brenda

* dream dream dream.

2008-09-25T09:27:05Z

i will post a dream as one (or more) of my characters. you may reply as any of your characters to tease, analyze, bully, joke, or what you will!

a few:

chase:

There once was a man named Chaucer who every girl wanted to boff her...

Oh wait. Right, dream. LOLZ. Okay. Okay. You know how when you're sick you have those really fucked-up irritating dreams? I had this dream where I had to alphabetize my blanket. I wanted to fucking kill somebody. How do you alphabetize a blanket? I don't even know. It was made up of all of these little colored squares and they were somehow alphabetical or something and I had to tie them together with blue string, only then of course it wasn't blue string, it was electrical wire and I didn't have scissors to cut them and Jesus fuck I'm getting pissed off just thinking about it.

Also I had a dream I boned David Bowie in the space needle.

gabe:

i had a dream once in black and white, like it was drawn in ink. there was a clock on the wall, and i knew when it struck midnight it would burst and something would happen. i didn't know what it was. i wrote a letter to everyone i loved, and then i wasn't writing a letter anymore. i was lying in bed with them in my arms and whispering against their hair everything that i ever needed to say. everyone i loved was all wrapped up in one person and they made my arms ache and they smelled like snow. i don't remember what i said. it was like a song and when i woke up i forgot.

marlowe:

Shakespeare and I stole my parents' car and credit cards and drove away into the desert. Regardless of that desert bit, we got lost in my old neighborhood from when I was very young and were being chased by... I think it was my Grandfather? We had to hide in some blankets. Someone caught us. Shakespeare kept kissing me while I was trying to recite something to the judge, so I gave up and had a lot of sex with Shakespeare instead, which happens frequently. Actually, I don't think it was my Grandfather, I think it was that stupid boy from the Scoobie Doo movies.

zelda:

i dreamed once that i was at the zoo and it was my birthday party or wedding or whatever because it keeps changing. you know how that goes. anyway, it was my birthday party or wedding or bar mitzvah or something and i was getting so MAD because people kept feeding the giraffes ravioli and it made them fart a lot. i'm not even kidding you. i was so pissed off when i woke up i couldn't even talk to anyone for like three hours.

charlie:

Oh gosh, i don't know. I guess... one time I had a dream that my mom came back. And I was so so so happy to see her and we danced, but then when she hugged me i couldn't hear her heart beating and I remembered it was a dream. is that what you mean?

goodbye ruby tuesday

2008-09-24T17:43:00Z

i got an email yesterday about someone adding one of my stories to their "favorites" list on fanfiction.net. i occasionally forget that i used to write fanfiction, and it's quite nice to be reminded someone likes it. if i got an email that said "someone thought your story was ass!" i would probably feel a bit differently about it all.

i don't know who of you are familiar with the sadly short-lived series firefly or the fairly successful movie serenity that it birthed, but most of my fanfiction was centered around that-- all of it, in fact, except one of them. many of them are largely jayne-centric because if my foray into fanfiction taught me anything it was that i write dudes better than girls. unless aforementioned girl is crazy. not much has changed, except for the fact that all of these fanfictions are... wait for it... het.

oh that's right. you heard me.

in this wacky world, boys kissed girls. wrap your brain around that.

because writing journal=writing, i'm going to put up the link to my silly little fanfics here. this was pre-rp of any sort, if you can believe it. oh how far away those days seem. xD

most of the fanfics are one-shots for the attention-impaired, two are longer. one of those two is unfinished because... i am also attention-impaired.

here is the link, but don't feel obliged to read if you're not interested.

when i see you, wanna do you right where you're standing.

2008-09-15T20:02:43Z

i'm a sucker for film noir and pulp fiction. i occasionally dream in high contrast black and white with a whisky-voiced narrator. one of my rp characters, marlowe, was supposed to be more film-noir than he ended up being but that's alright. i love him anyway.

months ago, i mentioned the title of an unwritten pulp fiction novel offhand. kiss like a bullet. my friend flipped out and demanded that i write it immediately. i didn't. in fact, i didn't even start writing it until quite recently. it's a spur of the moment thing, likely to be written in spurts and then completely rewritten and reformed, but what's a writing journal for if not to introduce bits of underdeveloped writing to the air and let their skin thicken a bit?

it's just the beginning, a developmental drabble. possibly a prologue. but here is a bit on kiss like a bullet.

copyrighted, of course. but you wouldn't steal from me, would you? WOULD YOU.

It all started with a girl. But you already knew that, didn’t you? You probably picked this up and knew that it started with a girl, just like every other story like this. You figured you had me pegged, right? Well sit down, smart ass. I’m the one telling the story.

It all started with a girl. Her name was Kandy, spelled with a K. I should have known when I saw it written out. Snakes have rattlers and girls have their names spelled wrong. Kandy Keen. She swore it was the name her mother gave her and it suited her all too well when it was up on the marquee. Kandy was a singer. Four nights a week, she would slip into a dress and make love to a microphone. Four nights a week, she had men squirming in their seats, licking their chops as those strawberry lips falalaed just for them. They’d line up at her dressing room door with flowers and gifts and letters that would make a hooker blush and she’d just smile and sashay on out of there alone, because seven nights a week, Kandy Keen went home to the same man.

Ike Valentine was a fighter who hardly ever fought. He was too pretty to damage, so they’d draw the crowds to watch him dance and weave once in a blue moon and they pay him to smile nice on the posters the rest of the time. He could’ve been a movie star, they said. Too bad that every time he opened his mouth he brayed like a jackass. Ike was dumb even before they made him a fighter. When he was a kid, the only way he got through school was by making the girl with glasses do his homework for him in exchange for a smile. On the days the girl with glasses was sick, he’d beat the shit out of his kid brother and make him do it. I knew long division by the second grade.

Kandy always told me I was smarter than Ike. “He’s bigger than you, Johnny,” she’d say as she was fastening her stocking. “But you say prettier things. It’s like fucking Shakespeare.” And then she’d kiss me with those strawberry lips that tasted like cigarettes and go on home to Ike. And every time I’d say it was the last time. And every time it was, until she came walking in my door again.

coming and going.

2008-07-21T08:28:25Z

wanderings and wonderings about past characters. feel free to disregard.

it's not like i like getting rid of characters. really. but there have been several characters that i've brought in since the beginning of pierian springs who, though i love them deeply, haven't worked out for one reason or another. among these are whitney walters (walt whitman), jeff chaucer, james barrie and now dante alighieri and angie hughes (langston hughes). they're people who, while adored, just aren't used as much as i feel like i should be using them. i want to keep them, but i feel like a negligent mommy when i do that. it's odd, because there was nothing in particular that i disliked about any of them. nothing at all, really.

it's quite sad.

i imagine that whitney is probably in new york spouting off poems at poetry slams and sleeping with rock stars and vandalizing eco-unfriendly vehicles. jeff is, i'm sure, living with lucy montgomery, if they aren't married yet. they're probably in a little apartment somewhere close to one of their parents' places, where lucy plants flower boxes and works at a bakery and jeff is taking college classes and works in a comic book shop. james is probably back in his tiny town in scotland, surrounded by nieces and nephews and going to the local pub to tell outlandish stories most every night. dante will find his way to a big city and scrounge out a living and live in a crappy apartment until he gets a break as an editorial columnist for the new yorker, butchering politicians and celebrities and world society as a whole. angie will go back to harlem, where she will raise hell like she always does.

poe is a different story. when poe was created, i was in love with him. i adored him and i wrote him whenever possible. and then i fell out of love in some ways. poe became my whipping boy. i refused to let him be happy and he was involved with too many people to drag them down with him, so he needed to go.

some characters are a bit hollow, a bit distant from us, no matter how much we love them and want them to work. other characters are too close to our hearts, too real, too fleshed-out.

strange how that goes.

either way, things come and things go. maybe someday a new version of one of those characters will come back. or maybe all of the old characters who i started this crazy ride with will be set aside and all new ones will come in. you never know.

* five secrets and a bonus.

2008-07-21T08:08:17Z

Comment here with a character of mine, and I'll tell you five things you didn't know about him/her, as well as one thing even he/she doesn't realize!

* suggestion box.

2008-07-21T08:06:34Z

Which scenarios would you like to see my characters get into? This could be anything from more interaction with another char, more emphasis on a certain character flaw they have, or something as simple as more happy scenes!

paper dolls 3.

2008-07-05T21:05:36Z

okay, just one more polyvore.

paper dolls 2.

2008-07-03T20:08:39Z

oh yeah, i'm feeling that polyvore addiction.

anais' style is the bastard child of daisy duke, some filthy cowboy, and a bohemian belly dancer. she likes to show off her curves and isn't even a little shy about it. her button-downs are a little too small and most of her shorts or skirts are a little too short with frayed holes in them. she likes leather belts with heavy buckles, chunky jewelry of the boho persuasion, and boots of all shapes and sizes. she's used to being poor, so basically she wears her clothes until they fall off of her body before she gets new ones. also, she wears men's underwear. why don't i play her more?

gunn likes things tight and colorful. blindingly bright or busy fabrics totally get him off, and he wears them all the time. he has a bunch of pairs of really cheap plastic sunglasses and changes his haircolor about weekly. he likes clothes from thrift stores and clothes that don't make a whole lot of sense, and most of his clothes have personal touches-- colorful hand-stitched patters on pockets, sewn-on patches. not pictured here: leopard print low-slung original punk pants so tight they would make your eyes water.

paper dolls.

2008-07-02T06:27:14Z

i may not be able to make good sentences, but playing paper dolls is theraputic to the insomiacified brain. clearly.

ETA: also, i love how everyone else has these nicely made outfits that are all coordinated and organized and i'm like "HEY HERE IS ONE PAIR OF PANTS AND FORTY SHIRTS AND MAYBE THREE SHOES LOLZ. AND ALSO HIS HEAD IS A UNDERWEAR!"

yeah. sorry about that.

gabe's style is easy, organic, and lived-in. less is just right. many of his jeans and t-shirts are spattered with minute flecks of paint, but when the time comes, he cleans up rather nicely in clean lines and dark colors. his shirts are cotton, his jeans are button-fly, and he doesn't believe in shoelaces (when he wears shoes at all).

poe's fashion is both eclectic and thoroughly thought-out. one day he could show up dressed like any other emo boy-- black and white t-shirt, cadet hat, skinny girl jeans, sneakers-- and the next day he could be wearing a ruffled shirt under a velvet blazer, accented with a brooch. yes, those are ruffles on some of the shirts. yes, those jeans were manufactured to be worn by a female. but he still makes them look good.

zelda's closet looks something like an explosion at a skittles factory. she loves colors and doesn't particularly care if they traditionally match each other. if she's feeling pink, orange, and green she will wear pink, orange, and green. she enjoys short skirts and dressing in layers, as well as yummy vintage dresses. she also has more shoes than one girl should.

it's not that eli is particularly patriotic, he just knows that he looks good in red, white, and blue. most of his clothes are one of those three colors. ocassionally he strays to something else, but it's rare. as soon as the calendar says it's sometime other than december, january, or february, eli is generally in shorts and sandals, regardless of whether there's snow on the ground. also, he dresses like kind of a tool.

sam doesn't really think about what he's wearing much. he just wears what's comfortable for him-- worn-out jeans, soft, faded t-shirts, snuggly sweatshirts. he doesn't mean to wear mostly blue, gray, and brown, it's just sort of what happens. sometimes he opens his closet and realizes everything faded to right around the same color and laughs, but he forgets about it fairly quickly because he's out romping with bunnies or whatever that boy does.

cool, controled, polished, with just a touch of rumpled "oh my goodness naughty teacher, are you wearing underwear under those slacks?" that's what marlowe's general style guidelines are. he's not often in jeans, and when he is they're rarely faded or worn at all. nearly everything is in black and white or shades of grey. that's just how he rolls. he also owns a tie rack, and it's entirely full. you wish you were that suave.

yes, those are tiny denim short shorts. yes, they're worn by a boy. yes, his boyfriend loves them. the t-shirts are all gathered from thrift shops (as are the shoes, the coat... not the underwear, that's creepy) and Charlie generally has no idea what they mean, but they make him giggle. the white t-shirt and pajama pants were stolen from the aforementioned boyfriend.

* prompt 10.

2008-06-17T22:23:23Z

His movements are slick and serpentine as he walks, weaving between the trees like a feral cat. The moonlight slips between the branches above him, falling in scattered silver scraps, brightening his ice-white hair for an instant before he moves away again. His eyes are sharp in the darkness, picking out the shapes of sticks and stones, stepping over them lightly. He’s moving as if he knows where he’s going, though he’s never been in this part of the woods before. He’s following a scent, a sound, a tug of unseen threads.

After walking—he doesn’t know how long—he hears it. A sound that whispers into the shells of his ears, not only in his mind. Running water. He moves faster, the pull even stronger now.

It’s little more than a stream that he finds, but he smiles all the same, sighing softly. He drops the bag dangling from his fingers—a rough-woven pouch with an old deck of tarot cards in it. His pale, slim hands move to the edge of his shirt, tucking under the hem and lifting, pulling it up over his head. His eyes are slightly hooded, looking at the cool stream as if it were a lover. His hand moves to the fastening of his jeans, working them loose, pushing them down. He steps toward the stream, his naked skin bright and pale in the moonlight. He steps onto a damp stone, then into the stream. He wades in deeper. It only comes to his knees, but he sinks down into it, kneeling on the slick stones.

He dips his hands into the water, scooping it up into the bowl of his palms and lifting it to his mouth. It’s cold, brackish this close to the ocean, but he drinks it all the same, letting it slip past his lips and down his throat. The rest he lets slip from his hands, coursing down his bare chest. He sighs, letting the energy of it course through him, washing the moss and mud from his bones. He sighs—a sound of keen pleasure as the water breaks against his stomach, sliding around his slim waist and circling again, holding him.

* prompt 9.

2008-06-17T19:53:45Z

Gabe’s hand slides up Hans’ arm, following the slim curves of it. His hand slips along his shoulder, moving to his throat, fingers closing around the end of the black satin ribbon tied there. He pulls on it, sliding the bow free. His mouth is against Hans’ jaw, pressing to it, sucking softly. His teeth graze against Hans’ skin at the corner of his jaw before his mouth moves down, moving to his newly-bared throat. He can feel the soft moan beneath his lips.

His hand slides down Hans’ back, sliding down over the full curve of his backside, fingers slipping into the remains of his torn back pocket. His hand squeezes softly and Hans laughs—a throaty little sound. Gabe’s teeth drag lightly against Hans’ throat and the laughter changes to something else.

Gabe whispers something against Hans’ ear, dark and sensual, shaped in Italian syllables. His body presses against his, guiding him backwards until the edge of the table touches the backs of his thighs. Gabe slides his hips between Hans’ thighs when Hans lifts up to sit on the edge of the table. His hips press close to his, rubbing, the sound of fabric brushing together mingling with Gabe’s soft whisper.

* prompt 8.

2008-06-15T23:27:06Z

Poe’s not looking at the priest sitting across from him. His eyes are fixed solidly on the edge of the dark, heavy desk between them. His fingers are curved around the arms of his chair, standing out against the dark red fabric. He’s completely dwarfed by the chair. He’s always slight, always little more than a wisp of a boy, but in this monstrosity of a chair he looks even younger than his ten years. If his fair skin didn’t stand out so sharply, it would be easy to overlook him entirely.

Unfortunately, Reverend Lawhead isn’t overlooking him.

“Allen, is there something you’ve come here to speak to me about?” The man’s voice is soft, but it still has a frightening, no-nonsense edge to it that makes Poe nervous.

Poe shakes his head, his hand straying from the arm of the chair to brush his bangs out of his eyes. He turns his attention to a nick in the leg of the desk.

“Your parents brought you in to see me for a reason, didn’t they Allen? Was there something that they wanted you to talk about?”

Poe licks his lips. They’re too red for boy’s lips, always flushed and pretty. He shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so.” His voice is exquisitely soft, perfectly polite.

Reverend Lawhead sighs gently. “Allen, I think there is.” There’s a silent pause. “You know, Allen, confessing things that are bothering you or confusing you can help you be happier. Don’t you want to be happy?”

Poe brushes his hair off of his forehead again and shifts in the chair, looking at his knees.

Reverend Lawhead reaches for the top drawer of his desk and pulls it open. Poe’s light eyes raise, fixing on the priest’s hand as he draws a book out of the drawer. It’s a very plain book, hard-backed and covered with coarse blue cloth. A diary. Poe’s diary.

Poe stares at the book as if looking at it could make it go away. It doesn’t work. His heart is fluttering against his ribcage, making him slightly dizzy. The priest opens the diary to a marked page. One of the most recent entries. He puts his glasses on and studies the page, then looks up at Poe.

“Are you sure there’s nothing you would like to talk about?”

Poe’s eyes finally meet with the older man’s. Someone’s been reading his diary. John and Frances have, and now Reverend Lawhead is, and he feels like someone’s opened his head up and studied his brain. He bites his lip hard, his eyes wide.

Reverend Lawhead looks down at the diary. “April second.” He glances at the calendar on his desk. “That would be last Tuesday, I believe.” He sets the book down, holding the pages open, facing them toward Poe so that he can read them.

Today was so pretty! I only needed a sweater, and mom let me go to the Thomas’s house. First we played hide and seek. Jenny was it, so she stood by the big tree with the hole in it and covered her eyes. We made her count to one hundred so that we could hide really really well, because that’s the best kind of hide and seek. I hid by the creek underneath some bushes. I don’t know how long I was there but then I heard someone coming. I thought it was Jenny, but it wasn’t. It was Andy. He wanted to hide in the same spot! He was in the shed but he heard Jenny and she almost found him. I let him hide and be a little fox with me. We heard Jenny coming and instead of letting her find us Andy took my hand and pulled me out from under the bush we started running. It turned into tag and Jenny chased us across the bridge and up the hill. We were almost to the house before Jenny tagged me. (Of course it was me first!) Andy never let go of my hand the whole time and when I had to go home he asked me if I would come play again soon. I’m in love with Andy.

Poe re-reads the last part. He chews on his lip and looks away, looking intently at the corner of the desk.

Reverend Lawhead lets the book close. “Anything you would like to say now, Allen?”

Poe doesn’t say a word.

The reverend sighs, sitting back in his chair and taking off his glasses, polishing them. “Allen, your parents are concerned. It’s good that you have friends, and that you play games. It’s good that you have someone who you have a lot of fun with, but that doesn’t mean that you’re in love with that person. It’s good, and it’s natural to have friendships like that. But boys don’t fall in love with boys, Allen. Boys fall in love with girls.”

Poe’s cheeks flush, coloring pink just along the cheekbones. Another thing that’s wrong. Boys don’t blush like that. He raises his hand, pressing his fingers to his cheek, feeling the heat from it. He nods, still not looking at the priest. “I'm sorry,” he says softly.

* prompt 7.

2008-06-15T21:50:21Z

Sam picks up another handful of cookie crumbs and sprinkles it on top of the cake, letting them fall in a little anthill-shaped pile in the center. He pats it down a bit, tipping his head to the side as he nudges some of the crumbs off of the edge to scatter artistically across the foil-lined cookie sheet. He’s humming to himself—some song that he actually doesn’t know the words to. It’s in French, he’s pretty sure. Funny how you can get a song you don’t know the words to stuck in your head.

“It’s wonderful, it’s wonderful, it’s wonderful… something something my baby…” That part, he sort of knows. He sings it in that way he has, where he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s singing out loud. The words are a bit muffled by the sour gummy worm half-hanging out of his mouth. There are more gummy worms peeking out from under the chocolate cookie crumbs, crawling up (or down, since he can’t figure out which end is the head) the side of the cake and across the top of it. There’s one coming out from between the two layers of the cake as well. He thought that one was particularly clever.

He plucks the gummy worm from between his lips and chews on the bitten-off part as he ambles over to the window to check on the progress outside. The Colridges and the Wordsworths are spending the day together, working outside on their back yard. Their back yard, because really, it’s all shared property. Mr. Coleridge and Mr. Wordsworth are fixing loose boards in the Wordsworth’s deck while Mrs. Coleridge and Mrs. Wordsworth work on weeding the gardens that the families share. Right now they’re both in the pepper patch. Mrs. Wordsworth sits up and takes of her straw hat, wiping her forehead with the back of her wrist. She says something that Sam can’t quite hear and they both laugh. Sam smiles.

He pops the rest of the worm in his mouth and chews, glancing at the clock. Will should be getting back soon. He’d sent him to the store to buy some lemons for the lemonade. Sam’s plotted out a veritable feast for them all, celebrating the time that the two families have spent together—lemonade, marinated chicken that’s just waiting to go on the grill, a green salad, potato salad, a big bowl of sweet strawberries, and the dirt cake. “Dirt because of the garden, not because of the way I feel about your family,” Sam had explained to Will earlier.

Sam had done most of the cooking, while Will had done most of the chopping and distracting. Not that it takes much for Will to distract Sam. All he has to do is look at him and Sam will forget whatever he’s doing and not be able to focus again until he’s kissed Will for five minutes.

He glances at the clock again, narrowing his eyes at it. He probably has a few minutes. He looks out the window again and then crosses the kitchen, walking into the entry way and turning to run up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He pushes the door to his bedroom open and walks over to his dresser, still humming to himself. He opens the top drawer and fishes under a pile of underwear, drawing out a little green ceramic box. He takes the lid off of it and takes out a little white pill. Not his usual meds. These are the entertaining ones. He considers for a moment, then takes out another one. He slips the box back under his clothes and shuts the drawer before walking to the bathroom. He pops the pills into his mouth and gets a handful of water, swallowing them down. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, looking at himself in the mirror. He smiles and wipes his hands on his jeans.

He takes the stairs two at a time on the way down, too. “Chips chips,” he sings. “Do do do do do…”

* prompt 6.

2008-06-14T02:53:15Z

“And so then I was like… ‘What do you mean I’m manipulative?’” Roswel starts laughing harder, which only makes Griff laugh harder. Griff tips his head back against the couch, holding his stomach. He lifts his head after a moment, stretching out a hand to wrap his fingers around Roswel’s wrist. “’What do you mean I’m manipulative?’” he says again. His voice is a little high from his laughter. And then he finishes it—the punchline. “’I told you I wanted waffles from the very start!’”

They collapse into absolute hysterics. Griff is laughing so hard that it sounds like he’s crying—like he’s some old Jewish woman at the wailing wall. It’s weak, helpless, drawn-out laughter, and there are tears coming down his flushed cheeks. “Oh. Oh. I can’t breathe.” He sits up, pushing himself weakly up onto the edge of the couch and putting his face in his hands, still laughing hard enough to shake his shoulders. He starts to breathe a little more regularly little by little. “Whooo.” He lifts his head, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Oh, Jesus.” He lets out a slow, worn-out laugh—one that actually sounds like ‘ha ha ha,’ and flops back against the back of the couch. “Aaah.”

It feels good to laugh like this. To have someone to laugh with. He opens his eyes, rolling his head to the side. He reaches his fingers out, catching at Roswel’s sleeve and pulling on it lightly, drawing him up onto the couch with him. He wraps his arm around him loosely and leans back against the back of the couch again.

He slides his hand down Roswel’s arm and then slips under it, resting on his waist. His fingers barely creep under the hem of Roswel's shirt, as if seeking the comforting heat of his skin. They go no further than the narrow bit of skin just beneath the hem of his shirt, patient and comfortable. Griff looks at the box of pizza on the arm of the chair and reaches for it, picking up one of Roswel’s abandoned crusts. “Tsk tsk. Roswel Roswel Roswel, not finishing your pizza crust.” He takes a bite of it. “That’s where all the vitamins are, you know.”

* prompt 5.

2008-06-14T01:21:59Z

Dante sways closer to Oscar, peering over his shoulder. He holds his glass a bit away from them so that he doesn’t spill the ever-so-tasty mixture of tequila-and-something that he’s been drinking all night onto the pages of the binder. He narrows his eyes at the song that Oscar is pointing to, leaning over to look at it more closely. He’s behind Oscar when he does this of course, so it forces Oscar to bow closer to the pages as well. And then Oscar starts laughing and so Dante starts laughing too, even though he can’t figure out what’s so funny for a moment. And then he does figure out what’s so funny, but he’s laughing so hard that he can’t straighten up and they both stay leaned over the table like that for a moment before he can manage to get off of him.

“Oh, Oscar.” Dante laughs, wrapping an arm around Oscar’s neck and drawing him close so that he can press a kiss to his cheek. “Oscar, Oscar. Oscar.” His voice is faintly raspy from his laughter and the heat of the alcohol. He remembers the book on the table then, and leans down again to look at it. “That one? Oh, no, I don’t know that one. Not even kind of. And if we’re going to be singing karaoke, I should probably have sometime heard of the song before we sing it. And I don’t know that one. I’m Italian, you know. Mmmmambo Italiano.”

He sways his hips slightly, illustrating the point and laughs again, leaning close to Oscar and resting his forehead against Oscar’s cheek. He straightens again. “Ricky Martin! I know Ricky Martin. We had drinks once and he wore my underwear. Nonono, I’m just kidding, but that’s a funny story, right? I mean his song.” He giggles. “Silly Oscar, you’re drunk.”

He sets his drink down and flips through the binder, flipping to the R’s before Oscar reminds him that it’s likely under M. Silly. He finds the song and he points to it. “There it is! That’s the one.” He turns.

“Mr. Karaoke Man!” He hiccups softly and picks up the binder, linking arms with Oscar and dragging him along to approach the man running the karaoke machine. “Mr. Karaoke Man, my friend Mr. Wilde and I would like to live la vida loca, if you wouldn’t mind.” He sets the binder down and points to the song. “Please. Mr. Wilde would be much obliged. His name really is Mr. Wilde. I’m not making that up. Doesn’t he look it?” He drapes both arms around Oscar’s shoulders and smiles at him, then leans his head on his shoulder, sighing. “Oscar, you’re very drunk.”

* prompt 4.

2008-06-13T23:44:24Z

This is a filthy habit, Marlowe knows. It’s a habit that he should really kick, but it’s so addictive. He can justify it so easily. He just needs to go for a little walk. He just needs some exercise, to stretch out his legs. And while he’s walking, he may as well occupy himself. It’s only natural.

Oh, it’s a filthy habit.

But as Marlowe sinks down onto a bench and raises his hand to his mouth, he knows that it’s one that he’s not going to be breaking any time soon.

He pulls his sucker from between his lips with a soft sound, licking the taste of sugary cherry from his lips. His eyes scan the people as they walk past, milling down the sidewalks of Pierian’s high street. People-watching. No good has ever come of it, really. He could have worse habits, like shooting heroin between his toes or frequenting underage Filipino transgendered prostitutes. But one has to admit that this seemingly-innocent addiction has gotten him into a good bit of trouble. He rubs the wound in his thigh slowly as if to punctuate this thought.

He glances down the street. The police are nearby, looking like they’re not policemen. These particular policemen aren’t very good at it. One is eating a bagel and very pointedly not looking at Marlowe, while the other one looks around casually. Both are wearing aviators. If he has to have police protection, he really wishes they would be inconspicuous.

Marlowe looks around again, putting the sucker back between his lips, rolling it against his tongue. Across the street, a little boy stops and lets go of his mother’s hand to stoop down and tie his shoelace. He has a look of absolute concentration on his face. His mother lets him try it on his own for a moment, her head tipped to the side as she watches him. She reaches down to touch the boys shoulder gently and points, offering some direction on some forgotten piece of the shoe-tying puzzle. The boy finishes and gets to his feet. Marlowe can hear his laugh as the little boy reaches for his mother’s hand again.

The boy pushes his chubby hand through his hair—shiny blonde hair that catches the light much like Shakespeare’s does. Marlowe twists the end of the sucker, letting his lips purse a bit around the candy. He tips his head to the side slightly. Usually, he doesn’t make a habit of staring at children. It’s a creepy sort of thing to do, but that little boy—he could be a baby Shakespeare. Or Shakespeare’s baby. A little boy who they would name… John, perhaps—after Shakespeare’s father, not after Marlowe’s. And he would have Shakespeare’s hair and Shakespeare’s eyes, and Marlowe would take him for walks and teach him how to tie his shoes.

He draws his eyes away from the boy as the boy turns his head to look across the street at him. Marlowe’s eyes are on some scrap of paper in the gutter, barely diverted in time. But he catches a little movement from the boy. He raises his eyes again. The little boy is waving to him, innocent and sweet. Marlowe smiles. He waves back.

* prompt 3.

2008-06-13T19:36:01Z

This is her last class in high school ever, and if it were any other class she wouldn’t have shown up today. It’s the same thing that’s been going on in most of her classes today—lights low, a movie on the TV at the front of the room. People chatting and giggling, munching on treats that they’d brought in and passing yearbooks to be signed. Zelda’s joined in—signed a few books, passed hers around. But at the moment, she’s completely separate from the other whispering, crunching students around her, completely apart from the low buzz of the movie. She’s in a different world.

She’s looking at Scott without being obvious about it. It’s a skill she’s developed over the past few months. He’s wearing that yellow polo today. She likes that one. It makes him look so bright and summery, and it makes her want to snuggle up against his warm chest and never ever move away from it. Of course, most of his shirts make her want to do that. Scott in general just makes her want to do that.

One more day. One more day, and then they can do whatever they want. Zelda won’t be a student anymore, and Scott won’t be at risk of losing his job. They can’t punish him retroactively just because right after graduation he starts stepping out with a former student. She’s checked. She’s done her research on this. Once she is legally no longer his student, they are free to hold hands and snuggle and kiss in public as much as they’d like. She won’t be eighteen for just a little bit longer, but that’s surely something that they can gloss over. She’s only a little over a month shy of the big one-eight. It’s not like they’ll be having sex on the sidewalk or anything.

Her brain stalls for a moment.

Sex.

She hasn’t had sex with Scott yet. They’ve actually been very very good about that. No inappropriate touching. Nothing beyond kissing. Good kissing, but just kissing. She hasn’t actually had sex with anyone since Nico, and there are some days that she really thinks she could go for forever without it. She could easily spend her life just coexisting with Scott, snuggling up with him and reading, watching movies, being together. They could sleep in the same bed and wake up and eat waffles and have their morning coffee and she would be alright with that, because obviously their relationship goes deeper than sex. If it didn’t, they would have done something by now.

She thinks like that sometimes. But only sometimes.

Other times, sex is right there at the top of her mind, refusing to let her think about anything else. Like now for instance. One minute she’d been daydreaming about them walking down the street holding hands, and the next she’s thinking about Scott naked, wondering what he looks like under that yellow polo shirt. She’s wondering what he feels like, what the planes of his muscles would feel like under her palms. She’s wondering if there are any scars, any marks that she will fall in love with and press her mouth to and taste, kissing as her hands slide over him, learning every inch of his warm skin.

“One more day, and we can do whatever we want.”

Zelda pulls her eyes away from Scott, coming out of her trance. “Huh?”

“One more day, and then we’re graduated. Free free free.” The girl in the seat next to her is grinning, waving a carrot stick with every free as though she’s conducting a symphony. She laughs. “You excited, Zelda?”

Zelda laughs, brushing her bangs out of her eyes. “Oh lordie.” She shakes her head. “You have no idea.”

* prompt 2.

2008-06-13T19:10:21Z

The desk is too small. It’s too small and uncomfortable and he’s sitting in it somehow sideways, but he can’t turn the right way around, because it would interrupt the class and he’s already in trouble for something that he can’t remember. The test. The test in German that he’d failed because he’d never been to lecture. They’ll take his scholarship away.

He looks up at the board, where she’s writing something down. Loquacious, but of course it’s not actually loquacious. It’s meant to be, but it makes his stomach turn when he tries to read the letters all in order. He shuts his eyes and lets it be, because he can’t fail another test. He opens his eyes again. Her perfect pretty mouth is forming the word. “Loquacious.” Only now it’s something different, and he’s not sitting in a desk at all. It’s a pink car, and they’re close close close to it. His eyeball is practically touching the license plate and then he’s sitting in the seat with her in his lap instead of a steering wheel. His hands are on her hips, guiding them, but there’s no satisfaction, no matter how he moves his body. He wants it. He needs it.

Wendy.

Her hair is falling across her breasts, hiding them, but they’re in a red two-piece anyway and she’s running down the beach laughing and singing a song that he’s never heard before, but it would be a hit if he could write it down. Something about loquacious. It makes him want to cry.

Hook opens his eyes, the threads of his dream slipping away like strands of spider silk. He takes in a breath, then another. He sits up a little, disoriented for a moment, blinking in the silver and shadows coming in through the window. There’s someone lying in bed next to him. For a moment, it’s her. But then he narrows his eyes at the body, the hair, and it’s not her at all.

This isn’t his apartment. This isn’t his bed. He never should have fallen asleep. He slides out of bed, careful not to disturb the covers or wake the body lying there. He walks across the room, bare and gleaming, gathering his clothes where they’d left them in their frantic tumble. He pulls his jeans on over nothing, tugs his shirt over his head. The rest he gathers in his hands, creeping out of the room before he has to say good morning and ever give his name.

* prompt 1.

2008-06-13T18:42:26Z

“Mom. Mother, would you listen to me for a second?” Eli has his earpiece in. His hands are occupied—presently covering his bowed face. He rakes his hands up through his hair, curling his fingers in it. He pulls slightly, eyes still shut, trying to remind himself to breathe.

His mother is still speaking, her voice sounding in his ear without pause, brushing past his plea for her to slow down and listen to him. Just one second. All he needs is one second, but she’s still talking.

“Mother, listen. Stop...” He drops his hands, leaning on the table. “Stop for just one second, okay? Will you listen to me? You’ve just decided that you know exactly what’s happening right now and—“

Charlotte cuts in again. Eli lets out a frustrated sound, turning, pacing across the room. “No. No, that’s not what I’m saying. You’re not listening, mother. I say one thing and you go off and make it into something completely different. You think you know exactly what to do, exactly what I’m going through, but you don’t. You don’t. You’re not here, okay? You don’t understand what’s happening. If you would just listen to me and actually hear what I’m telling you... Mother.” He drops into a chair, digging his hands up into his hair. “Mother, this isn’t...” He sighs, letting one hand drop. His left hand. He slides his thumb along the ring circling his finger. Williams. “This isn’t something I’m just going to give up on. This isn’t something I’m going to throw away.”

There’s a brief pause before his mother speaks again. Eli shuts his eyes.

“I can’t do this. I can’t do this right now, this isn’t... let me talk to Gunther.” He gets up, pacing back to the counter. “Gunther, Mother. Please.” He leans his elbows on the counter, burying his face in his hands as he waits for the phone to transfer.

A gruff voice picks up a moment later. Eli straightens. “I cannot talk to her right now, Gunther. She doesn’t listen to me. She... she’s trying to answer questions that I never asked, and I just cannot handle it. She doesn’t listen.” He sighs. “Jesus, she’s so... fucking... intense. I’m sure I’m preaching to the choir.”

The man laughs and says something, his voice rich with an accent—Austrian.

Eli ambles over to his stove, looking down at it. “So here’s the deal. I’m making rice, right? It’s to go with this chicken stuff that I’m making. And I cooked it, and it tastes done, like it feels like it’s done, but it’s still, like... swimming, pretty much.” He picks up the fork and stirs the rice, sending clouds of it up into the water that’s still sitting on the top of it. “Mom says I should just throw it out, but I’d rather figure out how to rescue it. I want to have dinner on the table when he gets home from work.” He doesn't have to say who he is. Gunther's met Tennessee. He probably knows more about the two of them than Eli's mother does.

Eli laughs at something that Gunther says. “Yeah, I know. I don’t know what I was thinking. I should have called you from the start. I mean, you’re the cook, right? What does she know?”

* rev my engine.

2008-06-11T18:46:30Z

i have been struggling (very. very much.) with my characters lately, and am desperate to get some juices going. so i ask you, my friends and fellows, to help me out with this.

please comment on this entry with a character and three words: a noun (can be a proper noun, if you'd like), an adjective, and a verb. resulting writing snippets will be forthcoming.

* top ten.

2008-06-11T18:42:20Z

Comment on this entry with one (or more) of my characters and a category (or more than one, if you like), and I'll reply with my top 10. Anything (conceivably) goes, i.e. books, punctuation marks, designers, beverages, etc.

* trademarks and truth.

2008-06-08T22:05:24Z

What would you say are the trademarks of my writing? What themes or quirks or turns of phrase have you noticed? What is it that makes a story by me -- well, a story by me?

AND

Certain characters of mine have been dosed with a potion that makes them tell only the truth. Ask them any question that you want, and he or she will answer truthfully!

* random questions

2008-06-07T22:54:48Z

1) Pick one or more of my characters, and go here to generate 10 random numbers between 1 and 100. Generate a different set of numbers for each character you pick.

2) I will answer the corresponding questions from here from the point of view of the character(s).

confusion.

2008-06-06T19:46:45Z

scribbld confuses me. a lot. it's making me fussy and skittish, like a pony. but regardless, here i am, in some mad effort to make my characters Not Suck and possibly produce something.

i have absolutely no promises on how often i'll actually use this thing. but regardless, here it is, here i am, and let's get this crazy show on the road.