I Hate Not Having a Title
I'm stealing this from teaspoonery
For a fic of about 500 whatever I can do write as fast as possible in reply to your comment:
Give me:
- a pairing
- rating
- the setting / a random word / prompt in no more than 10 words / lyrics
- [optional] a mood
Fandoms I write for. Good question. I can do BoB, CHAOS, Southland, Breakout Kings, and IDK. If I wrote it ( Read more... )
For a fic of about 500 whatever I can do write as fast as possible in reply to your comment:
Give me:
- a pairing
- rating
- the setting / a random word / prompt in no more than 10 words / lyrics
- [optional] a mood
Fandoms I write for. Good question. I can do BoB, CHAOS, Southland, Breakout Kings, and IDK. If I wrote it ( Read more... )
It wasn’t the warm coast and lapping waves he planned, but it was a space for him to gather his thoughts. His were chaotic, his mind racing and his fingers reaching for pens, pencils, bits of charcoal anything to gather them.
The small notebooks he carried were growing full and tattered, the words swarming the page unorganized and heavy. Sometimes he wrote over previous sentences until the white lined paper grew black.
This wasn’t where he wanted to be.
A small voice mocked him from the corner of the room.
“How’s that book coming along?”
He’d ignore it and scribble drawings of parachutes and the eyes of men whose bodies bloated in the sun. Sometimes the voice would tease the base of his neck, follow it to his jaw and blow smoke past his lips.
“You looking pale, Web. This too much for you?”
The figures were torn from the notebook and plunged into a tepid mug of coffee. He flung the entire mess, the wet paper and the ceramic out the back door. The heavy crash against a rock was satisfying.
It was worse at night. The voice and the choking cigarette smoke filled his throat and lungs. He’d flail around on the bed and gasp for air and the voice stroked his forehead.
“Open your eyes.”
Nothing was there. The black and the emptiness and the oppressive heat of the desert threatened to swallow him whole. He scraped his tongue with his teeth and spat on the carpet.
He found a new notebook; clean lines and thick paper that he rubbed between his fingers. His thoughts were still burning the edge of his mind and he wrote. When he stopped he threw it in his jacket pocket. Everything else of value was thrown into a suitcase and the house locked tight. Aiming the car west he drove and found a way.
When the door opened he handed over the book. With an arm slung over his shoulder and the book in Joe’s hand they walked to the ocean.
Everything was here.
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