How much do I love "I Can't Be Cool"?
Finally got my Ghost in the Shell OST 2! It's about damn time. I ordered it months ago. Stupid slow ass Virgin.
Anyway.
I don't know what the hell the engineer was thinking on "Cyberbird". What the hell is up with that drum part at the end? It doesn't make any sense. It sounds like he forgot to delete/mute the extra part when he bounced it down or something. Also, "I do". What is up with the piano in that one little piece in the middle. The wood ponging of the keys needs to go. For seriously. And "Psychedelic Soul" is still a stinker of a song, but I suppose all CDs need that. But, I shall stop nitpicking. It's finally here. Woo hoo!
I have this story I've been working on for a couple of months now. I've finished it now just 'cause I'm tired of seeing it but there's still something wrong with it, and I can't figure out what. It's bugging the hell out of me. My mom said it's good (she also said she was surprised at me for writing it -and probably for showing her, too- and giggled through the whole thing. Normal people probably don't show their mothers stories they've written which are essentially about a sex-slave genie, but, eh. I figure the first step is having no shame. *shrugs*) and a good effort for someone who claims to have no experience. But I can never tell how much of what she says is mother-humouring-child. She also said I should cut the middle, which, to be honest, I was thinking of as well.
Whatever. I haven't posted any stories here for a while, so may as well. If anybody wants to tell me what's wrong with it, by all means, have at it.
“Just give me a little more,” he drawled, carelessly flicking the ash from his cigar over the side of his armchair as he gazed down at her. “And I might be satisfied.”
She closed her eyes, erasing all negative emotions from her face even as she choked back a sob. Goosebumps chased the drying sweat and semen on her body. The gaudy orange carpet scratched her bare back where she lay naked, spread where he left her, exposed like some whore.
Three thousand years, and this was what she was reduced to?
“Well are ya comin’, sweetie?” He chuckled at his own wit and took a loud drag on his cigar. He leaned back in the chair, the leather made popping noises where it was forcibly unstuck from the skin of his bare backside by his sinking weight. He gestured between his hairy legs with his free hand and grinned lecherously at her. “This ain’t gonna take care of itself.”
She breathed deep, forcing back a wave of revulsion as she rolled onto her front and pushed herself up on all fours. Her limbs shook with the strain, her fingers curled into the fibres of the carpet, clenching until they uprooted. She hoped that he would just take her like this, so she wouldn’t have to see his face, wouldn’t have to work to be violated, but as the wave of unfulfilled fantasies washed over her consciousness, she knew that it was in vain.
“One thing we never advertise,” she would tell her students, many a moon ago, “is that a genie may deceive his or her master only once. Use this option wisely, for it must last you for the duration of your service.”
She should have used her lie before. If only she’d known.
Two hundred years in the bottom of a bottle had numbed her to the nuances of the human language and he was smarter than he looked and she was much too powerful for this gig.
“I want to have my cake and eat it, too,” he had started after a long moment’s thought, and the way he’d said it sounded like the prelude to his first wish, not a separate wish altogether. “I don’t ever want to get tired of my vices or get screwed over by ‘em. Can ya do that for me?” When she had agreed and asked for his second wish, he grinned slyly and said, “Then, I want you to serve ‘em up to me ‘til I’m satisfied.”
She was a fool.
She got slowly, “sensually” to her feet, her back to him, long red hair blanketing her nakedness to her mid-thighs. The ratty trailer-cum-seedy motel surroundings bled away into an elegant palace harem with draped silk and soft furs. Black leather melted from the fluids on her skin to encase her body. The curtain of hair became sheer silk veils that draped over her chest and slung low around her round hips. A golden chain clung to her tiny waist. She brushed a tear from her cheek and her skin shifted from the pasty white that went with flowing red hair to the deep tan that went with the dark hair now piled heavily on her aching head. A strand of hair morphed into a leather whip, which she stretched out in her hands and wrapped around herself like a snake.
This whole mishmash fantasy was an insult to her traditions.
Slow pungi music drifted in from nowhere, lazily curling around the bassy beat of a drum, and she rolled her hips in time with the music. The veils whispered softly against her leather body suit as she moved; rasped plaintively when she pulled the end of the whip above her head, slowly unravelling it from her form.
She cracked the whip, then slowly sauntered over to him, hips swaying seductively from side to side, the hatred in her eyes burning like lust. She straddled his legs and leaned in close, whispering into his ear as she guided his hands up her thighs to her waist, encouraging him to take a veil, “Does this satisfy you, my master?”
“Don’t know, yet,” he said, bypassing all the veils to strip her of the leather. “How ‘bout we see?”
She hid her sigh of disappointment behind a moan as his grubby hands caressed her bare skin, her shuddering disgust seeming like shivers of pleasure to his lustful fingertips.
At the end of the night, when she was panting from exhaustion and still shivering from disgust, she would ask him, as she did at the end of every fantasy, “What is your third wish, my master?” hoping that the way she said it would imply that the third was the last.
And as he did every time, he would scratch his belly, wink at her and say, “’m still thinkin’ about it, sweetie. Maybe tomorrow.”
Oft times, her brother would appear to her in the night, dressed finely in the golden robes of the high Djinn, tsking in pity. He would open his arms to her, but she would never take his comfort. This was her duty and she would bear it on her own shoulders. Such was the life of a genie.
“Why did you not ascend with me, sister?” he would ask, and it had been so many moons that, by now, the question was more rhetorical, an excuse to fill the silence at least once before he disappeared again.
She would remain staring blankly through the mottle green glass of her bottle long after he had gone, asking herself the same question. Her mind would cast her back to her last appearance before the high council of Djinn, when they had both been given the offer of ascension. Both at that certain age, where a genie treaded the line of being too powerful to entrust to a human’s whim, they were given the choice to either go out into the world of humans one last time or join the rank of Djinn immediately and never serve any master again. Either way, they would ascend eventually.
Most genies, weary of the life of servitude, of ungrateful masters and tedious power-draining tasks chose to become Djinn without delay.
Her brother had chosen to become Djinn.
She had chosen to remain Genie.
Because she loved humans, she had told the council and her brother that day. She’d been lucky in the draw of masters those past twenty-eight hundred years; her time as a genie had been more fun than she could ever imagine having as Djinn. This last run was to be her fond farewell to the human world.
Fond farewell indeed.
“I love humans,” she whispered to herself, imagining she could see her insatiable master passed out in his own slobbery through the glass and grimacing. “What a fool.”
“I’ve thought about it,” he mused, as if she’d asked him the question only once and only recently, “and I know what I want now.”
With her body split into two contrasting entities, each clinging “lovingly” to one of his arms, she peered hopefully into his face from two angles. He was much older now; their twenty years together showed themselves mercilessly on his body. Gray ate away at the black of his greasy hair, ugly brown liver spots showed up on his skin and a nasty cough had developed in his lungs. A cancer more than time itself grew within the ranks of his body, pulling him ever closer towards death.
She couldn’t wait until he died.
“What is it…”
“…my master?” she asked.
“I wish,” he drawled, “to be cured, to live forever, so you’ll always be with me, sweetie. I don’t ever want to get old and I don’t ever want to die.”
The very prospect of spending all eternity with this man was enough to send her into a panic, but she could not lose her wits. Not now. She was silent for a moment, taking the time to detach herself from him and become one again as she carefully considered her words.
“One’s lies must always be believable, must never contradict anything you’ve said or implied before,” she would insist to her students as her own teachers had insisted many a moon ago. “A master must never know when his genie lies or else that genie becomes his for all eternity. Beyond death and fulfilled expectations. That genie will never become Djinn.”
And genies always strove to become Djinn.
She rubbed his back gently as he was wracked with another coughing fit.
“I’m sorry my master,” she murmured. “No wish can last forever.” Cupping his cheek gently, she kissed his sweaty forehead. “Perhaps master would like to wish for something else?”
His disappointment was almost palpable. Suddenly his death never seemed closer.
She hoped it would be painful.
She hid a smile.
“And always, always wait for the best moment to lie,” she would say at the end of her lectures. “Sometimes, the wait can be worth it.”
Semagic can write in Japanese? Cool!
Anyway.
I don't know what the hell the engineer was thinking on "Cyberbird". What the hell is up with that drum part at the end? It doesn't make any sense. It sounds like he forgot to delete/mute the extra part when he bounced it down or something. Also, "I do". What is up with the piano in that one little piece in the middle. The wood ponging of the keys needs to go. For seriously. And "Psychedelic Soul" is still a stinker of a song, but I suppose all CDs need that. But, I shall stop nitpicking. It's finally here. Woo hoo!
I have this story I've been working on for a couple of months now. I've finished it now just 'cause I'm tired of seeing it but there's still something wrong with it, and I can't figure out what. It's bugging the hell out of me. My mom said it's good (she also said she was surprised at me for writing it -and probably for showing her, too- and giggled through the whole thing. Normal people probably don't show their mothers stories they've written which are essentially about a sex-slave genie, but, eh. I figure the first step is having no shame. *shrugs*) and a good effort for someone who claims to have no experience. But I can never tell how much of what she says is mother-humouring-child. She also said I should cut the middle, which, to be honest, I was thinking of as well.
Whatever. I haven't posted any stories here for a while, so may as well. If anybody wants to tell me what's wrong with it, by all means, have at it.
“Just give me a little more,” he drawled, carelessly flicking the ash from his cigar over the side of his armchair as he gazed down at her. “And I might be satisfied.”
She closed her eyes, erasing all negative emotions from her face even as she choked back a sob. Goosebumps chased the drying sweat and semen on her body. The gaudy orange carpet scratched her bare back where she lay naked, spread where he left her, exposed like some whore.
Three thousand years, and this was what she was reduced to?
“Well are ya comin’, sweetie?” He chuckled at his own wit and took a loud drag on his cigar. He leaned back in the chair, the leather made popping noises where it was forcibly unstuck from the skin of his bare backside by his sinking weight. He gestured between his hairy legs with his free hand and grinned lecherously at her. “This ain’t gonna take care of itself.”
She breathed deep, forcing back a wave of revulsion as she rolled onto her front and pushed herself up on all fours. Her limbs shook with the strain, her fingers curled into the fibres of the carpet, clenching until they uprooted. She hoped that he would just take her like this, so she wouldn’t have to see his face, wouldn’t have to work to be violated, but as the wave of unfulfilled fantasies washed over her consciousness, she knew that it was in vain.
“One thing we never advertise,” she would tell her students, many a moon ago, “is that a genie may deceive his or her master only once. Use this option wisely, for it must last you for the duration of your service.”
She should have used her lie before. If only she’d known.
Two hundred years in the bottom of a bottle had numbed her to the nuances of the human language and he was smarter than he looked and she was much too powerful for this gig.
“I want to have my cake and eat it, too,” he had started after a long moment’s thought, and the way he’d said it sounded like the prelude to his first wish, not a separate wish altogether. “I don’t ever want to get tired of my vices or get screwed over by ‘em. Can ya do that for me?” When she had agreed and asked for his second wish, he grinned slyly and said, “Then, I want you to serve ‘em up to me ‘til I’m satisfied.”
She was a fool.
She got slowly, “sensually” to her feet, her back to him, long red hair blanketing her nakedness to her mid-thighs. The ratty trailer-cum-seedy motel surroundings bled away into an elegant palace harem with draped silk and soft furs. Black leather melted from the fluids on her skin to encase her body. The curtain of hair became sheer silk veils that draped over her chest and slung low around her round hips. A golden chain clung to her tiny waist. She brushed a tear from her cheek and her skin shifted from the pasty white that went with flowing red hair to the deep tan that went with the dark hair now piled heavily on her aching head. A strand of hair morphed into a leather whip, which she stretched out in her hands and wrapped around herself like a snake.
This whole mishmash fantasy was an insult to her traditions.
Slow pungi music drifted in from nowhere, lazily curling around the bassy beat of a drum, and she rolled her hips in time with the music. The veils whispered softly against her leather body suit as she moved; rasped plaintively when she pulled the end of the whip above her head, slowly unravelling it from her form.
She cracked the whip, then slowly sauntered over to him, hips swaying seductively from side to side, the hatred in her eyes burning like lust. She straddled his legs and leaned in close, whispering into his ear as she guided his hands up her thighs to her waist, encouraging him to take a veil, “Does this satisfy you, my master?”
“Don’t know, yet,” he said, bypassing all the veils to strip her of the leather. “How ‘bout we see?”
She hid her sigh of disappointment behind a moan as his grubby hands caressed her bare skin, her shuddering disgust seeming like shivers of pleasure to his lustful fingertips.
At the end of the night, when she was panting from exhaustion and still shivering from disgust, she would ask him, as she did at the end of every fantasy, “What is your third wish, my master?” hoping that the way she said it would imply that the third was the last.
And as he did every time, he would scratch his belly, wink at her and say, “’m still thinkin’ about it, sweetie. Maybe tomorrow.”
Oft times, her brother would appear to her in the night, dressed finely in the golden robes of the high Djinn, tsking in pity. He would open his arms to her, but she would never take his comfort. This was her duty and she would bear it on her own shoulders. Such was the life of a genie.
“Why did you not ascend with me, sister?” he would ask, and it had been so many moons that, by now, the question was more rhetorical, an excuse to fill the silence at least once before he disappeared again.
She would remain staring blankly through the mottle green glass of her bottle long after he had gone, asking herself the same question. Her mind would cast her back to her last appearance before the high council of Djinn, when they had both been given the offer of ascension. Both at that certain age, where a genie treaded the line of being too powerful to entrust to a human’s whim, they were given the choice to either go out into the world of humans one last time or join the rank of Djinn immediately and never serve any master again. Either way, they would ascend eventually.
Most genies, weary of the life of servitude, of ungrateful masters and tedious power-draining tasks chose to become Djinn without delay.
Her brother had chosen to become Djinn.
She had chosen to remain Genie.
Because she loved humans, she had told the council and her brother that day. She’d been lucky in the draw of masters those past twenty-eight hundred years; her time as a genie had been more fun than she could ever imagine having as Djinn. This last run was to be her fond farewell to the human world.
Fond farewell indeed.
“I love humans,” she whispered to herself, imagining she could see her insatiable master passed out in his own slobbery through the glass and grimacing. “What a fool.”
“I’ve thought about it,” he mused, as if she’d asked him the question only once and only recently, “and I know what I want now.”
With her body split into two contrasting entities, each clinging “lovingly” to one of his arms, she peered hopefully into his face from two angles. He was much older now; their twenty years together showed themselves mercilessly on his body. Gray ate away at the black of his greasy hair, ugly brown liver spots showed up on his skin and a nasty cough had developed in his lungs. A cancer more than time itself grew within the ranks of his body, pulling him ever closer towards death.
She couldn’t wait until he died.
“What is it…”
“…my master?” she asked.
“I wish,” he drawled, “to be cured, to live forever, so you’ll always be with me, sweetie. I don’t ever want to get old and I don’t ever want to die.”
The very prospect of spending all eternity with this man was enough to send her into a panic, but she could not lose her wits. Not now. She was silent for a moment, taking the time to detach herself from him and become one again as she carefully considered her words.
“One’s lies must always be believable, must never contradict anything you’ve said or implied before,” she would insist to her students as her own teachers had insisted many a moon ago. “A master must never know when his genie lies or else that genie becomes his for all eternity. Beyond death and fulfilled expectations. That genie will never become Djinn.”
And genies always strove to become Djinn.
She rubbed his back gently as he was wracked with another coughing fit.
“I’m sorry my master,” she murmured. “No wish can last forever.” Cupping his cheek gently, she kissed his sweaty forehead. “Perhaps master would like to wish for something else?”
His disappointment was almost palpable. Suddenly his death never seemed closer.
She hoped it would be painful.
She hid a smile.
“And always, always wait for the best moment to lie,” she would say at the end of her lectures. “Sometimes, the wait can be worth it.”
Semagic can write in Japanese? Cool!