Ok so I'm not even gonna pretend, I suck at reading abstract poetics like this, mostly cos I'm slow the first couple of times around. All I know is (after reading it a couple of times more) this piece has a melody of it's own & it's reverberating in my mind all nice.
"Jinki watches the shift of his shoulder blades, pale and wire-tight. People are eighty percent water, he'd read once; he believes it then, watching the muscle twist and pull under fragile inches of skin."
THIS. SO hard! It's a trivial observation by Jinki, but imagining Minho doing his own thing while his back is being personified is just gah ♥
Mmmmhmm. You probably know it already but your writing is the fruit of your mad skillzz & even if it's too spicy cool for slowkids like me, I trust you'll keep it a'flowin~
IN OTHERWORDS, yes I liked this & enjoyed it very much :)
That was stunning. I'm rather awestruck, and I'm certainly going to rec this to as many people as I can.
What can I even say? This is grit, warm beer and dried blood love poetry, so broken and rough but...beautiful because of it. I'm rambling, forgive me.
(I hesitate to say how beautiful this was because that suggests a fragility that simply isn't there, and I don't want to cheapen it with such a common word.)
If I was to quote everything I loved about this I'd quote quite likely the whole thing, so I'll just say that this: Wingtip shoes, he's saying. Sobranie Black Russians. Anything you like. Minho's voice, Jinki thinks, is like liquor, dark and warm, curling in the pit of his stomach. Full of promise, hope, dreams. Minho, he knows, plays for keeps. He runs a fingernail along the dust gathering in between the floorboards. was so full of the era, seeped in it, and I could hear in my head how Minho's voice /is/ just like that, and how that-Jinki would compare him to that, and it is just proof of how the whole fic is dead-on thick-smoke-tingly-whiskey right.
stjoan4eva told me to read this and I'm glad she did. Beautiful writing and alliteration! You write with so much emotion I can't believe it's less than 1,000 words! Great job.
Comments 22
"Jinki watches the shift of his shoulder blades, pale and wire-tight. People are eighty percent water, he'd read once; he believes it then, watching the muscle twist and pull under fragile inches of skin."
THIS. SO hard! It's a trivial observation by Jinki, but imagining Minho doing his own thing while his back is being personified is just gah ♥
Mmmmhmm. You probably know it already but your writing is the fruit of your mad skillzz & even if it's too spicy cool for slowkids like me, I trust you'll keep it a'flowin~
IN OTHERWORDS, yes I liked this & enjoyed it very much :)
Reply
Reply
What can I even say? This is grit, warm beer and dried blood love poetry, so broken and rough but...beautiful because of it. I'm rambling, forgive me.
(I hesitate to say how beautiful this was because that suggests a fragility that simply isn't there, and I don't want to cheapen it with such a common word.)
So this was...this was...astonishing.
Reply
Reply
Wingtip shoes, he's saying. Sobranie Black Russians. Anything you like. Minho's voice, Jinki thinks, is like liquor, dark and warm, curling in the pit of his stomach. Full of promise, hope, dreams. Minho, he knows, plays for keeps. He runs a fingernail along the dust gathering in between the floorboards.
was so full of the era, seeped in it, and I could hear in my head how Minho's voice /is/ just like that, and how that-Jinki would compare him to that, and it is just proof of how the whole fic is dead-on thick-smoke-tingly-whiskey right.
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
(The comment has been removed)
Reply
Leave a comment