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The entries that are public consist mainly of original writing & musings from an estimated 10 million years ago. They're not very good; please keep this in mind so that you refrain from slinging fiery arrows in my general vicinity.

title: you look so fine
Part: 2/2
WARNINGS: mild gore, graphic sex, very very NC-17
Summary: Draco is a Veela and Harry is his mate. Crack Horror, by yours truly.
Notes: curiouslyfic prompted: Wings, Veela, H/D, smut, Crackfic/horror ficlet. For her, and for the ladies in chatzy who didn't know how crack horror worked. I wrote this very quickly, so it's not as carefully crafted as some of my other writing. Don't think about it too much, and please enjoy.

And a million thanks to beautiful curiouslyfic for the amazing services. Beta, and otherwise. I LOVE YOU SO MUCH GAHD.


<< Previously <<

( it's so insane; you've got me tethered and chained...I hear your name, and I'm falling over )

I'm depressed, therefore I need to be productive. This will likely be my last fic post until my Big Bang, just so I can focus my attentions on that.

title: you look so fine
rating: very NC-17
WARNINGS: Dark humor, mild gore, graphic sex
Summary: Draco is a Veela and Harry is his mate. Crack Horror, by yours truly.
Notes: curiouslyfic prompted: Wings, Veela, H/D, smut, Crackfic/horror ficlet. For her, and for the ladies in chatzy who didn't know how crack horror worked. I wrote this very quickly, so it's not as carefully crafted as some of my other writing. Don't think about it too much, and please enjoy.

And a million thanks to beautiful curiouslyfic for the amazing services. Beta, and otherwise. I LOVE YOU SO MUCH GAHD.


( you look so fine, I want to break your heart - and give you mine )

GUYS. GUYS. LOOK HOW I SWEPT THE DRUNKFIC AWARDS.







The community, of course, is hpdrunkfic :D

This took me 2 nights of solid drinking to write. And it's holy fuck 7.2k. @_@

AND NOW, the moment you have ALL BEEN WAITING FOR:

(  Presenting....THE JUSTIN BIEBER EXPERIENCE. )

They are slimy and in my house.
Their tentacles slick and long…like tongues –with millions of mouths,
suction-cup lips that open and close, open and close,
Winding, slithering, around my coffee tables, my forest-green leather love seats
Making rolls, ripples, waves under the furry, grassy carpet
As if they were growing roots.
I cut them open.
Their insides are wet and cold.
My living room smells like fish,
Like salt, like the ocean – the yard is turning to water, blue, blue sea
Deeper than it looks; I can’t see the bottom …
But where there is still grass I stab deep into the dirt, and dig
–this part-
looks like rich chocolate cake
It smells like worms.
The squid (or is it squids?) keep coming. They have giant eyes - the better to see you with, my dear- and little hook mouths (hookworms, they burrow into your skin, fishing hooks, they catch in your cheek, shiny thin membrane fish cheeks) and all those tentacles. Ten, at least.
Coming in through the windows and the back door and the front door.
They don’t ring the bell or even try to knock,
how rude.
There is never an octopus.
Later I find them in the convenience store,
under fluroescent lights, open 7 till 11,
they're small and pre-packaged, flattened in plastic wrap: tentacles and hoods and hooks and eyes all, dried all, all in plastic.
There’s something unsettling about it.
I prefer my squid stringy, white and dry
(someone once told me that smegma tastes like dried squid. But I like dried squid, I said. Then you’ll like the taste of smegma, she told me, and I wrinkled my nose gross)
unrecognizable.
I can’t imagine just eating this flattened cephalopod whole.
“American,” Zach accuses me.

Surgery – that strange, sterile place where I go that you cannot follow. They lay me down on a table and turn on the lights above me so that all I see is white.

I could never be a junkie, I have what my doctor called “rolling veins.” Rolling veins do exactly that -that makes them hard to find. It’s as if my veins are instinctively afraid of needles, even though I am not. I worry that they’ll stick the needle in and it won’t be right, and the anesthesia will just sit and bleed under my skin and I’ll be awake for my operation.

They stick the IV in my arm and then I’m out.

I wake up twice during the operation. Or maybe it’s more than that. I suddenly feel like I’m on the coroner’s table and they’re performing an autopsy on me – they all think I’m dead but
I’m still alive and they’re cutting me open, alive.

I sneeze, twice, to make sure they know that this is a living body they’re dealing with, here.

I can see them scraping my insides, feel the scrape-scrape-scrape of the scalpel. I feel no pain. There is a body on the table and it is mine but it is not mine. There is pain in the room but it is not mine.

They sew up my eyes, my skin, reconnect flesh to sinew.

Open, close, they tell me.

I’m in, I’m out.

Open, close.

Wake up, they say.

It’s time to wake up.

Wake up.

Based on a true story. And everything else is made up. Warning: Long and completely unlike all my other pieces.

( The summer I was getting over being a junior in high school, John Steinbeck killed my best friend. )

I am not a poet. The poems I have written in the past have all rhymed, ABABABCC. I like words that sound good, and overdramatic imagery.  

I need to stop using such figurative language all the time, tone it down, bring it back, make it more real, concrete - even though as I look outside, I notice how the branches of the trees tangle with each other and the drops of rain cling to the windows the way that the word "hope" sometimes sticks to dry lips.

My classmates used to say that when I was writing, I was "too caught up in my own cleverness." The puns and word play and metaphors were a bit too much; so much time spent on admiring the juxtaposition of the words, the fine construction of sentences, that it distracted them from the actual story. A "little bit in love with myself", they told me, as I am sure, knowing me, is bound to happen from time to time.

Part of me can't help it. I love words, language, the way that certain syllables roll in your mouth. The way that one thing can really mean two things at once, if you bother to look at it again. But

That's what it is. I hate my author voice. I try to write how I talk but even how I talk is all jumbled like this.

I envy the pure simplicity of people who write line after line of uncomplicated sentences like "The door swings shut. He sets the mirror down." Mine are all "His mouth blossoms shyly beneath yours, like a nocturnal flower spreading its petals to reveal the deep, dark blood-red heart within."

These are not the words befitting a minimalist. These are the words of prancey men in frilly shirts who drink too much and cuddle their vices at night, who lived a century or two ago.

Maybe I should stop thinking so much about writing and just write.

Also, I should be more of an asshole. Because that's just funny.

falling

( the sky, it was going to swallow me. )

On closer inspection, I don't like this nearly as much as I thought I did. Needs rewriting.