(no subject)
Burn burn, baby, burn burn, whose turn?
That's been on my mind a lot lately. It's got to do with the new novel I'm planning - after scrapping Pieces (working titles of the Kim novella) and only making it halfway through various fanfiction oneshots, my muse seems to have arrived again. Maybe it's the multiple readings of Stephen King's On Writing that's done it. Whatever it is, I'm glad. I miss my muse.
However - urban fantasy? Really? I don't do fantasy. Yet, nothing I've turned out this past year has been worth a glance - nothing except for the oneshots, whether orginal or fanfiction.
Practiced, long fingers drive a needle through another wing, silver encased in purple, ruining beauty, creating beauty. “No, I don’t think so."
A wail fills the room, the wings beating desperately three times before falling to ash. Its eyes open, it continues to fight, but the needle’s been shifted now, driven through the middle of its body, forcing it in two.
In mere seconds, the being is erased. Strings attract each other, drawing together through some invisible force, creating memories; red sound, purple vision, grey scent.
“Ueda...” Kame’s voice trails off, shaking, pitch increasing with each second. “Ueda, you’re scaring us.”
The perfect fingers draw out another butterfly from the jar, careful not to touch its wings, careful not to wipe the magic off. “They say when you point, you kill a fairy.”
Here, he lowers the creature into the flame again, wide eyes watching its destruction.
“Ueda.” Kame has nothing else to say, nothing else to beg.
Another creature is threaded on. “When you swear, you kill an angel.”
He lowers it down into the flame once again. This time, it bursts in an explosion of green, of peace.
“When you stop caring, you kill a butterfly.”
That's the type of stuff I want to write. Ambigious, symbolistic (at least to me) - selfish, in a way. Only I want to know what's happening, the full picture. And I don't even want to know that.
Everything that I've been working on lately has been plastic. Take a glance at part of Pieces, for example.
Stan leans back, knocking down another drink. “That doesn’t answer my question, Kim. Are you coming home or not tonight?”
“Not.”
A frown passes over his face, lit up by purple strobes. “Fine.”
Kim snorts. “Fuck off, Stan. I can take care of myself.”
“Like you did that first night!” Stan bites back, leaning forward. “You were perfectly fine then, weren’t you?”
“They didn’t get anywhere near me. Besides, I might’ve liked it.”
Stan turns away. “Fuck, Kim. That’s sick.”
“Depends on who you ask.” Kim’s the one with the hooked smile now, right pulled further up. He sets down an empty glass.
There’s a sigh from the other end of the table. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“Pretend all you want. You never live in reality anyway.”
And that even contains my favourite line in the whole, what, 10k? I'm not sure that I've scrapped something I've spent this long on - only to have this short a wordcount - before. I read through it, and it's plastic. Terrible. Not worth another thought.
Yet, I've used the same characters for an English assignment, and I love that. It's not that hard to see why - even though it's short, it's good.
His hands are wrapped around his torso, trying to stuff the maggots flooding out of his navel back in him. The man doesn’t care, still holding him, still kissing him.
“Can’t you hear me screaming?”
He never spoke a word.
One scene. Short. It says all it wants to, though. Yet, one of the major reasons I hate Pieces is because of how short the scenes are. I guess I've got to give what's on my mind a shot. Can't be any worse than the other novel/las I've written this past year.
One thing is for certain. It'll read a lot more like the first/last excerpt than anything else.
That's been on my mind a lot lately. It's got to do with the new novel I'm planning - after scrapping Pieces (working titles of the Kim novella) and only making it halfway through various fanfiction oneshots, my muse seems to have arrived again. Maybe it's the multiple readings of Stephen King's On Writing that's done it. Whatever it is, I'm glad. I miss my muse.
However - urban fantasy? Really? I don't do fantasy. Yet, nothing I've turned out this past year has been worth a glance - nothing except for the oneshots, whether orginal or fanfiction.
Practiced, long fingers drive a needle through another wing, silver encased in purple, ruining beauty, creating beauty. “No, I don’t think so."
A wail fills the room, the wings beating desperately three times before falling to ash. Its eyes open, it continues to fight, but the needle’s been shifted now, driven through the middle of its body, forcing it in two.
In mere seconds, the being is erased. Strings attract each other, drawing together through some invisible force, creating memories; red sound, purple vision, grey scent.
“Ueda...” Kame’s voice trails off, shaking, pitch increasing with each second. “Ueda, you’re scaring us.”
The perfect fingers draw out another butterfly from the jar, careful not to touch its wings, careful not to wipe the magic off. “They say when you point, you kill a fairy.”
Here, he lowers the creature into the flame again, wide eyes watching its destruction.
“Ueda.” Kame has nothing else to say, nothing else to beg.
Another creature is threaded on. “When you swear, you kill an angel.”
He lowers it down into the flame once again. This time, it bursts in an explosion of green, of peace.
“When you stop caring, you kill a butterfly.”
That's the type of stuff I want to write. Ambigious, symbolistic (at least to me) - selfish, in a way. Only I want to know what's happening, the full picture. And I don't even want to know that.
Everything that I've been working on lately has been plastic. Take a glance at part of Pieces, for example.
Stan leans back, knocking down another drink. “That doesn’t answer my question, Kim. Are you coming home or not tonight?”
“Not.”
A frown passes over his face, lit up by purple strobes. “Fine.”
Kim snorts. “Fuck off, Stan. I can take care of myself.”
“Like you did that first night!” Stan bites back, leaning forward. “You were perfectly fine then, weren’t you?”
“They didn’t get anywhere near me. Besides, I might’ve liked it.”
Stan turns away. “Fuck, Kim. That’s sick.”
“Depends on who you ask.” Kim’s the one with the hooked smile now, right pulled further up. He sets down an empty glass.
There’s a sigh from the other end of the table. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“Pretend all you want. You never live in reality anyway.”
And that even contains my favourite line in the whole, what, 10k? I'm not sure that I've scrapped something I've spent this long on - only to have this short a wordcount - before. I read through it, and it's plastic. Terrible. Not worth another thought.
Yet, I've used the same characters for an English assignment, and I love that. It's not that hard to see why - even though it's short, it's good.
His hands are wrapped around his torso, trying to stuff the maggots flooding out of his navel back in him. The man doesn’t care, still holding him, still kissing him.
“Can’t you hear me screaming?”
He never spoke a word.
One scene. Short. It says all it wants to, though. Yet, one of the major reasons I hate Pieces is because of how short the scenes are. I guess I've got to give what's on my mind a shot. Can't be any worse than the other novel/las I've written this past year.
One thing is for certain. It'll read a lot more like the first/last excerpt than anything else.