who writes this crap? episode five

And here's the follow-up*. Part of it, anyway. This one is brief**, but like all of these things, once the thought completed itself the 'episode' is officially over. That's kind of the point. Pick up the laptop, write the idea until it stops being generous, and let it rest.

There will be more in this hotel room, most likely, but this is it for now**.

Still nsfw/18+, but I guess all of the Mouse and Mutt material is inherently not for kids, anyway. Still, worth plopping the label on.

Episode Five.

splinters of morning light

splinters, not rays or beams, but splinters

splinters because they pierce. They pierce her eyes, her mind, the soft fatty tissue lurking between her ears and desperately trying to maintain some semblance of control over her actions, some semblance of harmony, equilibrium, homeostatic measures that maintain temperature and appetite and the urgent need to fuck.

Her arm draped over her eyes. She would guard herself, now. Protect herself from the cruel mistress of the heavens, that unfearing, unyielding orb beyond the clouds above, a god to so many for so long, and nothing more than a hot ball of gas.

Her head felt like shit.

who writes this crap? episode four

"What to do with it" turned out to mostly be "leave it alone". I did edit this in some capacity. There's more information here, in the bits that are less manic. A few extra windows into Mouse, the kind of person she is, what she likes and dislikes and why.

I also changed some of the reveal around why she's as effed up as she is. This could be taken as canon over the previous entry, but really, they aren't drastically different and the result is the same.

So here it is, the fourth entry of "who writes this crap?", sans preliminary brain vomit.

It's still nsfw. 18+ or whatever.

Episode Four

                Her hands were quivering as she trudged through the hall. Her first hurt like hell. Thin fingers kept flexing, in and out, a fist and an open palm, some edge of her consciousness anticipating some horrible crippling crack or shooting pain to indicate that yes, her hand was broken. That she’d hit Maeko so hard, she’d fractured her knuckles.

                She hadn’t. It was disappointing, really. The pain would have made a decent distraction. Here, now, as her eyes overflowed and the world blurred around her, any distraction was welcome. Anything. A gunshot, a scream. A hug. A hug would have been nice.

                The only person who’d give her one, she’d just effectively told to die in a fire. God, she was brilliant sometimes. Mouse, the ever-rational mistress of logical thought.

                Maybe if she could pause and think things through for a fucking change, this wouldn’t keep happening to her. Maybe she could be more like Mutt—or at least have the sense to listen to his advice. He always turned out to be right. Always. And he never gloated about that. Not about life. Not about anything that mattered more than a stupid sparring fight, held for fun above all else, even if she was completely incapable of remembering that.

Blog title

Hmm. It occurs to me that sharing a blog name with a song by one of the most popular bands on the planet is probably really bad for my traffic, here. Especially given that I'm too pretentious to spell it without the accent mark, thus even further limiting my search-worthiness.

I need to think of something better. For now, the URL name will do. Incoming witty title, I hope.

My brain just puked everywhere

So, uhm. I've been told by a few people from time to time that I should do that whole stream of consciousness thing when I can't write. Just see what comes out. I always thought that was silly, and wouldn't work.

I was half right. I'm not really sure what to do with this. It's technically the fourth Mouse and Mutt piece I guess, but the tone is absolutely 900% different, and I'm fairly certain it's entirely incomprehensible. It also takes 8 pages for me to actually write anything story related. That said, I think if anyone is going to read this horrible #%*!, they may as well read all of it, including the ridiculous drivel that led to me actually getting something sort-of-kind-of done.

Be warned. This contains some pretty graphic language and imagery. NSFW, or for kids. 18+. You get it.

Here it is. I swear I'm not schizophrenic.



~~

These are words on a page.

Words that presently mean nothing in particular. Words that represent frustration, on my behalf, with my seeming inability to create something spectacular and deep and moving or at least mildly or even perhaps possibly intensely arousing because why nto and this particular train of thought is going chooo mother fucking CHOOOOOOOOOOOO and I made a typo on choo but I fixed it.

I need to stop fixing typos, like nto up above. ‘nto’, that is, with quotations, because I’m referring to something that I just typed. This is supposed to be stream of thought. Why would I fix stream of thought? I just—fuck I just did it again. I REMOVED AN IE FROM FIX. AN E. THAT ONE. NOT THE I BUT THE E> I BEFORE E WEXCEPT AFTER C.

Werewolves of the Dark Arts

Alright. So I've been pretty absent lately.

I had some crazy shiz with my job schedule for a while. Triple shifts on the weekends, three jobs, ugly stuff. My schedule is much more liveable now, but I don't really have "days off", so the amount of writing still isn't great. That said, I have been working in bits and pieces on a story that's effectively fan-fiction for this card game. Which I haven't played. Yeah, I know, I'm weird. I hear it's great, though!

Anyway, said work isn't exactly in a state where I'm comfortable posting it on the web. It's largely unrefined, and is coming out in bits and pieces that will ultimately need patched and sewn together into a clean narrative. I do have a single finished "chapter" that I feel pretty good about throwing on here, though. So here it is.

(And no, that doesn't mean I've abandoned my other projects. I'm just a scatterbrain.)



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For He Who Treads the Space Between

No Peace, No Calm, From King or Queen

Though Riches Won Are Riches Seen

True Sanctum Lies With Conscience Clean

                Anani stood in the tavern’s washroom, eyes fixed on the mirror before her. Her breath was heavy, labored, her heartbeat erratic. It’d been weeks, and still, his face was so clear in her mind. His heavy jaw, his broad smile. Eyes that seemed to twinkle with an innocence unimaginable in a man his age. Eyes that calmed. Eyes that deceived.

He’d deserved what happened to him. He had. She never asked him to come here. Never asked him to single her out, to croon to her, to whisper sweet adulations to her ear. She never asked to see what he really was. What he could really do. She never wanted this. Any of it.

He’d deserved it.

Anani took a deep breath. She let it out slow. Her lips formed silent letters, yet the words were clear in her mind, her voice strong and unwavering. For she who treads the space between…

Her heart began to calm. She was here, now, regardless. Here where she belonged. She was expected, and soon, and she wouldn’t dream of disappointing her patrons. She’d even dressed up, just for them. Dressed up in this cute little outfit she made herself, each stitch sewn with love and good intentions. She closed her eyes. Took another breath.

No peace, no calm, from king or queen…

She focused on her smile. That special smile. People talked about her smile. Talked about how sweet she was. How mischievous. Cute. Salacious. Pristine. It was a smile that meant a hundred different things to half as many people. It was a smile she’d worked on. Perfected. Love, and good intentions.

Her eyes opened slowly. There it was. There was Anani, tavern wench extraordinaire. The girl people trusted with their secrets. The girl everyone knew was clean, and sweet, and chaste, even as they wished she wasn’t. The girl lonesome husbands pined for, while their wives, so unconcerned, made light. Maybe next week, Darling, or, She’s not into senior citizens, Dear. And Anani, with that smile, would wink and pour their drink.