The rain came tumbling down

Y hallo thar.

Mon, 24 Aug 2009 02:07:12 GMT

Yes, this journal still exists. Yes, I've been MIA for long too long.

But the words, the words, they're coming back! All in a flood of emotion and motion and lyrical and rough and tough around the edges. And they're fighting to get out. Right before school starts back up, of course.

Many backups to be made, should have been made weeks ago for sanity's sake. Consider that a warning; your friends page may be covered with several entries from this lonely journal within the next few minutes. Sorry!

Degrassi Fanfic: Personal

Sun, 17 Feb 2008 04:01:52 GMT

Title: Personal
Fandom: Degrassi: The Next Generation
Characters: You figure it out.
Word Count: 2,138
Rating: T
Summary: Perusing the personal ads isn't always a good idea.
Author's Notes: Yes, at long last, I have written something. The song title and italicised lyrics are from "Personal" by Stars.

Wanted: A single female, I'm a single . . .

He scratched out the words hastily, and set to chewing on his worn pencil's eraser. No, that wasn't right. It couldn't be about him. It had to be her, all her.

Wanted: Single f, under 33,

That was better, a bit. Thirty-three seemed odd enough, different enough, to catch some attention. And it gave away nothing of his, the way he wanted it.

must enjoy the sun,

Easy requirement but essential, he decided.

must enjoy the sea

He'd always loved the ocean. He'd lived by it throughout his childhood and when he'd moved as a young teenager, he'd missed it more than he'd ever imagined possible. Yes, the sea. She had to love the sea.

Sought by single m:

He couldn't, after all, leave it completely open to interpretation. He owed her that one thing.

Mrs. Destiny,

Wishful thinking, maybe. But wishful was what he was. Personals. Who wrote personal ads any more? What Mrs. Destiny would peruse the classifieds? Yet here he was.

send photo to address,

That was fair, right? Surely he deserved to see her. He didn't want to end up with someone too perfect. He would only break her, after all. Someone tired, someone sad, maybe she was the one. Maybe he'd be able to see in her eyes if they were a perfect match.

is it you and me?

He wondered, was it even possible? Would anyone read the ad without laughing, let alone contact him, let alone think he was worth a moment of her time? But before he could change his mind, he shoved the ad into the already-prepared, already-addressed envelope, strode to the mail deposit box, and waited for Mrs. Destiny to come calling.

---

She could never pinpoint why, that day in April, she'd picked up the local personals section. She hadn't dated in years, an eternity. She had no desire for love. But then, Wanted: Single f, under 33 caught her eye. She couldn't understand it. But she found herself clipping the ad.

It stayed taped to the casing of her laptop for the next six days and seventeen hours. But whenever she sat down to work, or to play the same foolish game for the millionth time (she was a minesweeper champion; her best time on expert level was a mere seventy-two seconds), it stared at her. It judged her.

Reply to single m: My name is

And here she stopped. She had a name, sure. But the name wasn't her. She wasn't that person any more, hadn't been for years. This was her chance to start again. And she took the name that was on her lips all the time, the name that belonged with the tiny face that had once nuzzled her breast and giggled and glowed in family photos.

Caroline cell phone number here,

What was she doing? What was she thinking? Why--why was she reaching out? Again?

call if you have the time

There, an easy out. He needn't love her. He needn't acknowledge her. And her heart in turn was safe.

28 and bored,

That was one word for it. Maybe not the right one. And suddenly, she was compelled to honesty.

grieving over loss,

The words stared at her, accusingly. How dare she call it a loss? How dare she not scream tragedy, scream guilt, scream scream scream . . . but no, it wasn't her fault. That's what they'd all told her before she'd holed herself up until they'd finally gone away.

sorry to be heavy but heavy is the cost,

It sounded, she decided, cheesy or weak or pathetic.

heavy is the cost. . .

As if repeating it would convey the truth. As if repeating it did anything.

But before she could change her mind, she shoved the note into the already-prepared, already-addressed envelope, strode to the mail deposit box, and waited for Mr. Destiny to call.

---

Reply to Caroline:

His hand shook as he wrote the note. He wanted to type it, like she had, but he couldn't. The words wouldn't come in front of the computer screen. Not that he was having much more luck with paper; he'd had those three words written for twenty minutes already, and his coffee was getting cold as he gazed at the ad and the paper and her reply in frustration.

Thanks so much for response,

There. That was easy enough. Polite. Encouraging. Yet already he felt like he didn't deserve her. She was broken, sure. He could fix her, maybe. But if he failed? If he failed?

these things can be scary

This much was true. He felt it himself with every breath and hoped that his feigned courage would give rise to her own.

Not always what you want

Even he didn't know quite what he meant. What didn't he want? Her? Someone else? Perfection? Imperfection? A reply? No reply at all?

How about a drink?

Yes, he thought wryly, when hadn't drinking helped loosen his tongue? He shouldn't be drinking and, judging from her "tragedy," it mightn't be the best idea for her either, but there it was. It was on paper and it had become his gospel, as if he had no eraser at all, as if once on paper, it was in stone.

The St. Jude club at noon?

During the day would be revealing yet safe. It was less formal, less romantic. Less intimate. Yet he could always tell more about a person at a lunch bar date than an evening formal. Less pretence, perhaps. Maybe because he dropped his own defences just enough to promote authenticity.

I'll phone you first I guess

He didn't want to because it would make it a million times more difficult to turn back. Yet that's exactly why he promised; if he didn't hear her voice, it would make it a million times easier to turn back. And turning back wasn't fair, wasn't allowed. He couldn't and he didn't know why but he knew that he had to talk to her. Had to know her. There was something familiar about the face that looked back from the photo she'd included. Something familiar about her writing. Something familiar about her soul. And he had to know.

I hope I see you soon!

Whether it was true or not didn't matter. And he shoved the letter into the already-prepared, already-addressed envelope, strode to the mail deposit box, and waited for Mrs. Destiny to consider picking up the phone.

---

I never got your name, I assume you're 33,

Her words came in a rush this time, twisting, tumbling, not allowing her a moment's hesitation. The phone call had, perhaps, been as much of a success as she could have hoped. They hadn't said a lot, both stammering, but there was a peculiar familiarity the instant they exchanged words. And it scared the hell out of her but it was intriguing and it made her heart pound a way it hadn't in years.

your voice it sounded kind

Sounded like he might care. And that was scary and reassuring and necessary and it made her want to run.

I hope that you like me

Except she wasn't sure she hoped any such thing. People who liked her got burnt. People who liked her got hurt. People who liked her . . .

When you see my face, I hope that you don't laugh,

No one laughed, ever. When she made a silly face, they didn't laugh. They looked uncomfortable instead. She knew what the neighbours whispered, that the children feared her temper when she tried to speak to them, and her hand reached reflexively to the long scar across her left cheek. It travelled up over her eyebrow, too, leaving a thin line where hairs once grew.

I'm not a film star beauty

Not any more, anyway. He'd always told her she was beautiful. Right up until the end. And Caroline, too, she had called her beautiful. That night, when the three of them met at the door, ready to set off, when she'd told Caroline how lovely she looked, Caroline had said the same. Beautiful. She'd called her beautiful.

I sent a photograph

Never mind that her left cheek was facing away from the camera so that only the bottom tip of the puffed pink skin, at the edge of her lip, was visible. She looked almost normal in the photo. She should have regretted her deception but it would be easier to dismiss a broken heart if he left because she was physically broken.

I hope that you don't laugh . . .

She didn't know what she would do if he did laugh. So she picked up the reply and shoved it in the already-prepared, already-addressed envelope, strode to the mail deposit box, and waited for her day of Destiny to come.

---

She waited there two, three hours, getting progressively more drunk. And every time the door opened, she stared at it, hoping, praying, wishing.

---

Note to single m: Why did you not show up?

She wished she could be angry. She wished she could stop caring, just hate him and get it over with. She wished she hadn't gone at all.

I waited for an hour and finally gave up

Because how pathetic would be to admit waiting three hours? To admit drinking until she couldn't walk? Yes, an hour. An hour and maybe she could heal and retrieve her dignity somewhere down the road.

I thought once that I saw you, I thought that you saw me,

But she didn't think any such thing. She knew it, deep in her core. His blue eyes were far too piercing to leave her alone. He'd watched, more than once. Watching watching watching. Whenever he'd thought she was looking away, she could feel his eyes trained on her back. Looking at her arms, her dirty shoes that didn't quite reach the floor, her straggly hair, but never ever her face. Not that she'd known about, anyway.

I guess we'll never meet now

Maybe he knew. Maybe he knew that she was nothing, that she was danger incarnate. Maybe she was as unlovable as she felt. Maybe she'd been too eager, not eager enough. Maybe she'd . . . for surely it was her fault.

It wasn't meant to be, I was sure you saw me, but it wasn't meant to be . . .

She wanted to accuse him, to let him know she was there and she knew he was there and yet she wanted to free him, too. Not that she felt she had the right to free him, or the power, but there was a certain catharsis in blaming it all on fate.

And she shoved the letter in the already-prepared, already-addressed envelope, strode to the mail deposit box, and said goodbye to Mr. Destiny.

---

Wanted: Single f,

He was blinded by unexpected tears. He'd intended to walk away the moment he saw her. For he knew, when he saw her photograph, that it wouldn't work. He knew that he couldn't see her again--that he shouldn't be seeing her again even that once. Yet he'd stayed. Waited three hours for her to leave. And he couldn't help wondering what had happened to her, and what would happen with him gone.

under 33,

So much for three being a charm. Perhaps this time it would work out.

must enjoy the sun, must enjoy the sea,

For she had to know, when she saw the message, that it was him. She had to know that there was no chance of Destiny--that they would never be.

Sought by single m:

He could hardly read his own writing. He was shaking as violently as when he'd seen her and confirmed his suspicions. He wanted to disappear, to take back what had happened five days before, and what had happened twelve years before. The only way to take it back was to go forward as if it hadn't been.

Nothing too heavy,

That should do it. An explanation of sorts. He hoped it would give her comfort. Hoped it would say it was his fault, not hers. The truth was, though, he blamed her. She hadn't had to respond at all.

Send photo to address,

He needed the warning again. And this time, if there was a this time, he would obey rationality if it came to that. He wouldn't hope for broken because, it seemed, prayers were answered in unexpected and unwelcome ways. No, he didn't deserve perfect, nay, he couldn't keep perfect. But it was a lot easier to be broken by perfect than to be broken by someone he, himself, had destroyed.

is it you?

And now, he was writing to her again. A final plea, an explanation to why they couldn't be.

or me?

I was a child genius.

Sun, 25 Nov 2007 23:56:13 GMT

Because I'm so awesome, I am now going to post some original work without requiring you to even be on my friends list! In the future, you may not be so lucky, however . . . consider this incentive to request more access. Or something.

Without further ado, the evidence of my child genius . . . ness. All material is as written on paper.

Anoing Smoke,
It makes me choke,
It burns my head,
Makes me wish I was dead,
And anoies me most,
Makes me fell like a gost,
Cause I'm scared it is close,
The fire may be burning out back,
So I pack up my pack,
We rush to the car,
Stashing the cats not to far,
Up front in the seat,
Where it is neat
Then we rush off away from it all,
To come back later after it clears.
I suppose the school year
Is near
Well by for now,
Thats all I call,
Mabe I'll write another poem before next fall.

To Jackie, Love Shannon

Thu, 29 Mar 2007 15:54:42 GMT

This was written for the amazing Jackie's birthday. Evil couple, mediocre story, but my first in ages.

Sean didn't have to look at the clock. He knew it was ten past midnight because it was always ten past midnight when she started crying.

He still slept on the couch right above Emma's room. He'd been there ever since he'd moved in with the Simpson-Nelsons. Sometimes he pulled out the bed but usually he just used the couch as it was. It was easier, and he wasn't fussy. The couch was comfortable, anyway, and he'd only rolled off it once, and that was on the first night of being there. His body had since adapted and he knew just how to move to stay in the center of the narrow cushions. Besides, it beat the floor, and it beat the extra ten minutes of fixing the bed everyday.

The first night after JT's death, Emma had slept soundly. Sean had been able to hear her soft snores as he laid awake, counting every minute that ticked its way off the clock. He suspected her exhaustion had a lot to do with booze, and little to do with what she would have otherwise been thinking. The next night, he was proven correct when he heard the choked sobs that she would have been mortified to admit.

He assumed she waited until she thought everyone would be asleep. It's what he had intended to do, when he'd first heard her. Sean didn't cry, after all. He punched things, and consoled, but he didn't cry--at least not in any obvious manner. But he had wanted to cry, and he'd been about to, when he heard her.

And since then, like clockwork, he'd clenched his lips and been silent as he listened to her and tried to figure out what to do.

He let it go on for two weeks, but finally he could stand it no longer. So he pulled on his socks and padded down the basement stairs as softly as he could.

She was huddled in bed, curled up tight, with her back facing him. He didn't know if she was aware of his presence and ignoring him, or if she didn't realise he was there. She looked fragile, and he longed to do something--anything--to stop her from looking quite so pathetic and lost. But he couldn't fix her, and that burned him up inside.

He watched her for a moment, making sure she was breathing. He know she was, but it was still comforting to see it, to know she was there, and know she was still possible to rescue.

"Em," he whispered, and her body tensed and jerked. "Sorry," he added immediately.

She rolled over to face him, and she tried to act as if she wasn't crying. "Sean," she murmured. "It's after midnight. What's going on?"

"Are you okay?" He didn't know what to say now that he was actually here, facing her.

"Yeah, I'm fine." With some effort, she managed a puzzled look. "You woke me up, that's all."

Sean hesitated, and then without permission climbed onto the bed beside her. "You weren't asleep," he said. "I could hear you."

She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, and offered up an unnatural smile. The room was dim, and she was glad for that, but she wished that for once, she'd left the night light off. She'd needed it ever since . . . that night. She couldn't refer to it any other way. She tried not to think about it at all. But she would have done anything to turn off the light and sit in silence so Sean couldn't read her pain.

"You should be in bed," she said finally. "I'm sorry I disturbed you."

"You didn't. I was awake too. I am. Every night."

They sat in silence for one moment, then two. The digital clock on her bedside table ticked its way past 12:23, and the green light blurred and blinded them, because they were both crying now.

Sean finally managed to compose himself--sort of. "Lay down," he said. He could feel her shaking in her thin pyjamas, but after a moment, she did as he asked.

He followed her lead and let his fingers dance across her skin until his arms were around her, holding her, steadying her, keeping her warm. And she took a deep breath, and let it out in a deeper sigh, and the tension left her body, and his.

"Tell me about Charlie," Emma whispered.

"Charlie?"

"You know, your dog. Springer Spaniel, right? You mentioned him back when we were in grade seven."

Sean chuckled, jiggling the bed. "You remember that?" His laugh was contagious, and the giggle that escaped Emma's lips was the most beautiful thing Sean could remember hearing.

"Hey, I was in love," Emma said, a touch sheepish. "At least I had good taste."

"Charlie was great," Sean said. "And you did. And you still do, I hope."

"I'm pretty sure of it."

"I don't know what to tell you about Charlie, really. He liked the beach. He wasn't a very good swimmer, but he smelled horrible if he got in the water even just to his chest." Emma reached up and placed her hand on his, feeling every calloused inch of its surface. "What about you? I'm sure your house was a zoo when you were little."

"Hardly," Emma said. "I had a fish when I was five. A gold fish, named Minnie. Don't ask me why. But all she could do was swim around all day in the stupid little bowl. I felt bad for her. So one day, I dumped her into the toilet and flushed." She shuddered. "I thought I was giving her freedom. Stupid, impulsive me. I was sure mom wouldn't let me do it, so I wanted to do it myself."

"Ouch," Sean said. He really didn't know what else he could say.

"Needless to say, I didn't get another pet after that."

Sean reached up and brushed a lock of hair away from her face. Her cheeks were dry now. He moved his hands down to her shoulders, massaging the skin gently. She leaned into it and he cringed at each bone protruding beneath his touch. She'd been eating the last few days, finally, but a week's mourning had taken its toll.

"I bet JT loved animals," Sean said. It was a risk, but he felt like he had to take it.

"He did. When we were little, he'd always find bugs and salamanders and frogs and whatever else and keep them in a bottle for a day or two. He was fascinated by them." This time it was Sean who relaxed.

"He must have been a crazy kid," Sean commented.

"He was. But that didn't really change, did it?"

He breathed her in, knowing an answer wasn't really required. And as they laid there, their bodies rose and fell in unison, as they finally felt a sense of peace. The words had been finally said. The name had been finally said. There was no longer a full sense of taboo.

And there was one more thing, on a whim, that Sean knew he had to say. "Em?"

"Mmhmm?" She was already halfway into sleep.

"I love you."

Degrassi: The Next Generation. General. 011. Red.

Sat, 20 Jan 2007 23:50:01 GMT

Title: Red Rubber Bracelet
Fandom: Degrassi: The Next Generation
Characters: Emma Nelson
Prompt: 011 - Red
Word Count: 1,558
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Emma's doctors think she needs to gain weight. Emma disagrees.
Author's Notes: Deals with eating disorders.

LDT: http://daimeerafic.livejournal.com/2134.html

Red Rubber Bracelet

Thin.

That's how it started. She wanted to lose a few pounds, just slim down and take off the ravages of fast food, although they were hardly visible at all.

She wears a red rubber bracelet on her wrist.

She told herself, at the time, that she was mostly doing it to keep her best friend company. She didn't want Manny to have to go it alone; surely if she had, temptation would have won out. But then when Manny showed she didn't have what it took, Emma had to have enough discipline for both of them. And she did.

She was good at hiding--good at hiding from everyone but Manny, whom she never suspected would be her ultimate downfall. She knew all the tricks in the book. She left plates with crumbs on the counter. She took food to her room (she knew what would make it safely down the toilet, and what would have to be crushed and sent on its way, and what could be thrown out the window, and what was the easiest to vomit). She had more after-school activities than ever before, never mind that the school closed at 4 o'clock on Thursdays and Fridays. She ran and if her parents asked, she wasn't trying to lose weight; she wanted to be strong and healthy.

Her classmates knew--she knew they knew. But they didn't care to stop her. It wasn't their business to do anything but admire her body and her willpower. Manny cared, Manny worried, but for awhile, Emma could keep her at bay. She threw anything and everything in her face but eventually, her luck ran out, and she was sent to the hospital.

And she managed, after a bit, to convince them that she was healed. She almost convinced herself. Yet, she still found herself spending the second half of her summer in an intensive inpatient program.

Thinner.

She cried for the entire first day. She cried until she felt sick, and then until she was sick. She threw a fit when her parents tried to visit and eventually, they gave up and went away. That made her cry even harder. She was losing control--they'd taken her control--and it was almost a relief to be allowed to cry and scream and act like a child.

They tried to take her red rubber bracelet, but she said, if you do, maybe I'll give myself a red bracelet. Maybe I'll bleed and have a permanent bracelet.

It didn't stop them from taking her bracelet, but it did land her in lockdown for a full three days, no matter how many times she tried to tell them it was a joke, that she was just poking fun and cheering herself up. They don't have any sense of humour, she thought. None at all.

You have to eat, they said. Or we'll force you to eat, they said. So she ate. And she drank. And drank some more.

For whatever reason, her charming family had neglected to mention the few times she'd thrown up. Perhaps Manny was the only one who knew. Perhaps Manny was still secretly seething.

So after meals, Emma would head to the washroom as inconspicuously as possible. She drank and drank and drank milk. They weren't allowed water or diet soda or anything empty or near-empty of calories. But the milk was enough. If she drank and drank, she could kneel in front of the porcelain god and all she'd have to do was push lightly on her stomach (her fat, bloated, disgusting stomach), and it all came up. And she was the good girl, talking and talking and eating and eating and no longer threatening to carve red bracelets and no longer crying, and they didn't doubt her. She was in recovery, even if she were still losing weight, she would gain it soon, they were sure.

But she still wears her red rubber bracelet, whether or not they can see it. She can see it. She knows it's there, staining her skin, and taunting her with what she can never be.

You're anorexic, they said. You have to face the fact, they said.

No! But I'm not anorexic. I still have my period. I'm not good enough, she insisted. I'm ED-NOS at most, a failure. I'm not ana. Not that I want to be anymore, she added quickly, but not before she raised their suspicions.

They were nameless and faceless and one and the same. They were her doctors and nurses and hospital volunteers and friends and family and the pictures on the walls and the gown she couldn't wear during weigh-ins and the air she breathed. They wanted her to be fat, they wanted her to give in and be weak and be ugly and be even more imperfect than she already was. They didn't want her to be pure. They were against her. They would always be against her.

We love you, They said. We want what's best for you. We don't want you to die.

I know, she said. I know. But she didn't. Because it wasn't true. Because They wanted to be better than her.

She exercised in her room at night, trying to burn the calories she'd already thrown down the toilet and hidden on her neighbour's plate. They couldn't stop her from clenching her thighs. Even if They tied her down, she could still clench them and fidget and hold in her monsterous stomach.

And she knew They were lying when They told her that strawberries had more calories per cup than blueberries. She knows that strawberries only have 43 and blueberries have a whopping 79. Not that They let her have either very often. But she always knows the lowest options on the menu. She knows them better than she knows the periodic table, and she had to memorise that for a school test. And she remembers the hours spent on the internet, the beautiful bodies of strangers, the numbers and letters of obscure sites written only in her head in order to avoid detection. Double-you double-you double-you dot see ee are . . . what was the rest? Her brain was fuzzy, but that wasn't the important knowledge anyway. The only thing she needed to remember was to not eat.

She's proud that she's the second thinnest girl on the ward, but she's ashamed that she's not the tiniest. She should be. She should be the smallest, most beautiful. She should be the inspiration to everyone else. Her size zero pants fall off her hips (hipbones), when They let her have them, but it's not good enough. Never mind that the smallest girl is four inches shorter than she. Never mind that her legs are like matchsticks and her skin near-translucent.

But one day, They catch her. She's throwing up her guts, her stomach acid, the few bites she couldn't hide and had to take. How long has this been going on, They say. It's unacceptable.

And now They watch her all the time.

I don't want to eat, she says. I don't need to eat. Leave me alone.

I can't, They say. I want to help you.

I can exist on air, she protests.

No, They say, you can't.

And seeing no way out, she eats and eats and eats. She balloons to one hundred and one pounds. She knows the fat is dripping off her thighs and pushing out her stomach, but she says she's still too thin. She placates Them. She lies so her lies agree with Their lies.

Yet They keep her chained up. They lock her in her room and make sure every bite goes in her mouth. They don't trust her. They won't leave her alone. She knows it must be because she has the potential to be so much better. They pick on her because They don't want that to happen. She hates Them, but she smiles anyway. They can't know that she knows Their secrets. She has to find some way to make Them trust her.

You're not telling me everything, They say. Please tell me the truth. Tell me what you're thinking about. I need you to be honest with me. I want to help you, but you have to let me.

I am being honest, she protests. I'm being honest. I feel better. I feel good. Not good, but better. I want to eat. I want to be healthy.

And when did this start, They ask. What changed.

I saw the light. You convinced me, she said. You were right all along. I can find my control somewhere else.

And They bare Their teeth and she bares hers right back because she's finally won. She's beaten Them and soon They will leave her alone and she can be perfect and pure and clean and free of her own (im)mortality.

Thinnestestestestestestest . . . (with a red rubber bracelet on her wrist).

Writing about . . . writing

Mon, 11 Dec 2006 22:17:46 GMT

Ever want to write so badly but you're terrified to? When something beautiful inspires me, I want desperately to create something equally beautiful and inspired but I'm almost paralysed by the fear of instead creating something ugly.

I'm listening to Christmas music right now, Sarah McLachlan's Silent Night, to be specific. And it's so soft and peaceful and perfect that I just want to melt away in it and become it and BE the beauty. I want to create but I don't know what to write or how to write it.

And then, just like that, Feliz Navidad comes on and I don't care anymore. Just seconds ago I was despairing and now it's not so important to me.

It's amazing what beauty can create.

I wonder if musicians are ever inspired by a beautiful piece of writing? I wonder if--I desperately hope--I will eventually be able to inspire someone the same way I love to be inspired.

Because humour is fun. I like writing my humour although it terrifies me in a different way. But in the end, it comes down to the beauty. And I don't want to leave this world without making my mark on it, making it a little nicer. I just hope I can. I hope I can be satisfied with my own creations.

So this wasn't exactly writing, but it seemed appropriate for a writing journal, no?

Oh god I'm going to die.

Wed, 01 Nov 2006 03:53:40 GMT

Oh god I'm going to die.
Oh god I'm going to die.
Oh god I'm going to die.

8 minutes.

Hunger

Tue, 31 Oct 2006 20:44:16 GMT

Title: Hunger
Rating: T or maybe M
Genre: It's a drabble. So, drama/romance/angst?
Fandom: Degrassi
Prompt: Hunger
Word count: 445

I hunger for you, for your blood on my lips and the curve of your hips and the way your hands fit into mine. I hunger for your kiss and your touch and your infinity. I need you and I crave you and you are mine or you were but now you're gone.

I want to feel each finger in my mouth and lick each tip of the perfect manicure--perfect in my eyes. I want to hold you in my arms and never ever let you go and breathe with you. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. In-out in-out in-out.

I long for you, for the warmth and sweat of your body pressed to mine and your legs tangled who knows where. I dream of every inch of you; I knew your skin your gasps your sighs better than I know my own. I've lived you forever and always and now you're gone and I don't know what to do.

I explored every inch of you every secret desire every thought and memory and inch of trust that you gave me. We'd known each other never and always and we fit together, you in my arms, I in yours, you in my mind, I in yours. And the heat the heat the heat oh the heat. It was there and it was almost unbearable at times but it was you and me and it was perfect.

I am nothing without you. I'm broken torn and twisted mind body and soul. You are gone and I hunger for you but you're perpetually beyond my reach. You rejected me and I died but I went on smiling for who? For you? For you so you wouldn't worry or love me anymore if you ever had at all? For you?

Of course for you. All I do is for you. Everything from the way I brush my hair to the way I pretend to function. I live for you I breathe for you and you sustain me. I need not food nor water nor life when I'm with you because you are all three. You are me.

But god I miss your eyes and your smile and the nips on my neck and your toes and your eyelashes and the way you snore when you're asleep or when you pretend to sleep but I catch you peeking back at me as I snore too. I miss your scars your hair your everything.

I hunger for you I long for you I need you and I can never have you again.

.

Mon, 30 Oct 2006 03:20:47 GMT

Title:
Rating: T, I guess
Genre: Er, Drama?
Fandom: none
Prompt: Wealthy
Word count: 450

You're rich in everything and you lie in bed and they wait hand and foot on you as if you were a queen. And they read your mind before you say a word because they have to.

And you lie in bed and you wonder, is this really the best alternative? Is this truth? And you wonder, is this right?

But then they come in and they ask what you'd like or if you'd like anything at all and you're just so exhausted by the simple question that you let them figure it out themselves. They bring you a glass of water and you realise that a glass of water was exactly what you were after. And later when they bring you cold, soggy chicken, you discover that was precisely what you were craving.

Because it's easier that way, isn't it? It's easier for you to go along with what they tell you to do. It's easier to just be than to be a someone and face your thoughts and your life and the fact that you have both.

So you lie there and they cater to you and they do it because they have to and because they'll lose their jobs if they don't. And you probably annoy them but you don't really care because they'll just have to deal with it if they're stupid enough to crave existence.

You try and block the memories and the thoughts from your head. You try and block your personality and just become a blank. Not blank, a blank. Because a blank is a thing, or a lack of a thing, and it implies that you're not. That you don't possess a quality, that you possess nothing at all, and that's the final step before inexistence.

You miss it, at first. You miss life, but soon you've forgotten what life is and you've forgotten everything but the colour of the sheets around you--what was the name of the colour again?--and the twice-a-day walks outside to do--what was it again? But it doesn't matter because mattering would require being.

You slip into oblivion and you are richer than you've ever been. You know a wealth of simplicity, a wealth of nothingness. And you'd pity them if you could think and you'd hate them for pitying you except that hate requires being, too. And hate requires caring, and caring requires being, and you aren't.

And they ask you why you won't talk and you don't reply, and they're surprised even though they shouldn't be.

But you're at peace. Or you would be if you could remember what peace was.

Impulse Control

Sun, 29 Oct 2006 06:28:04 GMT

Title: Impulse Control
Genre: Drama
Rating: T
Fandom: Degrassi: The Next Generation
Prompt: "Choice"
Word count: 175

Have you ever wanted to do something totally inappropriate, like scream in the middle of church or thumb your nose at a police officer? Or maybe something as stupid as an Emma Nelson littering or an Ellie Nash singing along to Britney Spears?

Yet we resist these impulses. We torture ourselves just to be politically correct or to fit into the notion of what others think we should be.

But I don't. I didn't.

My lawyer said I had a psychotic break. He said that I couldn't be held accountable because I wasn't quite right in the head. He said that crazy people don't have to claim what they did or live with it.

Fine by me.

But I made a choice that day. I made a decision and it is mine and I own it and I smile when I dream of it.

Have you ever wanted to do something totally inappropriate? Like a Jay Hogart adopting a kitten, or a Toby Isaacs failing a test just because he could?

Or like a Paige Michalchuk committing murder.