(no subject)
SUCCESS.
So in a sudden, entirely unnerving fit of actually giving a crap, I dropped a class I thoroughly hated, studied 'til my bricks cracked (what does this even meeeean?) for a test in a class I enjoy (resulting in 92/100, nicely satisfying since my inner-overachiever has lain dormant for so long), and entertained some moderately interesting ideas for the next issue of imaginarybeasts. General feel-good moments. I should note here that being serial chillers with Leona and Sarah set the standard for this week, because Saturday was: ¡fantastico!
Another possible explanation for my good mood: I was lurking the revived KH anon meme and discovered that the last fic I wrote for kokanshu's kink meme (and actually managed to keep anonymous, cheesus christburger) is very over with a couple of people. LAWL. This is vitally important information, since I've been intending to fill at least two requests soon, but haven't ... well, you know, felt like it. Knowing that total strangers approve of my porn is an excellent motivator.
Having said that, here are some notes I've been keeping on various stories in the works because really, what else am I going to do at one in the morning? All of this is hilarious/unedited/etc.
snakeskin heat
Sunlight coils in the street like an indolent serpent, its molten muscles flickering up and down the white cliffs surrounding Masyaf.
(Everyone is afraid. No one is safe.)
Golden dust in the streets, lifting like a dancer’s veil.
and heat lifts from the polished stones and rooftops, a shimmering battle standard for high summer. Coastal winds carry voices.
FUCK, SERIOUSLY.
her heart batters a frantic chorus against the ivory keys of her ribs
Nostromo, the inverted womb; onboard computer “Mother”
queen - fired black chlorophyll and her mouth, soft inside, red like marachino cherries.
“Child; you belong to me now.”
cryptids derived from the name of the mother
chitin, exoskeleton, carpace
Carbon-based, like the hunters. Similarities in approximate bone density, skeletal structure and musculature.
she’s like Jane fucking Goodall, our Ripley
“The queen is thinking:
“And now many of Her children are dead. Down to the deep ether with them, the lost little ones, long-gone beloved husks. The elder kin are searching for them absently, trying to touch them in the hive, finding only the empty spaces left behind; where where, they want to know, growing angry, and what can She say?
“Somewhere. She says it like that; She makes the words bright like knives, cold like stars, and they all go still. Nowhere.
“They descend on this concept. It’s a descent, downward, in the shape of eagles, black claws that clutch. The communal mind grasps it, breaks the memory down and paths the disassembled pieces to subpods and individuals. A million whiplash tails flay the darkness of the catacombs thoughtfully and the silence is alive with voices.
“Do you hear them, because I can, I am not speaking, Ellen Ripley.
“Ellen. I’m Ellen Ripley.
“I can see the inside of the caves. An inverted womb. Besides the fact that that shouldn’t be anyway, it’s too dark. No light in there. No human eye could see.
“This is impossible.”
Far away and entirely forgotten, Jon Osterman is alone but not without company.
In his hands, a face; and, when his concentration slips, the face says: “Never knew you too well. Nothing left to know by the time we met. More to the point, different social circles. And yet. Being nothing anymore, I am everything. Omniscience. Prophecy. I am the message written in your entrails.” It chews thoughtfully on a memory of fire inside the ice, under the skin. “You killed me.”
There is a paradise lurking nearby, sewn to the underside of empty space. Though he already knows where to find it, Jon has not finished searching yet; the proper motions must be observed. Featureless silence unrolls in his mind like an endless blank scroll and the face is watching him, is an oily, spreading stain with worms of condemnation wriggling in its mouth. Somehow, it manages to make a voice, even in absence, in void. And with void as his only other companion across the elegant sweep of deep time beyond waiting, Jon rather enjoys their conversations.
“I wish,” he says, “that you would not worry so much. I have a special plan for this world.”
Rorschach laughs, the sound of neurons burning silver in an ancient cage of fingerbones, a white transmission that paths itself up and down the firmament.
“Once upon a time and they all fell into darkness. What world? The end.”
(Maybe they’d prefer another story, though.)
Once upon a time along the shore, against the iron-slop ocean full of chitinous limbs and pincers clasped on red pollution.
Nightfall, and Rorschach was scraping for meals with the scavengers, deeply content - so far as one could ever be while breathing rot straight from the jaws of the apocalypse, but he’d gotten used to that, he shouldered it with the aplomb of a starving cat turning its nose up on spoiled caviar. Like them, he ate well if with discretion, exploiting the wasteful compulsions of his contemporaries. Few people made the most of their provisions, or noticed if segments of their bread and various perishables went missing sometime between a midnight binge and breakfast. Still, never discounting elaborate plots against his life, he kept to several reliable dens. Crows and raccoons did the same, he learned it from them, long ago; to move freely through a network of scattered safe points, a shadow beneath the savage rattling of starlight and bones on the dawn’s pearly flank, nose and lips wise to the sneering taint of cyanide. There were houses he knew, inhabited by people too shit-scared to do anything more than fend for themselves; those were safe enough. There were soup shelters; faceless, he could pass for human within them if he felt the need. And then there was Nite Owl’s place, but that was different. Heading there made him feel more like the harried lion than a hyena, fearsome and well-acquainted with its dignity; run to Nite Owl, feed on his corpse because that was all he had left to him. There was no such man, not anymore.
Childish and weak, he often went regardless, though Dreiberg never saw him; and, anyway, Dreiberg would probably not even know him if he saw, see him if he looked.
...
anon wanted porn though DON’T FORGET THE PORN, IDIOT
I dunno, I doooooon’t really want to talk about the Crimebusters as a unit; not that they aren’t important, obv., but if I am going to talk about Rorschach, and why he hates Kovacs, and why he hates that Kovacs has mommy issues, and why he hates that he doesn’t hate Dan, I will lose my mind trying to make enough room for Blake to come in and say lol u guise r gay, I will just lose it
- why does Adrian look like such a tool in his wiki promo picture?
A Hungry Jaguarundi in Mojave Springtime
“But wait,” said the snakecharmer, his plumage tipped askew. The fear was in him, plucking modern electric blues out of his tendons from toenails to skulltop, and an antique cage swung like wet meat from his arm. He shook it to showcase the contents (it was empty; nothing gets him excited these days) until the hungry jaguarundi struck open the door and devoured all that poured out. “You simply cannot leave us so unfulfilled, our feuds unconcluded and our footsteps full of opal drops still warm from the lips of a star. Where did I come from? Is this the desert or the holy mountain?”
He waited, fully anticipating an answer. How delusional, oui?
“Nothing satisfies,” the hungry jaguarundi remarked in spite of him, looking grim. She extended her claw and scratched at the earth. “Desert, Tenochtitlan. I would know that city anywhere. Perhaps I shall eat you now.”
Which she promptly did, though the experience was vastly disagreeable and his blood baked into her whiskers like little tattlestones and made red cement of the sand beneath her paws, most uncomfortable to walk upon. Vultures began to wheel in the sky above her. The clipping of their wings echoed from peaked dunes curled up like tongues against the sky; their talons licked long, doleful lines soft as clouds through the flesh of the wind; and she knew how they felt, she was (of course) still starving. C’est la vie, she thought, and wandered off (in search of nothing, particularly).
(Which, by the way, she found.)
So. The end.
What are you still doing here, get out.
So in a sudden, entirely unnerving fit of actually giving a crap, I dropped a class I thoroughly hated, studied 'til my bricks cracked (what does this even meeeean?) for a test in a class I enjoy (resulting in 92/100, nicely satisfying since my inner-overachiever has lain dormant for so long), and entertained some moderately interesting ideas for the next issue of imaginarybeasts. General feel-good moments. I should note here that being serial chillers with Leona and Sarah set the standard for this week, because Saturday was: ¡fantastico!
Another possible explanation for my good mood: I was lurking the revived KH anon meme and discovered that the last fic I wrote for kokanshu's kink meme (and actually managed to keep anonymous, cheesus christburger) is very over with a couple of people. LAWL. This is vitally important information, since I've been intending to fill at least two requests soon, but haven't ... well, you know, felt like it. Knowing that total strangers approve of my porn is an excellent motivator.
Having said that, here are some notes I've been keeping on various stories in the works because really, what else am I going to do at one in the morning? All of this is hilarious/unedited/etc.
snakeskin heat
Sunlight coils in the street like an indolent serpent, its molten muscles flickering up and down the white cliffs surrounding Masyaf.
(Everyone is afraid. No one is safe.)
Golden dust in the streets, lifting like a dancer’s veil.
and heat lifts from the polished stones and rooftops, a shimmering battle standard for high summer. Coastal winds carry voices.
FUCK, SERIOUSLY.
her heart batters a frantic chorus against the ivory keys of her ribs
Nostromo, the inverted womb; onboard computer “Mother”
queen - fired black chlorophyll and her mouth, soft inside, red like marachino cherries.
“Child; you belong to me now.”
cryptids derived from the name of the mother
chitin, exoskeleton, carpace
Carbon-based, like the hunters. Similarities in approximate bone density, skeletal structure and musculature.
she’s like Jane fucking Goodall, our Ripley
“The queen is thinking:
“And now many of Her children are dead. Down to the deep ether with them, the lost little ones, long-gone beloved husks. The elder kin are searching for them absently, trying to touch them in the hive, finding only the empty spaces left behind; where where, they want to know, growing angry, and what can She say?
“Somewhere. She says it like that; She makes the words bright like knives, cold like stars, and they all go still. Nowhere.
“They descend on this concept. It’s a descent, downward, in the shape of eagles, black claws that clutch. The communal mind grasps it, breaks the memory down and paths the disassembled pieces to subpods and individuals. A million whiplash tails flay the darkness of the catacombs thoughtfully and the silence is alive with voices.
“Do you hear them, because I can, I am not speaking, Ellen Ripley.
“Ellen. I’m Ellen Ripley.
“I can see the inside of the caves. An inverted womb. Besides the fact that that shouldn’t be anyway, it’s too dark. No light in there. No human eye could see.
“This is impossible.”
Far away and entirely forgotten, Jon Osterman is alone but not without company.
In his hands, a face; and, when his concentration slips, the face says: “Never knew you too well. Nothing left to know by the time we met. More to the point, different social circles. And yet. Being nothing anymore, I am everything. Omniscience. Prophecy. I am the message written in your entrails.” It chews thoughtfully on a memory of fire inside the ice, under the skin. “You killed me.”
There is a paradise lurking nearby, sewn to the underside of empty space. Though he already knows where to find it, Jon has not finished searching yet; the proper motions must be observed. Featureless silence unrolls in his mind like an endless blank scroll and the face is watching him, is an oily, spreading stain with worms of condemnation wriggling in its mouth. Somehow, it manages to make a voice, even in absence, in void. And with void as his only other companion across the elegant sweep of deep time beyond waiting, Jon rather enjoys their conversations.
“I wish,” he says, “that you would not worry so much. I have a special plan for this world.”
Rorschach laughs, the sound of neurons burning silver in an ancient cage of fingerbones, a white transmission that paths itself up and down the firmament.
“Once upon a time and they all fell into darkness. What world? The end.”
(Maybe they’d prefer another story, though.)
Once upon a time along the shore, against the iron-slop ocean full of chitinous limbs and pincers clasped on red pollution.
Nightfall, and Rorschach was scraping for meals with the scavengers, deeply content - so far as one could ever be while breathing rot straight from the jaws of the apocalypse, but he’d gotten used to that, he shouldered it with the aplomb of a starving cat turning its nose up on spoiled caviar. Like them, he ate well if with discretion, exploiting the wasteful compulsions of his contemporaries. Few people made the most of their provisions, or noticed if segments of their bread and various perishables went missing sometime between a midnight binge and breakfast. Still, never discounting elaborate plots against his life, he kept to several reliable dens. Crows and raccoons did the same, he learned it from them, long ago; to move freely through a network of scattered safe points, a shadow beneath the savage rattling of starlight and bones on the dawn’s pearly flank, nose and lips wise to the sneering taint of cyanide. There were houses he knew, inhabited by people too shit-scared to do anything more than fend for themselves; those were safe enough. There were soup shelters; faceless, he could pass for human within them if he felt the need. And then there was Nite Owl’s place, but that was different. Heading there made him feel more like the harried lion than a hyena, fearsome and well-acquainted with its dignity; run to Nite Owl, feed on his corpse because that was all he had left to him. There was no such man, not anymore.
Childish and weak, he often went regardless, though Dreiberg never saw him; and, anyway, Dreiberg would probably not even know him if he saw, see him if he looked.
...
anon wanted porn though DON’T FORGET THE PORN, IDIOT
I dunno, I doooooon’t really want to talk about the Crimebusters as a unit; not that they aren’t important, obv., but if I am going to talk about Rorschach, and why he hates Kovacs, and why he hates that Kovacs has mommy issues, and why he hates that he doesn’t hate Dan, I will lose my mind trying to make enough room for Blake to come in and say lol u guise r gay, I will just lose it
- why does Adrian look like such a tool in his wiki promo picture?
A Hungry Jaguarundi in Mojave Springtime
“But wait,” said the snakecharmer, his plumage tipped askew. The fear was in him, plucking modern electric blues out of his tendons from toenails to skulltop, and an antique cage swung like wet meat from his arm. He shook it to showcase the contents (it was empty; nothing gets him excited these days) until the hungry jaguarundi struck open the door and devoured all that poured out. “You simply cannot leave us so unfulfilled, our feuds unconcluded and our footsteps full of opal drops still warm from the lips of a star. Where did I come from? Is this the desert or the holy mountain?”
He waited, fully anticipating an answer. How delusional, oui?
“Nothing satisfies,” the hungry jaguarundi remarked in spite of him, looking grim. She extended her claw and scratched at the earth. “Desert, Tenochtitlan. I would know that city anywhere. Perhaps I shall eat you now.”
Which she promptly did, though the experience was vastly disagreeable and his blood baked into her whiskers like little tattlestones and made red cement of the sand beneath her paws, most uncomfortable to walk upon. Vultures began to wheel in the sky above her. The clipping of their wings echoed from peaked dunes curled up like tongues against the sky; their talons licked long, doleful lines soft as clouds through the flesh of the wind; and she knew how they felt, she was (of course) still starving. C’est la vie, she thought, and wandered off (in search of nothing, particularly).
(Which, by the way, she found.)
So. The end.
What are you still doing here, get out.