dandyhuck

The Fawn

Wed, 02 Dec 2009 02:03:04 GMT

Title: The Fawn
Characters: A baby deer, Ozmund, Jan
Summary: Jan was having a megalomaniacal episode again.

He almost relished the cold, stinging feel of the windowpane, pressed against his cheek. His breath ran across the glass, fogging across the frost that decorated it. Jan pressed the sharp edge of his knife against his adam's apple, humming softly.

Jan was having a megalomaniacal episode again, and Osmund could hear him singing Deutschlandlied under his breath. “Ihren alten schönen Klang,Uns zu edler Tat begeistern...” The uneven rise and fall of his companion's chest fell into place with the frantic beating of his own heart. Jan quieted for a moment, and Osmund grew nervous; he couldn't see the expression on Jan's face. “Tell me something Osmund.” He said suddenly, very quietly. “Would you die for your country? Do you love the Fatherland?” The tip of the blade began to slip into the soft skin of his neck.

Osmund began to tremble, knowing what was coming next. “Y-yes, yes.” His throat moved as he spoke, and a thin string of blood blossomed on the edge of the knife and rolled down to catch on the point. The boy could feel the wetness on his throat, and drew a shuddered breath as carefully as he could. The coldness of the window had burned into his skin.

“Do you really mean it?” Jan said, more to himself than to anyone.

“Yes! Yes, just let me go.” Osmund's reserve had broken into a sob. He tried to wrench his hands from where they were pressed against his back, but Jan's grip was devilishly strong. “Just let me go.”

Jan stepped back from Osmund, and resumed his quiet song. “German loyalty, German wine...” He lifted the hunting knife up to his pillowy-soft lips, his dark tongue darting out to lick the line of blood from the edge. Osmund saw him stare right at him in his reflection in the window.

The boy could feel a shudder tingle down his spine. He'd seen what Jan could do with that hunting knife. While on a hunting trip with the squad, Jan had cornered a baby fawn, and split its belly open. Jan had skinned the animal alive and forced Osmund to watch. He would never forget how the animal's legs weakly kicked in protest until Jan had tied them down. From there, Osmund watched the life slowly fade from its eyes, bathed in its own bright red blood. Jan had gotten it all over hands, all over his pristine khaki uniform, had it stuck in his hair. Weeks later the dried blood still appeared under his fingernails. And when it was gone, Jan forgot of his horrific triumph, but Osmund never had.

Osmund was still haunted by the look in the fawn's eyes as it died its slowly agonizing death. It had looked weary, and sad, very sad. The animal was left in the clearing, skinned and disemboweled; Jan had not even deigned to use it as dinner that night, and it was left there to gain its mantle of flies. All of them hungry, ravenous, vile.

But all Osmund could think about was its eyes.

The slap had come hard across Osmund's right cheek, hard enough to wake him from his reverie. “I'm talking to you, you twit. Pay attention.” Jan raised an eyebrow at him. “This is what I've decided to do. I think I'll put on a record today and fuck you until you cry. That worked nicely last time, I think I should like to do it again. This time, I might bring the knife, considering how much you liked it. I'll carve a star right into your chest so everyone will know who you are.” A slow, cruel smile crept across his face that gave Osmund a sinking feeling.

That night, Osmund thought of how Jan never joined anyone by the fire during their hiking trips. He always sat off to the side, his breath coming out in small, white puffs in the dark. Jan never came near stoves, or the common room fireplace.

In the weak, moonlight, as Jan slept away his sins, Osmund traced the curve of his spine down his back. When he came to the dip in the small of his back, he came across something he thinks he should have never seen.

It is a brand. Burned into the hardy, tawny skin of his back, Jan sports a cross. A breath catches in Osmund's throat, and he gently runs the pads of his fingers over it. Jan shifts softly, but stays asleep. And Osmund understands.

Hurt, sore and violated by his cruel captor; stripped down and emotionally disemboweled, Osmund understands the sadness in the fawn's eyes that day. The sadness was not for itself, but for its killer. The fawn must have known, too, what tortured soul had taken its life, and was sad it had ended in this way.

Quietly, in the darkness of the narrow cot they shared, Osmund began to weep.

Al Qaeda Handbook On Being The Perfect Law Abiding Citizen

Fri, 16 Oct 2009 02:10:49 GMT

Quick Tip #435: Get a Dog

Social Taboos: All In Good Fun

Tue, 06 Oct 2009 03:01:23 GMT

Title: Social Taboos: All In Good Fun; also known as A Page From The Great Carla
Characters: The Great Carla, Dutiful Alex, Moby Dick
Summary: A thinly veiled social commentary on sexual etiquette and whatnot.

From the life of the Great Carla:

[ I was sitting one day in a cafe with a good friend of mine, Alex. We were chatting over coffee when the topic of male genitalia suddenly came up. I gave a wry smile and put my mug down, saying “I don't understand what the big taboo is about talking about the size of guy's dicks.”

Alex, being the kind of man he is, leaned back in his chair, smiling. “Well this is an interesting turn of events. How so?”

I threw my hands up, looking for the right words. “I mean, it's even a taboo between women—which makes it worse, you know.”

He nodded to me in mock understanding; but I knew he was really trying to wipe the mirth from his face.

“Look,” I said leaning in, “These kinds of things can be disastrous.”

Alex looked at me with an expression that wanted to know more, so I let him have it.

“Okay, see here. There was this one time in High School when I really liked this kid named Josh. Rumor was, he had a really big dick—like the Moby Dick of dicks.” I held out my hands about a foot apart for effect.

Alex's amused, disbelieving smile broke out onto his face; he laughed into his cup as he took another sip of coffee. “And?”

“Well, you know, girls are the most perfect liars. Listen, girls had slept with him before, it was no secret he'd been around; but somehow he was transformed into this legend. And, y'know—I think it's because all the girls were too embarrassed to tell each other the truth.”

He furrowed his eyebrows at me for a second. “Wait, so what happened?”

I looked at him for a moment with a sour look on my face. “What do you think happened? I slept with him, of course.”

Alex started to laugh, so much so that he had to lean forward in his chair, shaking the table. I glared at him. “So, I take it that you were not satisfied?”

I rubbed my palm into my forehead in shame. “Alex, it was soooo small.” My voice faltered in mortification. I beseeched him with my eyes to understand.

He burst into gales of laughter. “Like how, exactly—give me a size comparison.”

I pulled the chapstick from my bag, slapping it onto the table. “This big.”

His blue eyes regarded me with disbelief and amusement. “No.” I nodded.

“No!” His hands shot up to his hair, rolling back in laughter. He shook his head, looking back at me with a mix of mirth and pity, his face was red from laughter. “No really, I'm sorry, Carla.” He reached across the table and grabbed my hand, giving it a squeeze. “If it's any consolation, There are other dicks in the sea.”

I snorted as I drank my coffee, quickly pulling my hand out of his. “Yeah. I'm surprised you didn't try to reaffirm your masculinity after hearing that story.”

Alex shook his head, his mangy black hair falling into his eyes. He wasn't the most well-groomed of men, and fell more into the 'rugged' kind of category—if you could describe overgrown sideburns and awkwardly cut hair rugged. He picked up his right hand in a flat-handed gesture, “Listen, is this more of your feminist stuff again?”

I shook my head, smiling. It was my turn to be amused. “No, I'm just well-informed about men.”

“Well informed? You slept with a guy with a pencil-dick; I wouldn't call that well informed.”

I choked on my coffee at that point, and could safely say that I probably had some coffee up my nose for the rest of the day. We both had a really good laugh at that one, and it took us a while to settle down into a quiet lapse in conversation.

Alex was staring blankly out the window of the cafe, and I was once again taken by his wonderful profile. I'd have to teach myself one day to stop swooning over my friend at random moments.

Feeling crazy, I put my hand on top of his, covering it slightly. The touch startled him, and he looked down at my hand, confused. Then he looked back at me.

“How come it never worked out between us Alex?” I couldn't keep the nostalgia from my voice, even though I gave a mighty effort.

He didn't look away or pull away, like any other man would. But he also didn't say anything. After a while, he took a hearty sip from his cup, lifting my smaller hand up to his, so our fingertips touched. He turned my hand to the side contemplatively and said, “Dunno, maybe we were just meant to be friends and nothing else.”

“Another taboo.” I murmured defeated, under my breath.

He looked up. “What was that?”

I gave him a look of blinking innocence. “Nothing.”]

Prompts 003. and 013.

Fri, 10 Jul 2009 01:32:48 GMT

Gurren Lagann- General- 003. Ends- 013. Yellow
Title: Tell Me later When
Fandom: Gurren Lagann
Characters:Simon, Kamina
Prompt: #003. End
Word Count: 543
Rating: PG
Summary:Kamina and Simon meet one last time before Simon's big fight.

003. Ends

Simon could feel tears smart his eyes, threatening him with a childish feeling he thought he’d forgotten. “I missed you.” He says simply, looking the man he’d worshipped, loved and respected. It hurt to even ponder upon it in past tense. Loved. Respected.

Kamina grinned at him, running an affectionate hand through Simon’s hair. “Looks like you've grown taller than me.” He said, curiously.

The sky domed above them, blue and endless, promising everything and nothing at once. It was dream, Simon reminded himself; but even dreams had their meanings. Simon looked at Kamina, comparing their heights. He wasn’t even taller in truth--unless Kamina had meant it in another sense.

“You were—you are a great man.” Simon said with certain determination. He felt his confidence leave him, and he was back to being a kid again, his nose reaching the crook of Kamina’s arm. “You mean a lot to me, you know that, right?”

“I appreciate the consideration, but—you’ve got a world to save.” Kamina grasped his thin shoulders, giving him a hearty shake. “A whole world of people. Focus.”

Simon pulled him in for an embrace, tight, a child who wanted comfort. “I don’t want to leave you again. What should I do?” His voice grew hoarse, and he started to feel a wet sensation in his throat.

Kamina’s fist closed around a clump of his jacket. “You remember you and me had to sepperate sometimes when you were little? You remember what I used to tell you?”

Simon stared at the slope of Kamina’s neck in a mixture of confusion and wonder. He’d never been able to see it at this angle before—or feel the rumble of Kamina’s voice come through the tawny skin of his neck. “Yeah.” He said, a little uncertain. “You used to tell me you were waiting by the door until I come back; that you wouldn’t move a muscle.” He snorted, feeling a tinge of childish embarrassment that he had fallen for such things. “I actually believed you.”

“Yeah, well. Believe me, this time it’s true.” Kamina drew back, making Simon realize that the sensation of warmth was starting to leave him. The man didn’t seem dead at all; on the contrary, his body was warm, his palms balmy and calloused. “I’ve got nowhere to go, so I’ll stay right here—I won’t move a muscle until you come back.”

“When will that be?” Simon’s voice became mutinous and warbled, as his eyes reddened.

Kamina laid a long stare on to him. “You know when that is. Now,” He gave him a strong pat on the shoulder. “Time to go. I can’t hold off your fate any longer.”

Simon stiffened and started to make his way toward the lip of the grassy hill; verdant green against the plush, blue sky. The world seemed to curve up like a fishbowl around them. He stopped, turning “There was something I never got to tell you.” He said, eyes hopeful.

“We’ll talk about it later, bro. You’ve got some work ahead of you—be a man.” He flashed him a thumbs up and smiled.

When Simon turned back around to leave, he made sure that Kamina couldn’t see him burst into messy tears.

Title:Daisy Chain
Fandom: Gurren Lagann
Characters: Simon, Viral
Prompt: #013. Yellow
Word Count: 217
Rating: PG
Summary: Shameless afternoon fluff.

013.Yellow

Viral’s hair is yellow like dandelions, and Simon fancies making daisy chains to fit around his big head. In the semi-dark of the city’s park, Viral lays down in Simon’s lap, watching the clouds go from white to pink to a lush, deep violet. Then slowly, he falls asleep.

Sunset throws a sideways, golden halo around his head and catching in his blonde eyelashes; making Simon forget all the horrible things that Viral has ever said or done.

He runs a hand through the flaxen hair, and Viral softly groans in his sleep.

The beastman had come back to the city after a scavving hunt in the wastes, only to come back hurt after a short scuffle with some underground rabble. The bandage around his arm is a tad unprofessional, but Viral had insisted on a nap and not medical attention—so it must have been minor to him.

Simon worries with a touch of paranoia, that sometimes when people go to sleep, they won’t wake back up. He lets a sun-warmed hand rest on Viral’s sinewy neck, feeling—with relief—that he could still feel a good, healthy pulse.

Maybe it’s just an abandonment complex, but Simon pulls Viral closer to him, entrapping the sleeping beastman in his encircled arms. He is safe, for now.

Bad Little Prince.

Sat, 04 Jul 2009 19:39:05 GMT

Title: Bad Little Prince
Characters: Pierrot, Archenbaud
Featuring midnight nude bathing, Dark!Archenbaud and general debauchery of our dear little Prince.

“Do you know what happens to bad little princes when they misbehave?” The question was lightly put, but the huskiness of Archenbaud’s voice made Pierrot think again. The scientist’s eyes narrowed behind his spectacles, making him look predatory.

Pierrot gulped, silently shaking his head. He grew wary as Archenbaud drew near, warier still as he leaned in until his full lips pressed against his ear. He began to whisper something very bawdy into his ear.

A horrified look crossed Pierrot’s face as it blossomed red with color.

Archenbaud leaned back, looking pleased. “Now look here, you’ve gotten us very muddy because of that shortcut, and now all our clothes look awful. How are we to meet the Marquis tomorrow?”

Pierrot scowled at him, they were still a day and a half’s ride from the Marquis' manor, and they would not be able to see him tomorrow; even if his shortcut hadn’t led them into a toad-infested swamp.

“Well.” Archenbaud said lightly, raising his hands. “I suppose we’ll wash them and leave them out to dry tonight. Come on, then.”

Pierrot turned around, taking off his threadbare clothes in relief. So Archenbaud was joking after all. He gave himself a silly smile and pulled his sackcloth tunic over his head. It mussed up his curls into is face, making him look adorably rumpled.

When he turned back, Archenbaud was starkly naked, wading into the river with his pile of clothes. Pierrot blushed, staring at his feet as he followed him down the bank. The water was cool, as were the round, smooth pebbled beneath his feet. When he was waist-up in water, he broke out in goose pimples, and was embarrassed to find his nipples pert with cold.

Turning away from Archenbaud, who was whistling and cleaning his clothes; Pierrot slowly started to rub the patches of muck off of his things. He bent down over a smooth boulder that stuck out from the river, tugging his leggings and tunic over it so they would come out clean.

After his clothes were cleaned, he placed them neatly on the boulder and cleaned the mud off of himself, rubbing wet bank sand over his arms and legs. He ran dark water over his cleaned knee, the moonlight shimmering over its surface.

Heaving a slightly warbled sigh due to the cold, he splashed back to the bank, hanging his damp clothes on his branch.

He shivered in the dark, feeling something somewhat ominous about to happen. He looked to his sides and realized that it had gone quiet. Archenbaud had stopped whistling.

Pierrot turned to face the scientist, standing before him, uncomfortably close.

“Now that we’re clean, I suppose I should punish the misbehaving prince, shouldn’t I?” He mused, more to himself than anything.

Pierrot’s blue eyes widened to the size of saucers; he began to tremble, naked, wet and cold.

“Come now.” He said to the Prince decidedly. He took him by the shoulders and turned him around to face the tree. “Be good and it’ll be over before you know it.”

Voiceless, Pierrot struggled against Archenbaud’s grip, terrified. He was a good prince; he didn’t deserve to be punished!

Archenbaud leant down—never relenting his grip—and reached for something out of the pocket of his jacket, strewn on the floor. He pulled out a length of wrist-thick rope, smiling. “I knew this would come in handy.” He lifted the rope by Pierrot’s hands, resting against the bark of the tree; and it slithered from his palm on its own accord, twining around Pierrot’s wrists, and then in a neat knot around the tree. After a tentative tug, Pierrot found he was quite indeed secured to the tree. If he could, he would have whimpered in dread.

Long, lanky fingers snaked past his neck, caressing his jaw and then pressing into his mouth. They found purchase on his tongue, pressing down on it. Pierrot breathed hard though his nose. The fingers withdrew from his mouth, resting hooked on his pouting lower lip. He lifted his tongue up to the roof of his mouth to swallow, finding the taste in his mouth to be sticky and very, sweet and somewhat tangy. It was reminiscent of elderberry pie he’d had at the castle, hot with cider and wine.

As soon as he had swallowed the sticky substance, however, his throat began to close, and his breath became labored and hot. Heat began to pool right below his belly, and at the tips of his toes. His knees grew weak and he leaned upon his ties, wrists above his head.

Archenbaud caught him with his sticky hands, at the waist. “Easy now.” He purred, lapping at the space between his shoulder and his neck. Breath escaped, heavy from Pierrot’s lips.

The prince began to feel very strange, he pressed his knees together to will the feeling away. Feeling dizzy, he rolled his head back onto Archenbaud’s chest, catching the evil glint in his eye.

The scientist pressed a chaste kiss to Pierrot’s damp forehead and winded an arm around his chest, playing with a small, pert nipple. Surprised, Pierrot made a soft noise, flushing in embarrassment.

“Ah. So you can make noise; you just can’t speak. I guess delightful little sounds aren’t part of your curse.”

Pierrot’s head swam, and found that—to his horror—he was beginning to lean into Archenbaud’s hand, his back arched tautly.

“I guess that it’s working.” Archenbaud said, smug with himself. “Let us speed up the process, shall we?” He pulled out more of the sticky, sweet-smelling substance, scooping it up with two of his fingers. Then he took the small vial and tipped it down his chest, watching it ooze onto his own penis with a grin.

He then took Pierrot’s cock in one hand and rubbed the purple liquid on his soft, pink tip.

The young prince hissed under his breath, skin ruddy and hot. The flush of his complexion made his freckles stand out even more. He pressed his damp mop of curls back against his chest, heavy lids drooping. Archenbaud watched in wonder as Pierrot’s penis twitched in response, rising slowly.

“It’s an aphrodisiac, in case you wanted to know.” Archenbaud whispered into his ear, nipping at the left, lobe; where the earring that was meant for him lie. “Do you know what that is, your highness?”

Pierrot shook his heavy head, leaning on his ties, wrists turning red.

Archenbaud laughed, starting to pump lazily at Pierrot, as his own prick pressed against the small of his back. A sting of enchanting sounds came from Pierrot, who pressed himself wantonly into Archenbaud’s hand. “It is a device--whether it be food or whatnot—that increases one’s sensual tendencies. You understand what I mean, don’t you?”

Pierrot groaned needily, baring the expanse of white neck. Archenbaud felt himself stretched to his limit and snapped at the ties urgently. They slid off of his reddened writs, falling to the floor as Archenbaud gathered Pierrot into his arms, pressing his back against the tree. He lifted the prince’s white legs to rest over his shoulders and slowly pressed his sticky fingers into his pink anus.

Pierrot moaned, quite loudly, but also winced a bit at the pain. He placed a kiss on Pierrot’s collarbone and positioned himself to move into Pierrot. Once he was in at the hilt he began his uncontrollable tempo, in and out, eliciting loud, wordless calls from the prince.

“This is how bad princes are punished, Pierrot.” He grunted, thrusting particularly hard.

Pierrot continued to moan, his toes scrabbling desperately against Archenbaud’s shoulders from the dizzying mixture of pleasure and pain.

A few tugs to Pierrot’s straining cock, and he came loudly, his muscles milking out an orgasm from him as well.

Quieting down, Pierrot rested his head against the tree. Archenbaud found, with a bit of guilt, that the tender skin of his back had been rubbed raw by the bark of the tree. Pulling out, Archenbaud gently lowered his prince to the ground, atop his jacket.

He grinned at the exhausted and ravished Pierrot. He put a finger to his lips. “We speak of this to no one, understand?”

The mute prince rolled his eyes and promptly went to bed.

Time to Go Retro [Only as Far Back as the 90s]

Thu, 25 Jun 2009 02:24:32 GMT

Title: Summer in Brooklyn Circa 1990
Characters: Marmaroath, Ozmund, Lucca [AU Timeline]
We take a rare look back in time to before Mar was a manic depressive English Lit Professor, before Luke became a pedophile, before Cheska became a Lolita, and before Vallak was angry and gay. Enjoy!

Marmaroath could feel the sweat off his palm condense onto the bubbled glass of the table before he even looked at it. Scowling, he wiped at his brow, flipping the pen around his dark fingers.

“Jesus Christ,” Luke said from across the table. He was leaning back in the flimsy metal chair, his newspaper around him like a fortress. “Saddam, the bastard, he invaded Kuwait.”

Ozzy looked up from cleaning his glasses on his shirt, “It’s amazing to see an illiterate baboon like you reading about the world and having opinions about it.”

Luke started at him, “What’areya saying? It’s a good thing?”

“I said no such thing, I simply stated that—“

“Alright already.” Marmaroath snapped at the two, glowering down at his papers. “I’m trying to fill out my goddamn college application.”

Ozzy gave him a rueful smile over the glint of his glasses. His hair stuck out every which way around his youthful face. “Is that why you invited us over for iced tea? Look Luke, he even dragged the kitchen table all the way out here on the balcony.”

Luke grinned, slapping Ozzy’s hand on the table, “Ah, you ungrateful Krauts! Never good enough for you’s.” He tugged away hotly at the collar of his damp wife-beater.

Ozzy preened at his hair in nonchalance. “I’m just pointing out a fact. It’s like—a hundred and five degrees out here—plus humidity.”

“Which kinda makes you look like Bill Nye, you know that guy—the science guy?” Luke guffawed, leaning back on his chair.

Ozzy kicked it from under the table, making Luke flail back against the railings, brightly colored pants and all.

Luke regained himself, rubbing at his blonde, frosted hair for a bump. “Foul Kraut, why are you so mean to me?”

Ozzy crossed his arms with authority, pointing up his nose. “Well, in a sense, we’re natural enemies; what with me being German, and you being Russian and all. Your entire Communist regime is offensive to my sensibilities. Oh, and the Berlin Wall thing.”

“Gonna tell you the truth—I have no idea what you just said.” The Russian deadpanned.

“Why the hell do they ask you your last name and your mother’s maiden name?” Marmaroath hissed, waving his hands around; in the process, almost succeeding in knocking his plastic cup over.

The two looked at him as he wiped sweat from his brow. “I mean, what if they’re the same?” He gave a wry laugh. “One time, I was at the DMV for my license and I had to fill out this shit; the lady asked me to refill the papers because she thought I’d made a mistake.” He frowned sourly. “I had to spell out the fact that my mom wasn’t married. Isn’t it enough that my name, in total has ten consonants? It's not my fault I'm Persian and we all have ridiculously long names.”

“At least people don’t howl at you when they look at your papers.” Ozzy said sullenly from his cup of iced tea. They couldn’t afford beer.

“Oh.” Marmaroath grinned around the pen cap in his mouth. His dark face made his teeth look strikingly white in the glare of the sun. “That’s right.”

“Man, instead of Wulf, your last name should have been Panzer.” Luke screamed the last word aloud with a poorly done German accent, making the neighbor in the next balcony look over in distress.

“I can see you placed all your stock into German jokes today, Luke.” Ozzy replied quietly, fixing his glasses.

Luke steepled his hands cleverly, leaning back in his chair. “Only because you ran out of Soviet jokes.”

“What the fuck am I supposed to put in for dependent/ non dependent?” Marmaroath shouted at the papers.

Luke steadied Marmaroath’s hands, giving him a reassuring smile. “Listen, let my dad take care of this, okay? You’re lucky enough that he made that call to NYU; let him do the running around.”

Marmaroath looked uncomfortable at Luke’s admission. “Yeah, I know; I just wanna feel like I actually took part in this.”

Through the sliding net doors, little Vallak was playing on the floor with Ozzy’s new puppy, Shultz. He kept saying, “Dog—you’re a dog. You’re a dog, dog.” The toddler, Cheska was in her little violet jumpsuit, tugging on Shultz’s tail, gurgling happily. “’Oggie.”

Ozzy gave them a nervous once-over from his place at the table, closest to the door. Perspiration was starting to pool over the top of his full upper lip. It always made him look disdainful.

“Relax, Mommy.” Luke said affectionately, catching him stealing nervous glances at the children.

“Yeah, they’re fine in there, we baby-proofed everything, remember?” Marmaroath said over his papers. He heaved an exhausted sigh, finally giving up on then and putting them down on the table. He moved his heavy, black hair from leaving a fringe in his face. “Damn it’s hot.”

Luke nodded, getting the full brunt of the sun from where he sat. “Can you believe we’re graduating in a week?” He said wistfully, squinting up at the sky, marvelously blue today.

The pace of the conversation took on a wistful air. “No, not at all.” Marmaroath looked around the table at his friends; pleased. “I wish it was a bit longer. I never really got to be a kid, y’know?” He jerked his head back to the kids playing inside.

“I think it couldn’t have ended a moment too soon. I hated the good entirety of it.” Ozmund's voice softened when he turned to Marmaroath. “No one could have known that your mom was going to leave you with the kids, Mar.”

“Yeah, we all did our best. Hopefully the rascals are grateful for it.” Luke joined in, with his jangly voice; his Adam’s Apple bobbing up and down ponderously.

Marmaroath’s gloomy expression broke out into a grin. “You remember the time we all got detention together and had to clean up for a mess the seniors made?”

Ozmund snorted, though a tender smile graced his features. “Of course; that was when we all first met.”

“Yeah, I remember it was your bright idea, Mar, to put all that garbage into Stanley Dinkles’ locker.”

“It got us all suspended and we played laser tag with each other at the arcade the whole week.” Ozzy continued.

“All on Luke’s tab, of course.” Marmaroath said, smirking.

Luke did a half-bow in his chair. “No need to thank me, ladies and gentlemen. I do it for the neighborhood.”

“You don’t even live in this neighborhood.” Ozmund pointed out, trying to hide his amusement.

“Yeah, well, I’m a philanthropist.” Luke countered.

Ozzy barely got to roll his eyes before there was a crash from the apartment, and crying began. Marmaroath and Ozzy both sprang up, seeing that the baby Cheska had tripped over the dog and hit her elbow.

The redhead picked the girl up, coddling her softly in the crook of his arm; while Marmaroath inspected her arm. Luke came to the sliding door, leaning in with a smile. “Man, what are we gonna do with ourselves?”

Curiously, all three of them found themselves smiling like madmen.

Ozzy came to the situation first, “We’ll figure something out, I’m sure.

Oh Shit--Shamless Slash Post

Sun, 21 Jun 2009 04:33:27 GMT

Title: Very Tight Bodice
Characters: Grey, Vallak
In Which the plot does not thicken, does not even exist. Crossdressing, and slash.

Grey shot him a look of utmost disdain from his reflection in the looking glass. Vallak suppressed a cheeky grin, tightening the laces on the bodice of the dress.

“I feel like my body’s been cut in two—no, Vallak! Don’t you laugh, it’s not funny!” He swatted Vallak’s hands angrily away, finishing a neat knot at the top of the line of holes. He took a coy look at himself in the mirror, and found himself mortified.

Vallak had stuck him in a dress. A dress provided by Cheska, who was apparently-the-same-size-as-he-but-really-wasn’t. It was a western-type dress, with a tightly cinched bodice that curved his waist into a twig and a boat-necked line that made his collar bone and neck look graceful and white in contrast to the powder blue velveteen of the dress. He shifted, realizing how uncomfortable the petticoat was underneath—and immediately hated Vallak even more.

He, being the epitome of the perfectionism, began to flatten the crumpled edge of the flared dress, fixing the silk rouched stripe on his side; and then slipped his fingers under the stings of his bodice to allow himself a little room to breath. Thankfully, the dress was cut so the lack of chest on his part was simply powdered away and hidden under a swath of thin, lavender tulle.

Grey was surprised. Somehow they’d gotten his hair—with the help of Cheska—into neat, pulled curls up and away from his face; powdered and settled about his forehead and jaws with blonde, lazy grace. The style had been set with a spidery-thin net of the tiniest pearls he’d ever seen, and a pin set with a grey-blue sapphire and a peacock feather.

In the mirror, his lips trembled, half-nervous—half incredulous; only softy rouged with a dry, horsehair brush. Vallak moved a string of fingernail-sized pearls to rest around his neck, the pearls separated in a pattern by golden filigree and square-cut emeralds. His fingers moved deftly to secure the necklace; but softly brushed past his collarbone. He could feel a lock of Vallak’s black hair tickle the nape of his neck and concealed the quake in his arms.

Vallak knelt down to help Grey into his jewel-encrusted slippers, moving his skirts up above his calf. He grasped the back of his leg safely and slipped the shoe delicately over his feet. Grey--who had a balanced hand on Vallak’s shoulder—tightened it when Vallak slipped his hands up the back of his leg, into the crook of his knee. The dark man leaned in, taking the bow of his stockings into his mouth, and began to pull down, very slowly.

Grey shuddered at the feeling of Vallak’s teeth scrape down his leg, and tried to pull away. Vallak grabbed him tightly around the wrist, pulling Grey easily on top of him.

Vallak was instantly pushing Grey’s skirts up, his needy hands sliding up and down his bare thighs. “I can’t stand the though of you luring another man in this thing.” He murmured into Grey’s powdered chest. Grey tried his hardest to escape from this debauchery, but to no avail; the harder he pushed away, the closer Vallak pulled him to himself.

He gave a wet, frustrated sigh in Vallak’s ear, making the other man snarl in delight. Vallak pressed his hands firmly to Grey’s chest, grabbing and kneading wantonly.

“Kiss me love, will you?”

Grey more than obliged, pressing his pink, puckered lips to Vallak’s dusky ones. The kiss was furtive, hidden behind Vallak’s large, dark hands that had cupped Grey’s heart-shaped face. Grey’s tongue darted out demurely at first, only to be caught by Vallak’s hungry mouth.

When they pulled apart, Grey was shivering in Vallak’s arms, a tumble of gold hair in his eyes.

“Don’t you do this with the Duke. You’re mine; you can only do this with me.” Vallak told him, pressing his thumb to Grey’s kiss-swollen lips, turning them down into a petulant pout.

“Who's to say I’m yours?” Grey challenged, raising an almost non-existent eyebrow.

“The world. And the Moon. And the Stars.” He smiled, pressing his cheek tenderly to Grey’s. “And whoever else agrees.”

“Better hurry!” Came the knock from the door. “Dinner will be served soon.”

Grey rose, fixing himself awkwardly in the mirror as Vallak watched. “You best behave yourself out there.” Vallak warned; and then neared, moving hair from covering the spot under Grey’s ear, kissing it. “And be careful.”

“I will.” Their eyes met in the looking glass.

Love Affairs With Art

Sat, 20 Jun 2009 03:37:42 GMT

Why is it that art stirs something so deep within us? I mean, not all art. Sometimes it just sucks.

I mean--well done art. Really powerful stuff. What kind of state of mind must you be in to create something really beautiful? I had just been surprised yet again. I tell myself often that I'm over the whole reading fanfiction thing. Because, you know, most of it really sucks and I need to move on to original stuff.

But then, sometimes I'm surprised. Shocked even.

Fanfiction aside, have you ever seen or read something so powerful that not only do you start to cry, but you ache afterwords? And then there's a feeling left behind, a kind of ephemeral gauze over your heart--a haze in your brain for minutes--hours? Is it just obession? Am I just obsessed with beautiful things?

But not beautiful in a mainstream sort of sense. I mean, real, nitty-gritty beauty. The kind of beauty you see reflected in the half-dead eyes of a fly-infested orphan in the Sudan--or the spectacular grief of someone who is crippled with the loss of the only thing that meant something to them. Or even the first couple of rippling chords in a piece by Debussy, or Rachmaninoff. Ever realize the person you're so in love with isn't beautiful in a broad sense at all--but the sum of all his parts?

That kind of beauty is what inspires me--makes me wish I could capture that and make others feel like that. This beauty instills me with a sort of sadness, though, because I realize the ammount of talent invoved with creating that beauty--and the lack thereof on my part.

But--it's not about me. Not this time.

Have you ever read/seen/heard something so earth-shatteringly beautiful that when you're done sobbing uncontrolably about it--your teeth feel numb and alien in your mouth? Why is it that art affects us like this?Is it the direct relationship--the courting of emotions on a canvas? The short, mercurial love affair of fingers on piano keys?

I'll tell you a secret.

Call me crazy, but once I sobbed all through Rachmaninoff's second piano concerto. All of it.
Call me crazy, but I was this close to visiting his grave in Upstate New York. Just to be as near as possible to the creator of something so immensely touching and powerful.

When I come into contact with something so lovely, I want to speak to the person who created it--but I'm afraid. I'm afraid if I ask them "How?"--it'll ruin it--like some magic trick that always amazes you.

But art is a different kind of magic.
It's the magic of souls connecting on the deepest emontional--and spiritual--level. And it's really amazing.

Sometimes when I see something of immense beauty--I feel like God is looking back at me. Or even life itself. It's scary.

And one day, I hope to make even one person feel even a fraction of what I've felt tonight.

Pierrot Chapter II

Sat, 20 Jun 2009 01:27:20 GMT

Title: Pierrot Chapter 2
Characters: Pierrot, Claude the Bear, and Archenbaud
Pierrot wallows in self-pity, gets kicked out by a bear, and meets a drunken mad scientist.

The curse had not killed Pierrot; on the contrary, he was still quite alive and well. The only trouble was—he had no voice to speak of.

The third princess had inadvertently turned him into a…mime. Extraordinarily saddened by his new state, Pierrot ran from home and joined the only place know to welcome mimes: the Cirque Doré.

Upon learning that Pierrot was mute, the Ringmaster, Jean-Francois lowered his wages—knowing he was unable to protest. Now this made Pierrot so angry that he stomped his foot once, twice, three times; but still no voice came out. No matter how many times Pierrot had tried to shout at Jean-Francois, all that came out was a gust of hot air.

The Ringmaster found this so amusing that he laughed all the way to sleep; and agreed only to raise his wages by two pence.

That night, Pierrot was truly upset about his situation, and thought about it as he went to sleep. Pierrot did not have a proper bunk in the other tents—because he could not vouch for himself, and instead had to snuggle up against Claude, the trained Circus Bear every night. And although Claude had warm and downy fur, he was also careless and always nicked Pierrot’s clothes on his claws. Time and time again, Pierrot would have to mend patches upon other patches because no one would lend him new breeches; after all, he could not ask for them.

As our poor prince went to sleep that night, he pondered upon his fretful condition; and wanted to cry. However, every time he tried to begin, the tears would not come. No matter how miserable he tried to make himself feel or how long he kept his eyes open, no tears would come. How frightful he found this to be!

Again, our poor Pierrot was so distressed, that he stomped his foot once, twice, tree times against the door of Claude’s cage.

Upon which, Claude the Bear kicked him from his quarters.

Each growing day Pierrot spent as a mime in Cirque Doré, he became more anxious and more solemn. Rumors spread through each shimmering tent, and each radiant caravan that Pierrot’s little brother, the sickly Prince Jorge, was preparing to ascend the throne—but had yet to find a wife who could stand the boils.

And although each day he spent at the Cirque his juggling and impressions got better, Pierrot soon became cheerless. Each day, though he could make up his face in half the speed of the previous day, the face he painted became sadder and sadder. Indeed, our dear prince had become a fine mime, but quite the gloomy lad as well. He missed his Lord Father and Lady Mother, and even missed his sixteen sisters, from Julissa to Mimi.

He did not, however, miss his little brother Jorge. Amongst the many members of Pierrot’s noble family, Jorge the sickly was liked the least. He was known for his crooked legs, shaped like those of a hen’s—and the red, angry boils that peppered his face and oozed a nasty, green pus. Jorge was cruel and liked to hit their sisters’ pet kittens, and always spilled his scalding, hot soup into his brother’s lap. Jorge had a hare lip and every uttered word made his lips curl up into a malicious snarl. So malevolent and jealous of Pierrot was he, that on Pierrot’s thirteenth birthday, he cut off all of his honey-colored locks and stuck them with glue, onto the pet cat.

Pierrot gave a shudder and a cough. Surely his realm could not fall to a worse king. And our poor prince was helpless to stop him, cursed as he was—never to speak or weep again. Pierrot was so quiet, in fact, that he had taken to carrying a tiny chalk board with him, if the need to converse should ever arise.

One fine day, Pierrot was woken by the toe of Jean-Francois’ boot. He put a coin purse into his hands and sent him off to the tavern for a barrel of ale for the Bear.

“Run off with the gold.” He warned, “And I’ll have Claude drag you back by the ankles. He gets cross without his ale, you know.”

Pierrot gave him a grave nod and clutched the purse to his heart before making it disappear down his long, white sleeves.

He tromped all the way through the city in his broken-soled shoes, his toe peeking out all the way. He passed by alleys and cobbled paths, past lords and ladies in intricate, gilded carriages and past sooty blacksmiths, sickly old fortune tellers with ostrich eggs in their withered hands, destitute orphans in their too-big pants and past an old sorcerer with a big, felt hat.

Each person he passed asked him to see him pull an impression on the way.

The lords and ladies asked him to imitate wealth, so Pierrot bowed his head down and circled his head with his thumbs. Promptly, they gave a big laugh and gave him two large, gold coins. Once they left, however, the gold turned to mud in his hands.

The sooty old blacksmith asked him to imitate a gallant sword, so he pressed his hands flat to his sides and poked his nose up very sharp. The blacksmith gave him a hearty pat on the back and gave him a copper coin. Once he left, however, the copper turned to iron.

The ancient fortune teller asked him to imitate the future, and he took a look at her and pressed his hands across his chest. She gave him a hearty smile and handed him two pence from her papery hands.

The orphans asked him to imitate poverty, and he pretended to let coins drop to the floor as he chased after them. The orphans did not pay him anything, but when he left, he was two coins lighter.

And finally, when he met the old, white-haired sorcerer, the man asked him with a weighty tone, to imitate wisdom. Pierrot, however, was at a loss and shrugged.

After his encounter with the five denizens of the city, Pierrot turned the corner by a bakery and crashed carelessly into a dusty chimney sweep. “Oi!” Called the chimney sweep in an irritated tone, “Who are you, walking around like a king, bumping into people like that?”

Pierrot promptly pulled out his piece of slate, and without thinking, replied:

I am your future king!

The chimney sweep laughed after reading the piece of slate and gave him a terribly white smile from a big, dirty black face. “It’s not nice to lie, you know, not at all. Say, you’ve broke my broom, how about you pay for it?”

Pierrot, remembering that Jean-Francois had promised to send the bear after him, shook his head and replied:

I do not have a single coin on me.

The chimney sweep made a sour face and waved his dirty hand. “You must have something, out with it.”

Horrified, Pierrot furiously replied:

A king does not simply give away his belongings to smallfolk!

The chimney sweep was so amused by Pierrot’s allegations, that all he took was Pierrot’s opal earring, and gave him his broken broom in exchange.

Feeling cheated, Pierrot made his way to the tavern, and finally, his tiered legs carried him to it. The tavern was lined with enchanting green ivy, and the low windows were opaque blues and purples made out of crooked blown glass. Inside it was dark, and the ceilings low with thick, mahogany planks that lined the walls and floor. The tavern’s bar was a single, waxed slab of tree, behind it stood a plumb bar wench. He sat down on a stool next to a man loudly in his cups, and tried to wave down the bar wench.

“Monsieur?” she came over and obliged him.

He handed her the coin purse and fished a note from Jean-Francois from his large, white sleeves.

“It will only take a moment.” She said, and then disappeared in the back.

When the serving wench left, he was left alone with the drunkard next to him. The man looked slapdash, with the lapels of his leather coat in disarray and his buckled sleeves stained and out of order. Wine colored his face a rosy red, along his cheeks where his wire-rimmed rose-colored glasses sat crooked on his face. His muddy brown hair was a mess of tos-and-fros with tufts of hair sticking out from the sides of his jaw. Around him sat tankards and tankards of ale and wine, half of it on the counter before him.

The man turned to him and gave him a long look. “Monsieur! You look like a fine boy, you are a fine boy, are you not?”

Unable to answer, Pierrot simply stared at the man.

“It’s rude—it’s rude to stare, monsieur!” He stopped. “Say, can you keep secrets?”

Pierrot looked at him and pointed to his own mouth.

“Of course you can.” He replied, immediately relieved. “Say, look at this.” He put a large, gilded tome in front of Pierrot, to which it immediately spilled dust from its sides, choking our poor prince. The man opened it up, and Pierrot saw that he had kept his place with a large stalk of foxglove.

“Take a look at this.” He lowered his voice, pointing to the book. “I’ve figured out a way to turn lead into gold. But—don’t tell anyone, will you?”

Pierrot rolled his eyes.

“Now you tell me a secret, boy.”

Pierrot withdrew his slab of slate and a piece of chalk from his sleeve and began to write, much to the drunkard’s wonder:

I am the first son of the Queen.

The man looked at him with disbelief. “How do I know you are not lying?”

Pierrot recalled the chimney sweep that hadn’t believed him and then taken something precious of his. He figured that was how the world outside the castle worked.

He wrote on his piece of slate:

Help me regain the throne and I will give you this.

He moved aside his ringlets and showed the man his last opal earring; a magnificent, multifaceted milk-coloured stone that hung heavy off his ear in a tear drop shape, set in gold scrollwork. He took it off his ear and handed it to the drunkard.

The man gasped after inspecting it. “You can buy a house with just this one stone!” He looked at him through narrowed eyes. “So you are the missing prince!”

Pierrot put a coy finger to his black painted lips and winked.

The man jumped from his seat, bowing sideways, knocking tankards noisily every which way.

“Jules Archenbaud, Scholar, Inventor and Successful Alchemist--at your service!” He shook Pierrot’s hand so hard, our poor prince thought he would lop the limb clean off. “What say you we get out of here, your majesty?”

“Monsieurs?” The tavern wench interrupted. There was a barrel of ale at her feet.

Moments later, a mad scientist and a mime were spotted dashing madly down a hill, a leaking barrel of ale rolling all the way.

Story of Pierrot--Chapter one

Sun, 07 Jun 2009 23:20:56 GMT

Title: Pierrot Chapter 1
Characters: Pierrot, Weave Princess, Jorge
Pierrot is a jerk, gets cursed, and Jorge has a good laugh about it all.

Once upon a time, in an old kingdom, lived a very insensitive prince; a very pretty, insensitive prince, who liked to loudly talk of others and be unkind to people. His name was Prince Pierrot, and he had locks of spun bronze, curled around his jaw, and a golden circlet that bore webs of golden filigree flowers that sat upon his brow—it was a marvelous thing, indeed. His eyes were the color of the ocean on a fine sunny day, and they glimmered like the flecks of lapis-lazuli inlaid in his crown.

Prince Pierrot was a pretty prince indeed, which is why he was so greatly sought out from kingdoms near and far. Every princess dreamed of marrying our dear Prince and becoming his queen. Unfortunately, when his debut was announced and princesses flocked to our Prince’s kingdom—they soon learned that all was not as it seemed.

Although the Prince had a smile that would melt even the coldest hearts—and though every one of his sparkling white teeth stood straight in a row—the things that came from his mouth were no kinder than words from an wrinkled old man.

The first princess who came to the castle was very lovely. She had a pale moon of a face, and long, chestnut hair that fell down her shoulders in soft curls. Her one flaw was that her eyes were mismatched. One was blue and one was brown.
“Take her away.” He said loudly across the hall. “What, will she bear me mismatched children as well? One brown and one white?” At his comment, the entire Great Hall--adorned for celebration—erupted in laughter.

The next maid was not as fair, but her words were as flowery as the circlet of orchids in her hair. She spoke very well, but it was soon apparent that the princess was smarter than the Prince.
“I will not have it.” His voice rang around the hall. “I shall wake one morning and she will have supplanted my throne. I need an intelligent woman like I need a thorn in my side.”
The second princess was led from the hall, fuming, as the Great Hall once again laughed gaily.

The third princess however was the most beautiful, to be sure. Her sad, navy blue eyes were shaped like yawning half-moons, and her skin was as white as rice paper. Her raven hair was the longest of all three, and straight as a pin down one shoulder. This princess had a blue iris in her hair, and silks of all colors that swathed her in shining ribbons of blue, gold and white. As she entered in, her head bowed, the Great Hall quieted in presence of her beauty.

“This shall be the one.” The King said quietly to his wife.
“They say that she is from the farthest reaches of the world.” said a court lady.
“I heard talk that her kingdom stands on the world’s tallest mountain.” said the court jester.

“I heard that she rode a dragon here instead of a horse.” said a lord, who was not a jester, but a fool all the same.
All eyes were on the Prince now, and the radiant maiden before him.
“M-my l-lord.” She said, head bowed low to her chest. She kneeled below the golden dais, pressing her palms to the floor.
“Stand my lady.” Prince Pierrot said, lowering a graceful, jeweled hand to help her stand.
“Th-thank y-y-you, my l-lord.”
Everyone in The Great Hall sucked in a breath of horror, waiting for the Prince’s reaction.

“Why do you speak so strangely, my lady?” He asked her softly, her hand poised on his own.
“Wh-why my l-lord, it h-happens when I-I am nervous.” She answered demurely.
“Then let me ask you a question, my lady.” He leered at the lords and ladies who had assembled in the Great Hall, and turned the princess to face all of them.
“How can I wed a Queen who s-s-stutters all the time?”

A great cry went up from the Great Hall, and the third princess was led away. Almost halfway down the length of the hall, the maiden ripped herself from the grasps of the Prince’s guards and turned to the Prince himself.
A frightening look crossed her face, and the assembled lords and ladies started to tremble with fear.

“A c-c-cruel P-prince you are, Pierrot! I c-curse you, and you shall h-have neither your voice n-nor your t-t-tears, as you have taken them from m-me!” Thunder cracked o’erhead, and a wind began to lick at her ankles, raising her silks to writhe like snakes about her. Her entire countenance then had changed, from lovely to very terrifying!

After she uttered her words, both Prince Pierrot and the princess disappeared in a wisp of violet smoke, and the only thing that remained of the two was the maid’s blue iris from her raven hair.
For seven days and seven nights, it was said that Prince Pierrot’s Queen mother wept in mourning for her missing son. It was said that for seven days and seven nights, Pierrot’s King father hunted through the Royal Forest for signs of his heir.

Alas, the efforts were to no avail. Neither the sorceress princess was found nor the Prince. After a time, the King and Queen were forced to resign themselves to arrange the younger prince’s debut and name the younger Prince Jorge, the temporary heir until Pierrot was found.

Prince Jorge, however, was neither winsome nor elegant, and was known only for the boils on his face and his poor state of health. It was said that when he discovered that his elder brother, Pierrot was missing, an unearthly cackle went up from his chambers, followed by a spectacular coughing fit.

Schoolgirl Crush

Sat, 30 May 2009 02:11:47 GMT

Title: Schoolgirl Crush
Characters: Girl, teacher, her pencil
Young Teacher, the subject of schoolgirl fantasies...

The dampness had seeped into her shoes, chilling her toes thoroughly. It didn’t stop her from kicking her feet to and fro as she sat at the desk in the college-fashioned tiered style room.

One hand was pressed warm against her crusty cheese-filled pastry, and the other was wrapped around a traditional, yellow-lacquered pencil. Tension fluttered through her hands, and she tried to still them by smoothing them over her crinkled papers, all before her.

Her stomach gurgled as she moved, and she bit her lip. “Do you mind if I eat?” She did not look at him as she spoke, but at the floor as she fiddled through her bag to find her black matte calculator. He murmured a ‘no’, and she breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, uh, good. I haven’t eaten my lunch, yet.” The words reached her own ears, it sounded as if she were cotton-mouthed; her tongue made of lead rather than flesh. He made her nervous, she realized with a small amount of chagrin.

She snuck a look at him over the rim of her red, cat-eyed spectacles; he was looking at her. His dark eyes were staring at her expectantly, staring out from a shelf of strong black eyebrows and two small slips of wrinkles. A small ‘oh’ fell from her slightly parted lips.

“Um, what do you…” Her words fell ineffectual from her mouth. They no longer made any sense and began to sound incredibly inane.

He grabbed a black, dry-erase marker from the table he was standing behind. “Why don’t we go over today’s questions.” What he said was not a question; it was a flatly-spoken order.

Suddenly, she was starting to regret coming to a one-on-one tutoring session. She flipped the pencil around her middle finger and ring finger, setting it into place for some work. She looked down at the paper, staring at all the questions.

A small terror filled her. Okay, she told herself, simply see first if you have all that you require. Paper, pencil? Check. Calculator? Check. Reference Table? Check. She sucked in a small breath, batting away at a stray hair as she tried to make her horror subside.

“Um, how about this—why don’t we go over tonight’s homework.” He offered, grabbing a small, off-white booklet off his desk. He placed it on hers. “Do it from this book.”

She flipped open to the correct page and readied her pencil, then turned to stare at him as he contemplated a question in the book. A loose, black hair had fallen over his eyes, over his forehead, wrinkled in thought. She suppressed an endearing smile; it made him look younger, somehow. His dark-skinned hand was enclosed around the booklet, and the marker was threaded through his fingers; while on his other hand, his fingers played with each other in a nervous manner. He did that when he thought, it was quite the nervous tick—he would do it in front of class, too.

“Yeah, let’s do…” He trailed off in his usual, soft-spoken manner. “Let’s do this question—number eleven.” He started to jot down the variables on his white board with the dying marker. “This is an easy one, yeah. A confidence builder.” He stepped back from the board to watch her solve the equation on her own.

Diligently, she set down to work, ignoring her warm lunch in the corner of the table. The problem dealt with simple division—a skill she did not posses. Nervously, she set about solving the number of equations, frantically trying to solve each one in her head. The fact that she could not do simple math mortified her, and she loathed to let anyone know; especially her teacher. She couldn’t let him find out, or it would make him believe that she was even worse off than she really was. Besides, she could not handle it if he thought her an idiot; although she was acting a right one at the moment.

He waited quietly, but she could almost hear his internal musings about the amount of time she was spending on the problem. She winced at her paper, she knew what he was thinking without looking at him: hopeless. No amount of tutoring could help her.

“You have it?” He asked gently.

She scrambled over her paper, pencil slipping from her fingers as she tried to erase the wrong answer before he saw it. “I—haha, I keep getting the wrong answers, haha.” She tittered uneasily.

“It’s not that bad.” He ventured.

Oh, if he only knew, she thought to herself. He strode over to her desk, and her legs, under the table, practically started to uncontrollably shiver. “Here,” He mumbled, pointing a finger down onto her paper. “I apologize about my hands, they’ve got marker all over them.” She realized with dismay, that he must have noticed her gawking at his hands. She’d been imagining his large, dark fingers wrapped around her pale wrist, softly pressing into her skin.

“Oh, uh.” She gave a soft burst of mirthless breath.

He walked back to his desk, and showed her the right answer on the board with his sputtering marker. “All right.” He said lightly. He put his palms on the desk and looked at her. “That was tough.” He said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “You wanna take a breather?”

She burst into a half-relieved, half-mortified laugh. She covered her face as she laughed, trying to shake it off.

He gave a bark of a laugh, smirking easily with his full, dusky lips; the messy moustache above it curling up. His eyes met her meek gaze across the table. “I realize you’re nervous. You’re all red.” He said plainly.

She resisted the urge to touch her cheeks, feeling them get ten degrees warmer.

“All right, let’s move on to the next one.” He said, turning back to the board.

The bus ride that afternoon back to her house was a surreal thing, dappled shadows racing across as she half-daydreamed, half-denounced the whole thing. It was important, after all, to remain thoroughly grounded in reality. She shook her head, telling herself to wizen up. He was married. He has a daughter the same age as her.

She tried to shake off the feeling on the way home but it clung to her like mist of the morning.

So, she thought glumly, this is what a Schoolgirl Crush was, huh?

The Wild World

Sun, 10 May 2009 02:30:49 GMT

Recently, I took a much needed walk with my good old dog. Now, I hadn't realized what a bad shut-in I was until it dawned upon me that I've never really explored beyond my own community.

Now that's just sad. And my beast wonders why he has such a small kingdom!

So I'm making my way around all these private little communities I didn't even know existed and the weather is warm and just right on my bare shoulders--and I come upon this road I've practically never seen on a nearby intersection. It's a crowded, overdeveloped, loud intersection; and this road just winds up a small slope away from it all--it was just too great to resist.

As I started to walk up this road, the noise behind me melted away and I came upon the wooded hush of the wind running through leaves and birds warbling away. I mean, this road was just the Secret Garden, man.

Not five feet up the street, I come upon this marvelous little ranch house--looking completely out of place with the stone-wall mansions surrounding it. The house was made from dark wood panels and was in an L shape that appeared connected to the far shed--I couldn't be sure. And this house was just eaten up by lush growth from the dense jungle of a garden situated against the house's right angle.

I couldn't tell you why, but I fell madly in love with the house and it's simply grand garden. I just had to get to the bottom of this.

Next to the house was parked and older-looking car, and a woman bent over the lip of its trunk, busying herself with its contents. I walked up with my dog and called to the woman. I complimented her on her house--and being the magnanimous lady that I could tell she was just from the house--she smiled and thanked me.

This should have been enough, I know--but as I walked away, I knew it couldn't be the end. There was a wriggling worm of an idea in the pit of my stomach. I just had to capture the beauty--even if my silly little camera phone would never do it justice. So again, I approached the woman a second time, and to her amusement, asked her if I could take a picture of her lovely abode.

Again, she gave me a broad smile and then conceded to the picture. "As long as I'm not in it." She quipped with a warm chuckle. I didn't know the woman, but I felt we were kindred, her and I. She, too loved to put herself wholly into her work; and she reminded me a bit of my mother.
After taking my little picture of her house that was eaten by flowers, I went on my way. I won't however, forget the kindness I felt in the house and love I felt from the garden just by looking at it, and I really do regret I could not capture the awe-inspiring beauty she had masterfully created in her yard with her green thumb.

And now, a picture souvenir:

CAMPING!

Sun, 10 May 2009 02:00:59 GMT

Title: Uh...Don't Know
Characters: Ozmund, Jan [Circa 1932]
In Which Jan and Ozmund go camping, and eventual rape ensues.

That afternoon on their hike through the dense wood, it rained a heavy, sulky Spring rain. Jan and Ozmund had been picked to scout up ahead and leave markings on the trees when they found the right trail up the mountain. It was quiet all the wood; the deep, spicy scent of wet underbrush thick around them.

During the rain, the boys hid away under the shelter of a overhang of craggy slope, as the nipping wind blew rain droplets into their cheeks and eyelashes. Some rain even got stuck in the tangle of their hair. Here in the wood, the air was virgin fresh, and one could take a lungful guiltlessly--knowing he wouldn't hack it up the following second..................

Ugh, couldn't finish. TBC

Healing Process

Thu, 26 Mar 2009 02:32:34 GMT

Title: Healing Process
Characters: Grey, Ozmund [Circa Cloverleaf Continuum]

The white light from the port window was what woke Ozmund. Groaning, he allowed his eyes to become unglued and dropped the hand that had been thrown across his face. It was safe to say that he was confused; he could only remember scattered bits of the previous night, and the scuffle that ensued. Most of all he remembered blood-- a whole lot of it.

His rise from bed must have been a bit too hasty, because the sharp pain in his abdomen went through him like glass. He hissed under his breath, clutching at his stomach.

"I wouldn't get up if I were you; the wounds are fresh from stitching."

He looked up, adjusting the monocle onto the bridge of his nose. Grey stood at the door, wringing his hands nervously. The sunlight caught in his blond hair and shone like spun gold. "How are you feeling?" He asked in a soft, fluttering tone.

Ozmund raised the stained white shirt off his stomach to eye the carefully wrapped bandages. A small blossom of fresh blood bit through the crisp white linen. He looked back up to the boy, "You did this?"

Grey nodded, not fully meeting his critical gaze. "I did."

Ozmund sought out his eyes across the room, his look sharp. "Why did you help me?"

The boy began to wring his hands again, clutching at the hem of his sleeve. Quickly, he turned to pour rum from a crystal decanter into a glass at hand. The golden bell on the courtesan's collar rang out softly against his fluttering chest. He looked over his shoulder shyly, "I have some small knowledge of medicines, and it was said that your healer was predisposed--so I offered to help." He walked across the room with the glass, handing it to Ozmund.

Ozmund took it warily, feeling nausea clutch his stomach, spidering into an unbearable urge to vomit on the boy in front of him. He took a short sip first; then felt his thirst and threw it back with gusto.

"You retched blood all night." He said quietly.

He eyed the courtesan boy with a degree of exhaustion and loathing. "You haven't answered my question, boy. Why have you helped me?"

Grey ran an uncertain hand through his hair; the curls bounced and came to rest about his chin, framing his milky white face in gold. His hand rested for a moment on the nape of his neck--at the latch of his collar--and then fell again to rest at his side. His nervous gaze flickered hastily over Ozmund’s stern face and then fell to stare at the floorboards. “I thought that if you were to die on my watch, Marmoroath should be none to happy with me.”

With a snort, Ozmund made an attempt to stand, using a nearby empty scabbard in place of a crutch. He took a moment to adjust himself to the pain, and then hobbled to the door. With a wry smile, he replied “Oh I see; you didn’t want to disappoint our good king, the bastard.”

Grey gave a soft laugh that made Ozmund turn. The boy tried to suppress the chuckle behind a dainty hand. His laugh sounded like the tinkling of the golden bell around his neck. “It is very funny, you know.”

Ozmund raised an un-amused eyebrow, his red hair falling into his face. “What is?”

“Well,” The boy began, smiling sweetly, “One would think that the lord passes judgment on the servant—but it seems that it’s quite the opposite here out at sea.”

Ozmund gave the boy a sour expression and decided that he was officially annoyed of him. "No, you're only imagining things." He would rather be dancing a jig with his wounds open than hold company with him any longer. “Did my good lord ask you poke fun at me along with saving my life?” He asked dryly, taking his leave.

“No.” The smile left the boy’s face, replaced with his well-worn, charming worried expression. “He expressed a wish that I see how you were feeling after your ordeal.”

“Oh.” Ozmund chirped in mock cheerfulness, “You can tell him that I was better off dying with some dignity back in that alley. At least then I’d be freed from his most terribly cruel sense of humor.” With a gentlemanly twirl of his make-to crutch and a tight smile, he made his way up the steep set of stairs, heading for the deck.

Of Boy and Girl

Thu, 22 Jan 2009 12:19:11 GMT

Title: Of Boy and Girl
Characters: Irish boy, Noncommittal girl
Girl ponders the age old dilemma of dating jerks and committing to suckers.

It wasn’t that his bad habits particularly turned her off. He slept in only his socks, forgot to wash his teeth at times, drove while poking at his Chinese food over the wheel, smacked at his gum. He was drowning in bad habits.

But that was alright. They weren’t habits she was looking to weed out. After all, they weren’t getting married. She had no lasting connection to this stranger. None of these things bothered her.

It was just that—the only thing that did bother her was his sincerity and kindness. They were fleeting, of course; but when they did happen to appear at moments, she felt like bolting. It was supposed to be an easy thing, relationships. If you don’t like whom you’re with—leave. Love wasn’t a game of lasting, terrible feelings, after all. It was a rush of hormones, a flush of the cheek, and a wisp of a heated breath between moist lips. When love became a monotonous tread uphill, it became as exciting as waking up and watching Jerry Springer, day after day. Another day of living together, another day of having to compromise and learn to hate your not-so-significant anymore-other.

So here was the real fun. The Game. Most people like herself knew the unspoken rules by heart:

1. Find someone interesting; attractive and exciting

2. Begin age-old courting of said someone

3. Initiate sporadic and spontaneous meetings

4. Have fun

5. Mate

6. At the first sign of trouble: Get out of there before things get FUBAR

Now she knew that he knew. He had met her under the correct circumstances, and everything had gone by the rules. He was charming, that was for damn sure.

He had a shock of black hair that was shaggy and in a constant state of disarray, a kind of greasy-looking mop. She found she had come to like grabbing it at times of extreme passion. His nose was always in the way of their heated kissing sessions. That was endearing, too. He lied all the time, but that was exciting—she never knew whether she was being thrown for a loop this time or not. His always laughing green eyes gave away the Northern Irish in him, as did his extreme fondness for the drink.

She’d been with him at times when he’d been so drunk he couldn’t stand, but tried anyway. He was a hysterical drunk.

When he was high, he always wanted to do the dishes, and was never hungry.

He kissed like a motherfucker. It was always hot, wet, and he grabbed tight to her, like she was water in a desert and he was a man without it. He sucked the very soul from her with each touch to her chapped lips.

He never apologized, even when it was clearly his fault. He only apologized once, and that was when he ruined everything.

He was never sweet; never touching in anything he said or did. Everything in his actions was brusque energy, like that of an animalistic dance. Every word he said sent blood rushing through her ears, her heart pounding either with passion or anger.

She liked him because he was exciting.

She liked him because he was never nice.

She liked him the most because he was a complete and total asshole.

But one day, way past the fleeting warning signs, they fell back upon the bed, and he—completely rosy and drunk, uttered the words most feared in the English language.

“I ‘uve you.” He slurred past his goofy, swollen lips, cracked down the middle from a fight he’d had in a bar. He’d slung his hand over her fluttering chest, damp and shimmering in the dim light.

She immediately sat up, looking bewildered, looking as if he’d slapped her in the face with his boot. She would have, at least, taken the boot a bit better, considering he was shitfaced.

But he was not drunk enough to lose complete and total oral skills. After all, the Kennedy’s had mastered it.

She stared at him, unable to speak. He looked equally confused. “Wha? Az’dounded?” Truthfully, the drunken slur coupled with his Boston gait of speech did not help with her understanding of the situation.

No, no, no, she thought to herself. He was a jerk—jerks were supposed to be a foolproof plan. They didn’t fall in love. They weren’t supposed to. What about the rules? She thought. Had everyone lost their mind?

Angry with herself, she rolled over and hogged a good portion of the blanket.

“No’ going’to say it?” He teased, pressing his meaty finger behind her ear. He ran it down the sinew of her neck, tensing with emotion. Suddenly he got serious. She could feel the fear in his voice. "Lis'ssen. I'm sorry."

“Go to sleep.” She said, not entirely meaning all the malice in her voice.

The following morning, she was gone before he woke. It was an old, cheap trick, but it got her out of confrontation—which she hated the most.

She thought about going downtown to walk down Park Street. Maybe she could pass through the gardens and think by the pond.

With a sharp, painful intake of breath, she fixed her sights on the downtown crossing.

Truth was, a girl never wants a nice guy. A guy that would just fall for her. A girl wanted to be smacked around a bit; she wanted to fight for something--and nothing ever felt good if it was just given to her. Nice guys were boring--are boring. She wanted action, and she'd really thought that this time, she'd found the ultimate jerk. Except, this time, she was more disappointed than ever.

It was a shame, too. She’d found it sexy that he was ambidextrous.

Ode To Gamestop Boy

Mon, 05 Jan 2009 00:18:13 GMT

Ode To Gamestop Boy

    When you go into Gamestop for whatever your gaming needs--you don't really expect there to be hot nerdy clerks. The reason for this is that there are no hot nerdy clerks. The world's population of hot nerds are probably off in videogaming competitions winning millions of dollars in Korea or picking up chicks at the nearest Suicide Girls convention.
    This is, of course common knowledge that sits in the back of any girl gamer's mind when she takes her monthly trip down to Gamestop.
    However--there is always room to be pleasantly surprised. As my sister and I stood in line poking fun at the latest Castlevania game's character designs (this is commonplace, don't be offended--it's bad for your health.), some lady in back of us kind of rudely pushed us and said in her snotty Gui'talian tone: "Next on line, he just said."
    ...'He just said'. The sad part about living on Staten Island [the Italian Cesspool of the World] is that you are hopelessly stuck in the vicious vernacular circle, and no matter how many times you point out that 'You did well' and not 'You did good'--well let's just say, you're better off heading to The Village. They'll understand you pretentious plight there. That's the reason that gaming stores should be build separate of malls and plazas; because angry, minivan-driving moms make it their pitstop to return the game they didn't realize was rated 'AO'. Whoops. Thusly, they have to wait online with faithful gamers and people like my sister and I. Well, in any order, the lady tells us that we're next in line. I kindly back up onto her foot and then make my way to the nearest available register.
    Now the whole reason we ended up in the god-forsaken mall is to return Ninja Gaiden II--through no fault of its own--I had just received two of them for Christmas. So here I was, walking over blindly to the cashier, placing down the brand-new copy. I looked up at him and was smacked in the face by sheer nerdy beauty.
    Such unworldly geekly good looks should be illegal. Or at least, if you're going into the store, they should have a warning posted by the entrance:

            "WARNING: GOOD LOOKING CLERK ON DUTY. POSSIBLE CHANCE OF CUSTOMER ASSHOLERY. ENTER IF YOU DARE."

    Sweet, beautiful Gamestop Boy, you took me by surprise. Maybe he missed his flight to Korea. Maybe the Suicide Girl convention was canceled due to snow. He had that sweater vest going, with a striped shirt--OH YEAH. And he had those dyed, magenta-but-really-quite red hair color on top of quite adorable curls of Adonis. Oh, and he had a scar that just traced his right eyebrow. Oh boy, you should be called DORIAN GAY.
    I sputtered and gave him my game and he looked at it for a moment before handing it back. "We don't buy brand new games back." He said. My sister and I gave a resounding "Awww..." I took back the game and leaned over the desk real Casanova-like. "You really won't take it back?" I whispered. Unfazed, he shook his head at me.
    It wasn't him; after all, it was me who rolled out of bed looking like Harry Potter that morning.
    "It has to be opened." He offered.
    "Oh..." My sister and I both silently pondered for a moment before I turned back. "I can't just leave the store, open it, and then come back?"
    With a bit of a pitying smile, he shook his head.
    "Oh..." I said again. Then I turned, giving it my last ditch effort: "What if! What if I went upstairs and opened it and then came back?"
    Then, with a laugh he shook his head. "Nah, but if you go upstairs to the game store, they might try."
    I nodded and gave my last heavy sigh and left. "Alright then, thanks." And sadly, I left our Dorian Gay to his own cashier-ly duties.
    When we got out, I led my sister to the nearest trash can and started to unwrap the game's packaging. She looked at me, "That sucks."
    "Yeah I know, " I replied, trying to unstick plastic from my fingers with gusto, "But that guy was HOT."