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Fiction Journal of a bad writer
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| House/Chase |
[08 Sep 2005|11:02pm] |
Terrible, horrible, first draft, totally OOC. Enjoy. Frottage.
( In the Dark )
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[21 Dec 2004|10:36pm] |
This is what happens when I try to write sci-fi. I started writing it about two years ago, when I still liked sci-fi, for Interzone. I am probably never going to finish it, so here you go.
( Going To Grandma’s House
)
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[28 Jul 2004|02:39pm] |
There was a night when an angel came to me, his lips arrayed in the bitterest damasks of the land, and he spoke, and he said;
"Rise up. Rise up."
And I rose up in wonder, my heart beating like the feet of a thousand soldiers and the skins of a hundred thousand drums, to behold his countenance.
The angel turned his face to me and his eyes were like spear-tips, so hard and fast did they bore into the very centre of my soul and pluck from it all my secret fears and yearnings and wear them around their rims like little flickers of flame.
"Rise up. Rise up," he said unto me, and all of me rose, and stood, awaiting his command.
The Angel lay down upon my bed and commanded that I kiss him, upon the lips, where the Lord of All Creation had bestowed his breath of life, where his body met his soul, where the sky met the sea, where heaven should meet earth.
And I kissed him, and I knew such visions of pain and misery and beauty and terror and joy that I sobbed like a child. My tears flowed like wine from my uncovered eyes, my breath stopped and I felt sure I would die.
And the angel said unto me: "Rise up. Rise up."
My hands rose up to caress his skin, his skin the colour of honey and all as sweet, and to caress his hair, his hair as black as night and as filled with holy mystery. He took my fingers and one by one he kissed their tips, and I knew the fire of the Lord burned in each fingertip, that from now on I would make only the most beautiful and holy art with these hands.
And the angel drew me to him, pulled my body to him and whispered in a voice that was the choir of a thousand seraphim, "Rise up. Rise up."
And I rose. I rose from the base of my very body to the tips of my hair, and I felt myself filled with the purest, clearest light, and I kissed him deep down where even the Lord had not touched, trusting that it would be whole and the same. I kissed him where all the hurt of the world and the cares of Heaven congregated, and I swallowed his pain like an olive stone, down into my poor man's belly.
And the angel wept, and cried "Hallelujah." Twice, he cried "Hallelujah." Thrice. And thence I slept, and the angel slept, the dreamless and untainted sleep of the holy.
When the morning came, the dawn was the brightest I had ever seen; it seemed to me that the very face of the Lord had risen above the land to rain his blessings down upon us.
And in that light I saw that my angel of the night before was a man, and that between man and angel there is no division, and that all things, small things, large things, things of beauty and things of filth, things of courage and things of fear, are of the Lord, and that there is no evil, and that all men are angels. And I rose up. I rose up, and I turned my face to the sun and gave thanks, and cried "Hallelujah! Once, twice, thrice, "Hallelujah."
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| 400 words on love |
[26 Jul 2004|10:33pm] |
I sing you a song of love, of eternity. I sing you a song of togetherness. I sing you now, and you, you listen.
He was a handsome chap, with a sharp nose and sharp lips and a sharp mind with so many edges it refracted the little light that passed through it.
And he was a soft, hopeless boy with round eyes and a button nose and no merits worth speaking of save that he was the object of the sharp boy's most dear, sincere, overwhelming adoration. Sometimes he felt it was a bit more than he'd like, but he knew himself to be Nothing Special, and accepted this exaggerated praise with all the grace he had.
And there dwelled love, of a sort.
The sharp boy was possessive, obsessive, and more than a little insane; he wanted the soft boy with him at all times, wanted to drown in his sweat and eat up his eyes with an accompaniment of orchestral sighing.
The soft boy liked to go fishing. Alone.
As you can imagine, this led to some terrible rows - the sharp boy would shout, cry, demand fidelity and ultimate sacrifice and the soft boy would cry and apologise and hide and wonder if he'd ever get to go fishing again.
One day the soft boy snuck home with a basketful of fish to find the kitchen table cleared and a large sewing needle and reel of thick surgical thread waiting upon a plastic mat. His lover appeared from behind the door with a wounded look and a bottle of TCP.
"You say you love me."
"I do love you!"
"Prove it."
It hurt more than the soft boy could possibly have dreamed. Several times he wanted to scream and the sharp boy stuffed socks in his mouth so the neighbours would not be disturbed. Eventually they both drifted into unconsciousness.
They arose the next morning, unsteadily, together, joined from the chest to the groin. The sharp boy put his arm around his lover to steady him and the soft boy put his arm out to the kitchen wall to stop them both from falling over.
"Now you can never leave me," the sharp boy said happily. "We shall never be apart."
The soft boy looked down at the bleeding stitches and decided that he could get used to fishing with a little extra weight on the front.
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| Lethe |
[19 Jul 2004|12:42pm] |
"Ouch! Stop that."
"You said you liked this. You used to like this."
"Yeah, well, I don't any more, alright?"
"Do you want me to - you know. Something different?"
"It's not what you're doing."
"This isn't working any more, is it?"
"This really isn't working any more."
"There's no need to be so harsh."
"I don't fucking care. Get off me."
"Oh, break my heart, why don't you."
"Don't mind if I do…"
**********************
If I swim for long enough in the river of you, maybe I'll forget all about her … you be my Lethe, you be my alcohol, you be my French Foreign Legion, kid. You can be the memory-killer.
But your hair is the same colour as hers and your eyes are the same shape as hers and your thighs are as thin as hers and your confused pout and your screaming broken wrist say you're just as young as she was, but not so wise.
Not so wise at all.
**********************
"I got swept away by her, I swear. But she had the body for it, you know - lithe as a fish. A little wriggling eel of a girl with a bite to match."
"Shut up. You sound like a pulp detective."
"I'm still coherent, then. I haven't drunk enough. MEL! Another one, and make this one twice as sharp. I want to feel like I'm getting a 120% proof ass-raping."
"You have definitely had enough."
"Sorry, sweetheart, only my mother gets to say that. Hands off the booze, now. Hands off the booze."
"I think you should leave, sir."
"I think you'd look a whole lot better without your front teeth, you fucking impudent bitch…"
**********************
There are times in a man's life when he just plain goes into hibernation; he sleeps under the ice and waits for the rays of the long-forgotten sun to rouse him, start him swimming again, thaw out his swim bladder and drag him back from the glue factory.
There are times in a man's life when he's hibernating in the Styx, and no amount of backwatering and splashing when this realisation drops onto his head - a slow, steady drop, or the graze of a cup on his side as the thirstiest man in history tries to drink his fill - is going to stop him from being torn away from his moorings; no gasp of long-awaited air can stop him from passing through that veil. Man hibernating in the Styx is a dead man already.
**********************
"Are you sure you don't want to press charges, Ma'am?"
"Oh, I'm quite sure. He's just some sad ol' drunk, after all. It won't do me any good to see him in jail."
"I'm not sure, Ma'am - he did bust you up pretty good. That eye's going to take a while to fade. Are you sure you won't reconsider?"
"I'm sure, officer. I'll heal. That poor old sot won't."
"Right, right. Up you get, Joe Nobody. Up you get, and back out in the gutter where you belong. An' if I get you in here hitting ladies again, so help me, I'll bust you up pretty good myself."
**********************
That night, Fishy Sam's, where the cigar smoke and the sax curl up together in eddies; that night, before I'd ever heard of swimming against the tide.
This night, where the steady stream of small white pills and burning brown liquid have ebbed through my throat and stomach and back out again in thin trickles of drool, where I have choked and drowned a thousand times, and where, against all probability, on the hospital floor she finds me and holds me and tells them she's my niece, my niece, damn your eyes, and I go under, and amongst the tears and the acidic puke I can hear her amused sighing, and I haven't forgotten, no I haven't forgotten … her thin thighs by my side.
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