get there he'd have replied, "What's it to me?"
And if someone had questioned why in all the world, for he could go nearly anywhere, did he opt to drift amidst the dregs of society he would have found some similar reply. He was just then contemplating this question and what his answer might be when there came a strange popping from directly overhead immediately followed by a blur and a distinctive thud at his former feet.
Gus paused again, looked down and sniffed, "Tha's diff'rnt," he said.

pending NaNoWriMo frenzy

Wed, 15 Oct 2008 17:35:31 GMT

to find me this year go to distant_drift
scrambles will also be posted here, possibly daily

charloft
and
nanoljers
are my LJ communities for '08

Reve jot

Mon, 18 Aug 2008 18:14:59 GMT

Laying
Stillness
Heavy limbs
Soft palette of rock
Swallow
lashes glued
pulling
tugging
limbs fail
brows fail
cheeks fail
glued in isolated motion
panicked frustration
ripping a slit
a gaze that is contemplative
gaze in a face
neither cruel nor kind
a face of full harvest
Overly ripe
almost ugly beauty
The face turns at a boom
Blur of motion
Noises of grappling confusion
flickering light
surrounding shudder
crazily grey
Spinning?
Flipping?
Cold
Tight
Wrenching
Slam
Blackness

non-fiction rant

Sat, 16 Aug 2008 23:54:20 GMT

You don't think it's gonna happen to you; your confidence is low enough you perpetually ask, "Eh, who would ever want what I have?"
Then you run across old friends who had apparently strayed from your journals de fiction only to find them pirating your ideas for their own communities sans permission and without kudos. (at least partial in this case)

Should I be honored or should I feel sick?
For the immediate moment the body has chosen sick.

Of course I realize almost every idea floating out there has already been tackled by somebody else, but there are smacking flavors to a personal spin – I mean it's obvious.

Y'know the worst bit about this?
Until today I hadn't read the damned book they've chosen to cite (which the community's premise deviates from wildly while fully embracing mine – odd what?), thus I actually thought my idea was semi-original.
double-smack

Prompt: garden – how ironic

Mon, 04 Aug 2008 18:26:11 GMT

How do I describe Garden?

Garden is an island.
It is the most secure location for the Revenir and therefore their power base.
Though the nine colonies are situated roughly equidistant throughout the region, Garden is where nearly all have transitioned from human character to their Revenir identities. In essence most everyone considers the island "home."

I envision Garden to be a small island with a low lying and dormant volcano situated at its western edge. The land is rich with black if rocky soil and covered predominately by semi-deciduous foliage.
Two large crescent-shaped stone structures curve inward toward each other; they are set in a grassy clearing beyond the southern shore with the tip of one situated at the mid-point of the other. This layout creates a winding courtyard between the two wherein a long narrow lake is surrounded by polished statues and the occasional fountain.
Surprisingly little color can be found in structures' immediate vicinity creating a subdued palate of stone grey and nature's greens.
However, a third of the year many of the maze-like shrubs, which precede the four polar access points, become speckled with a fragrant and fragile yellow-pink flower that is harvested and dried for use throughout the remainder of the year.
There is no transportation upon the island sans moored sea faring vessels.
There is no slaughter house and no meat other than what is hunted or caught.
Those who require ingestion for survival subsist primarily on nuts, fruits, baked goods, and primarily aquatic creatures.
The presence of the Garden structures, which Revenir society also refer to as "Garden," issues an air of formality.
Its stark stone walls and lack of color suggest a conservatism and severity that many non-residents find intimidating.
The resident Revenir dress in long flowing lines of somber hues.
Their slaves are perhaps the most colorful element of the Garden complex, clothing constructed of patchwork and embroidered design.