(no subject)

[jynxgirl.livejournal.com]

POST YOUR NOVEL EXCERPT HERE!!!!

Please keep it relatively short, and only in this thread. Thanks!

No more than 4000 words, and please no multiple posts!

Comments

[themournfulduck.livejournal.com]

Now it is completely pouring. I walk home, which is a little more than three miles away. I am soaked in the first three minutes. It is quite cold but I am good. Not even a rapist would want to be out in this weather. I wish Agnes had come. She even has a car. It's her mom's old car and she doesn't like it much, but it would be dry. Dryer than this. I wish my mother would pick me up from places sometimes when it was raining. I think most parents do things like that, for their kids. Not my mom. Not my dad. Someone offers me a ride but I only shake my head.

I'm kind of sad to be walking by myself in the rain. It's raining even harder now and it's difficult to see in front of me. I feel kind of cold. This shouldn't be happening to me! It shouldn't happen to anyone! But I don't know anybody's phone number and my phone is dead in my pocket anyway. (I guess I should charge it every once in a while.) Noah's foster parents would probably not be interested in going out in the rain and letting someone this wet and disgusting into their nice new car--especially if it was only on the behalf of their foster son. I don't have his number anyway. My mother already told me she wouldn't pick me up tonight. I think she had plans. I don't want to think about her anyway. And then who else is there to call? But I couldn't call anyone anyway.

My body shivers intensely. I can feel so much cold water in my shoes that I may as well not even wear them. I may as well not wear anything at all. Oh, crap, here's a huge puddle for me to walk into. I can't really help myself, so I start to cry. This makes breathing much more difficult. I don't want to walk through this puddle. It's true that I can't be any more wet than I already am, but there's going to be so much mud down there. I just want to be home.

There's a large dark shape next to me. It's a big tree. I look more closely and see that it's that one tree that was in front of the house I used to live in. That was back when our family had three people. My father bought it because he expected to fill it up with children (who would follow the light of the lord.) There were five bedrooms. I think he meant to have four of us at least. But after me, my mother finally told him he wouldn't be getting any more from her. (She hadn't wanted me to begin with. She felt conned into having me.) He moved out into a different state. Then we moved out, into a smaller house a few blocks away.

But I'm still standing here in this puddle looking at this tree. I remember when I was little, climbing up into it and cradling myself into the branches, especially when my mother was mad at me or drunk. She would lose interest and leave me alone if she couldn't reach me. I knew I'd be safe in those branches. Sometimes I'd fall asleep in it and I always had good dreams, and I never fell out of it either. The leaves would whisper to me as the wind trickled through them and I whispered back to them. I talked to that tree more than I talked to any person.
I'm sure the tree recognized me. It used to love me, far more than even my mother did. I could feel it calling to me. It knew I needed help. Maybe if I climbed up into that tree again, and cradled myself in its branches, I could feel safe again. Safe from this wind and this rain. Safe from a mother who would let me walk home in a storm like this. Safe from a father who would let me grow up by myself. It would be me and the tree again, like before. It loved me, and I loved it. I waded through the puddle, and reached out, and touched it. And I thought I could feel the energy of the tree deep in my heart but at the same time a large bolt of lightning filled the sky and thunder resounded around me. My tree had not been struck by lightning. Then I understood that the tree was asking me for help. It was afraid of the storm. It wanted me high in its branches to brave the storm with it. I slipped and stumbled out of the puddle and ran most of the way home, slipping and falling in the mud, and splitting open my knees and elbows.

[usedusernames.livejournal.com]

The water was warm even though it hadn’t been left to set outside nearly as long as they had. But there’s warm and then there’s boiling, and the water was the former and the workers the latter, so they drank half their cupful and rubbed the rest on their faces and necks; the repetition seemed subconscious, all the men following one, the most instinctive parts of their brains recognizing this as a good idea. Only one imitation was intentional: Lennie mirrored George’s actions as precisely as he could.

“You been good?” George asked in an undertone. He wrapped an arm around Lennie‘s shoulders to close the gap between them. He didn’t care for eavesdroppers, even when there wasn‘t anything worth listening to.

“Sure I been good, George.”

“You do sumpin’ bad an’ I’ll ring your God damn neck.”

“I didn’ do nothing, George, you can ask any of ’em!” Lennie shouted, pointing generally at the crowd around them. George knocked Lennie’s hand down gently.

“Naw, I don‘t gotta ask no one. I believe it,” he said. In truth he was sorely tempted to ask. It was only a sudden obscure pride that kept him from doing so.

[el-staplador.livejournal.com]

I kissed him.

Oh yes. After everything I wrote to you last month. After all my efforts - and I promise you, I did make efforts - I kissed Doug, and I don't know what to do.

So it was a family party. All Josh's family. Mum, Dad, brother and sister. Brother's girlfriend - oh God, how could he, with Lisa in the next room? Oh yes, she was there. We all went to Josh's parents for dinner. Three courses. Sherry. Home-made tomato soup. Boeuf bourguignon. Nice bottle of Shiraz. Chocolate mousse. Coffee. Port.

It was when we were all helping to clear up and put away. Lucy was in the kitchen. Vicky was there, too, loading the dishwasher. Andy had taken Josh and Lisa into the office to look at something. So there were Doug and I in the dining room, under low lights. I was stacking the dessert plates, one two three four five six seven, making sure that all the mint leaf garnishes ended up on the top plate, collecting the spoons, one two three four five six seven, little spoons they were, teaspoons. What was Doug doing? I can’t remember. I think he was putting the port glasses on a little tray, and taking the decanter over to the side. And I put the stack of plates down so that I could scrape a blob of chocolate off the seventh plate onto the top one, and Doug came up behind me and put his arms around my waist. That was when I should have screamed, slapped him, I don’t know what. Run away. Thrown a plate at him. But I didn’t. I put that last plate down on the table and I turned to face him. I knew exactly what would happen if I did that, and I was right. It happened.

And I enjoyed it. I’d been feeling like a plant that was all dried up and wilting for lack of water, and that kiss… Like a long, cooling shower of rain. You can imagine it, can’t you? Please say that you can imagine it. It could have gone further. Three hours ago, before the alcohol wore off and the guilt kicked in, I would have liked it to go further.

The thing was, despite everything I wrote to you last time, things never got any better with Josh. Yes, I had hopes. No, nothing ever came of them.
It’s been dragging on and on and nothing happened. Nothing to make me think that he might want me ever again. I don’t think that he thinks of me as a woman any more. I’m more of a comfort blanket.

This doesn’t excuse it, of course it doesn’t. I’m trying to make you understand, but I don’t want you to sympathise. I want you to tell me exactly what a bad person I am, and why, and whether there is any way in the world that I can make this better. I don’t think there is, is there? I think I should just go. I’ve tried over and over again to save my marriage, but now I’ve cut its throat and drained the last few drops of blood from its shrivelled corpse. There is nothing more to be done, and I should do the decent thing: tell Josh that it’s over, tell him why, and go. Leave.

If I’m honest, though, that would be as much for my sake as it would Josh’s. It’s tearing me apart to be around him and to know that he doesn’t love me any more. Or, if he does love me – and I honestly don’t know, I can’t tell – that he doesn’t find me attractive. I still love him. I still want him. Do you have any idea of how much that hurts? Tonight, with Doug, I had a tiny glimpse of what things might have been, of what they once were. It wasn’t real, and it never could be with him, but it was so tantalisingly convincing… oh God.

Imagine this: you’re slightly tipsy, you haven’t had sex in ages, and a man who looks exactly like your husband, who sounds exactly like your husband, your husband whom you love more than anyone on earth, kisses you.

Could you resist it? I tried, I promise you I know. I should have slapped him. I should have screamed. I should have told Lisa. I should still tell her. She ought to know what kind of a man her boyfriend is. And Josh? Shouldn’t he know what kind of a woman his wife is? Yes. Yes, he probably should. And should I be the one to tell him? I can’t see Doug doing it. And me? I’m too chicken. Tonight, at least. It might be easiest tonight. I’m still half drunk, and swimming in guilt. I could just let it out, tell him the entire truth from beginning to end. And then what? What would he say? What would he do? Would he even believe me?

[moonhorse.livejournal.com]

Anaed was the largest southern desert city in Lariem. A great wall surrounded it, encompassing great stone buildings that rose up in great spires like fingers straining towards the sky but failing to reach. A large castle stood in the center, tall and built with golden granite from the mountains to the west. It was a place of meeting and less of nobility and kings, though a Lord Jerigsson lived there with his family, occupying the large and richly adorned chambers with a pompous attitude that befitted the lords of Lariem more and more over the years. Jerigsson was one of the northern lords whose grandfather had come and conquered the people of the city and the surrounding lands, and thus gave him an attitude of superiority over the people whose city it really was.

Anaed was a large metropolis and a great oasis for travelers weary after a long ride from Lariem City and wishing to put their feet up for a day or two before heading south to Efes; or if they dared, before they ventured into the wild depths of the Urush Jungle, where harsh beasts lay in wait for unwary travelers. Never the less, the city stretched for over two miles in diameter to the great walls and for a ways beyond, where homes and farms were built along the streams that sprouted from the ground and formed pools between the waves of red dunes that spread across that region of the desert. It was a peacock among ducks, extravagant to the last.

Saraih had never seen such a city before and could not tear her eyes away from the shining walls and the great pennants flying from the towers. They rode up to the gates, plain and sturdy of great wood from the forest of Meiral to the east, out of character for the richness of the rest of the city, but they served their purpose well enough. Guards dressed in red livery stood straight as planks and wore ornate armor of high quality and carried long pikes that sprouted in the sky well over their heads. They didn't check papers or ask questions as Saraih and the rest filed past and to the inner gates past the portcullis, and finally onto the large street that ran directly towards the castle in the center of the city.

[teithiwr.livejournal.com]

Edward nodded his assent, taking care not to scrunch up the pages or bump the old leather bindings too badly. This shelf was a musty one indeed, with all the books bound in a similar way, in green and brown. He sniffed as puffs of dust rose from the books that he lifted from the shelf. It felt slightly odd to be so closely observed by his master as he worked, and Edward wondered a little at it: surely this was a job that even an illiterate (such as he most definitely was not) could handle with ease?

He was caught up in his thoughts for a moment, and almost let a book slip from his grasp as he slid it out from the shelf. Lord Robert let out a gruff sound of distress, and swooped down to catch the toppling volume. Edward had already got a grip on it again, however, so Lord Robert’s hand merely came to rest on top of his own, so that they were both clutching the spine of the ancient book. Edward coughed awkwardly, and after a second Lord Robert let go of the book and straightened up again. Edward placed the book gingerly into the box. “Sorry, sir,” he said. “I won’t let them fall again.”

Lord Robert folded his arms. “I trust not,” he said, his voice weirdly strained. He must really care about these books! Edward thought. “These are the volumes containing the Laws of the Realm. Fucking valuable stuff.”

Edward continued packing the law-books into the cardboard box. For some reason he could still feel where Lord Robert’s calloused hand had brushed his own.

[ink-kee.livejournal.com]

I'm sorry, I misread "Fucking valuable stuff" as "Really Fuckable Stuff." xD

[teithiwr.livejournal.com]

Hahah, that's bloody awesome!

Lord Robert does like his books. *leers* Not as much as he ends up liking Edward in the end, though. ;)

[jedi-bria.livejournal.com]

Beth kicked the chair out and gave him a smile, “It’s good to see you Jaffer.”

He took the offered seat, placing his tankard on the table. “And ye too Beth. Reckoned ye fer dead until I got yer message.”

“That seems to be the popular opinion tonight,” she raised her glass to her lips.

Jaffer could only stare at her as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “How did ye escape? An entire Red Cloud attack force, ye an’ Whisper should be dead. Granted, there was many who thought him a goner until he resurfaced a few months back, complete with the Winding Maiden intact.”

“The Maiden still flies?” Beth perked up at this.

“Aye, naught a scratch on ‘er. Must’ve taken a pretty penny what after the way she crashed.”

Beth’s thought’s drifted back to that night.

The Maiden was coming up on Wind Witch Mountain, the Reds hot on her tail. There must have been some Fire Elf on that ship; it was the only explanation. The ropes began burning first, there were only minutes before it hit the gas. The entire crew was out, severing ties to the balloon while Whisper guided her to the peak of the mountain. It was either crash or explode and-

“Beth? Beth?”

Something was shaking her arm. Her hand snapped up, pinning the opponent down, a knife appeared in her other hand, poised to strike.

“Beth! Snap out of it!”

Her vision cleared and she saw Jaffer sitting across from her, his left arm pinned and about to be short one hand. With reluctance she let him go, and forced a small smile, “Sorry Jaff.” Her knife disappeared back into her sleeve.

He rubbed his abused hand, his voice full of concern, “What happened to ye Beth?”

She stared intently at her glass and began swishing the remaining liquid around, not answering him. Eventually she spoke, “I’m laying low Jaff, can’t be seen in the skies for a while.”

Jaffer nodded, “Understandable. Does Whisper know?”

Beth’s stomach contracted, “No.” She drained the alcohol, the burning of her throat easing the knot somewhat. “He thinks I’m dead, it’s safer that way.” She got up to get another drink, leaving Jaffer staring after her.

[imaginepageant.livejournal.com]

She carefully sipped her tea, her eyes flashing impishly him from above the rim of her mug. They seemed to ask a question and offer and invitation all at once, and James couldn’t sit still for more than a moment before answering and accepting. As soon as the mug was safely on the table, he stretched across the distance between them and caught her face in his palms, lifting her mouth to his. Like wild animals let loose after a lifetime of being caged, his fingers ran through her hair, and hers beneath his shirt, burning him with the heat of the cup that was entirely forgotten as they rose from their chairs and dragged each other into the house.

They were half undressed by the time they reached her bedroom; the cool sheets warmed quickly as they tumbled down onto them. As always, their passion was frantic and frenzied, almost violent in its desperation, as if every moment spent was their first, and could potentially be their last. James buried himself in her, his mouth falling open at the shock of her heat, the sensation he would never get used to. It was a drug, this feeling, blazing a fiery path through body until every part of him was humming with bliss.

Afterward, they lay panting against each other, and the bliss slowly subsided, making way for the guilt he tried to hold back, but always crashed through his defenses.

“Do you know what today is?”

He froze. When Katherine asked that question, he usually had no idea what answer she was looking for, and she would sulk for a full five seconds before putting on her passive smile and claiming that she didn’t mind at all that he hadn’t remembered Valentine’s Day or Emily’s first day of school. But he knew she minded; he had disappointed her again.

When he didn’t respond, Elise laughed at the look of panic on his face. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing important, only the sort of thing a hopeless romantic like myself would remember,” she said with an easy laugh, her hand meandering through the spattering of hair across his chest. “It’s been exactly nine months since our first kiss.”

James felt himself soften. “That is important,” he insisted, “and I’m sorry I didn’t remember.”

“No, no, it’s all right,” she said, waving his concerns away with a soft shake of her head, her hair tickling his bare skin. “It’s not as though you can mark it in a calendar, after all.”

His smile disappeared, and though she held hers on her mouth, the happiness had gone from her eyes. He sighed heavily, but the weight he carried around like remorse chained to his ankle did not lift.

“I am sorry,” he repeated, raising a hand to stroke her face. She leaned into his caress, and his heart ached even more. “This isn’t fair to you.”

“We never meant for it to go this far—“

“No,” he interrupted, hating that she was trying to excuse him from blame, like Katherine always did. “We never meant to feel anything for each other, but we do. I never meant for you to be caught in the middle like this. I never meant to be married to one woman, and in love with another…”

For a long moment the only sound was the low, mournful whistle of the wind against the windows, the scrape of dying branches against the brick of the house. Finally, Elise spoke as quietly as the breeze itself.

“You could leave her.”

[kisamehada.livejournal.com]

Tara’s subconscious looked at her with eyes that were full of sadness. There were no words spoken, but Marlena knew that Tara was aware of her now. She watched as a woman with half of her head missing walked down the hall to stand in the center of the lobby. This vision looked up to the sky and screamed, a banshee wail that had Marlena wishing she could shut her ears to the sound. Turning back to the girl behind the counter, Marlena was horrified to see that where she had, seconds ago, had eyes, she now had blank spaces; large gaping holes of bleeding darkness in her head.

[hireadd.livejournal.com]

Oh, NaNo villains, how I love you. ♥ ... Now I just have to figure out how to keep you from murdering my protagonists.


Aside from the occasional ludicrous attempts at obtaining larger cuts for herself, Adia Temujin didn't seem to be so far out of line as to be any kind of real threat, so Garnet went on to talk of the terrorists, the miniature rebellions- like the one occurring in Udile, he said, but far less serious (at least that was some sort of acknowledgment of what I had to deal with). The terrorists, the businesses, the people trying to uprise- sometimes, he said, he thought people were a mess that deserved everything they got.

"Of course they are," I said, willing to just go along with what he was saying right then- he seemed upset enough as it was. And of course, it wasn't that I really disagreed with him, merely that it was something of a tradition for the two of us to argue on nearly everything. It was expected.

But there we were- alone, and with no one to expect much of anything. I'd requested that the security cameras be turned off in my office for a while, so that nothing would be on record. That seemed like a reasonably innocent enough excuse for a senior officer, after all- there could be government secrets being unveiled in my room.

Which there were. But if I was being truly honest about it, that wasn't the only reason I wanted the two of us to be alone.

As soon as Garnet had finished talking about the state of affairs in Vipul, he started to go on about foreign ones, about the (admittedly very small, but apparently very annoying) number of Grid citizens sneaking into the country in the hopes of having better lives- he seemed very cynical about their chances of getting that in Nebula-, and about the foreign governments constantly seeking to regain control of their lands.

"Do you know the Divine Marduk has had to send out five body doubles in the last year just to keep those people from starting their own little revolutions?" he asked, venomously. "At the rate they're starting trouble, we're going to have a war on our hands eventually."

"With any luck, we don't already," I said lightly, leaning the back of my chair back against my desk and looking up at him.

more from 'The Poisoned Veil'

[ladyseraph-756.livejournal.com]

“What was all that about?” hissed Eve as they entered her room. “Make yourself useful and help me select something decent to wear!”
Rochester shrugged. “Sedley’s a terrible flirt. Always chatting unsuspecting wives up. You want to be careful round him, you know.”
“And you’re not?” she challenged, a cheeky smile on her face. “He seemed quite charming actually.”
He sniffed. ”Bloody dilettante. Only writes poetry ‘cos he thinks ‘tis the mode. Doesn’t have a sincere bone in his body. And he nicks all my best lines to get the girls.”
“I thought you were his friend!” she protested. “ Some friend!”
“Doesn’t mean that I don’t see the truth about him. What about this?”
He threw her a beautiful grey and silver embroidered gown studded with tiny drop pearls and diamonds.
“It’s a bit low cut...I’m not sure if I want to-” said Eve rather doubtfully as she caught it.
“Bet it looks absolutely fantastic. Put it on!”
“But-”
“Put it on! Now!”
“All right! God, you’re so bossy!” she grumbled. “You’d better lace me up then. Play maid for me. And before you start, get your mind out of the gutter!”
“What?” he opened his blue eyes innocently. “As if I’d-”
“I know you too well, so don’t even go there."
Rochester stared in the mirror as she modelled the dress for him, for once speechless.
“What? Does it look hideous then?” she said.
“No- not at all.”
She looked sharply at him, still thinking he was winding her up.
“I’ll take it off. Wear something a bit more decent-”
“No! If only you could see how gorgeous you are.”
“Come off it, John!”
“Five pounds Old Rowley takes one look at you and makes you his new mistress!”
“I don’t want to be his bloody mistress!” she retorted.
“Good.” His voice was an intimate caress in her ear as he attached the huge flawless star pendant round her neck. She let out a tiny moan of bliss as she felt his tongue lick the delicate shell of her lobe. “Because, my lovely Eve, I want you to all to myself.”
She watched him transfixed in the mirror as he stroked the diamond idly.
“Oh, to be that diamond resting on your breast.” he sighed, the lightest caress against her pale skin and noticed with satisfaction the flush in her cheeks, the swell of her breast from behind her tightly laced busk as one hand stroked the smoothness of the satin, the pupils of her cool grey eyes darkened with arousal.
“You promised...” her voice trailed off.
“What, Evie? Tell me, what did I promise?”
“Don’t- Nick...he might come in any moment-”
“Tell me you don’t want me much as I want you.”
She cast her eyes down, unable to hide her true feelings.
He kissed her so passionately, she felt weak at the knees.
“Oh my God. Did you hear that? It’s him! If he catches us!”
They sprung apart guiltily as Nick entered the room.
“I wondered what had happened to you two. Let’s get going, my love.” He glanced approvingly at her dress.
“Been trying to get her into that dress for a month, but she was having none of it. You must be a bloody genius, John.”
If he noticed anything untoward in Eve’s flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, he didn’t show it as they bundled into the carriage.
1672 : Versailles
“You’re still up, Madame?”
Benoit opened the door to find her huddled by the fire, still in her dressing gown of green and gold quilted satin. It was huge on her slim frame dwarfing her figure and making her appear very young.
“I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about Mirielle and about the past. How her fate could so easily have been mine.”
“It was a horrible and desperate way to die, madam. Though perhaps it is best that she is gone and can no longer feel the scorn and shame that would have been her lot had she survived.”
“What did la Voisin do to her?”
“As far as Jonah could make out she employs a team of women to carry out the terminations by various methods. It’s extremely hazardous especially later on in the pregnancy. There’s always a risk of haemorrage and worse.”
“Poor girl. To think that she felt she had to take that terrible risk. And women like la Voisin ready to prey on her.”
“She’s a menace. We have to stop her. That’s why your work here is so important.”

[ruth-the-sleuth.livejournal.com]

I had never had a friend before. I didn’t think I would know how to have one. I had grown up with boys, with a father who was no more than a boy, with boys who chased me, boys who loved me, boys who I fought with and kicked and punched and bit, boys whose teeth I cracked and sides I bruised, boys who showed up at my house at night and howled by the light of the moon. I lived in the company boys, then of men. I did not know girls. I did not know women.

When I woke up in the grass it was day and the sun was high, held in the small crown where the tops of the trees brushed against the whiteness of sky, and Shyla’s daughter was sitting beside me dappled with gold, pulling pieces of grass from her hair. She looked at me with iron-gray eyes and lowered her head and smiled, not at me.

—You’re the boyfriend’s kid, aren’t you?

—Yeah.

—She never had a boyfriend with a kid before.

—Really?

—No. Usually they don’t like kids.

—My dad never had a girlfriend with a kid before, either.

—He doesn’t like kids.

—Not really.

—Does he like you?

—I think he does.

—How do you know?

—If he didn’t like me he would have left me somewhere.

—He never did that? She did that to me.

—Well, once. He left me in California.

—When?

—This year. A few months ago.

—But you’re here.

—Yeah.

—You like your dad?

—I like him as much as he likes me, I think.

—You love him?

—Kind of.

—How can you love someone kind of?

—I love him but I do okay without him. I don’t think that’s how it
usually is.

—I guess not. I don’t know. That sounds okay.

—Do you love your mom?

—No.

—Why?

—She never asked me to.

—My dad never asked me to.

—But you do anyway.

—I thin that’s why I love him. If he wanted me to I wouldn’t.

—How did you get here from California? Did you hitchhike?

—No, I drove.

—You know how to drive?

—Yeah.

—How old are you?

—I’ll be fourteen in January.

—Well I was fourteen in June and I can’t drive.

—That’s because no one taught you.

—Who taught you?

—My dad.

—Will you teach me?

—If you want.

—You have a car?

—No.

—What did you drive up from California in?

—A Coupe Deville.

—Well, where is it now?

—I don’t remember.

—You can’t remember where you put a car?

—Nope.

Slowly, she smiled at me, looked down, and looked up at me again.

—Don’t worry, though, I said. We’ll find a car. There are cars everywhere. We’ll find a good car that runs smooth and I’ll teach you how to drive.

—Think you can teach me?

—Yeah.

—I don’t learn very fast.

—It doesn’t matter. This is something you have to know.

—I’m pretty good at getting rides.

—It doesn’t matter. Every girl should know how to drive.

—Why?

—Because you can leave. You can leave whenever you want to. You can leave anything.

—I’m pretty good at getting rides.

—Trust me, I said. This is better. This is the best.

She was holding three long pieces of grass, loosely between her fingers, and she began to plait them together, gold on gold on green on gold. She made a long braid and when she was done tucked the beginning into the end and made a crown and placed the crown, gently, on my head.

—What’s your name? she said.

—Miranda.

—Miranda. Miranda. Hello.

[marilyth.livejournal.com]

They started when Alex was a teenager. The studies say that most paranormal activity surrounds someone in their teen years, normally when they begin puberty. The dreams were in align with what the "professionals" called premonitions, which were paranormal to many. To Alex, they were annoyances. Her first dream wasn't anything out of the ordinary; a regular dream, where she did regular things, nothing spectacular.
However, in the weeks following the dream, she kept having a feeling of deja vu, which was ridiculous, because she didn't believe in that crap. When she had the dream of her friend in the car accident, a year before the accident, she knew there was something up. How did she know it was the same dream? She saw what happened exactly, through the eyes of someone there. That someone turned out to be her dad, who saw the whole thing, and was the first on the scene when Shelly made the left turn from the right lane on the bypass, in her rush to get to work. She lived, but Alex's dreams didn't get any better.
She predicted too many things; her high school friend's pregnancy, the car accidents that killed her friends while she was in college with no way to warn anyone. The big problem was that the premonitions were coming so close to the events, that she had almost no time to tell anyone that she had a bad feeling about something, until it was too late. Her closest friends knew she had these dreams, and they supported her. Her best friend, Anna, also had the dreams, but they weren't as vivid, or real as Alex's. Anna did call Alex one night, very late, to warn her of a bad dream.
The phone didn't wake Alex out of sleep, but it did startle her enough that she had to start that portion of her drawing again. No one called after midnight, unless it was an emergency, so she knew she needed to answer the phone.
"Hello," Alex spoke into the plastic receiver of the mauve phone her parents got her when she left for college.
"Hey, it's me." Anna started. "Whatcha doin'?"
Alex looked down at the schematic of the building she was creating a new facade for her design class. "Architorture. Not fun." She replied. "What's up?" Anna never started a conversation on a serious note unless something was wrong.
"Are you still planning on coming down for Thanksgiving this year?" Anna asked.
"That was the plan," Alex responded. "I've got a ride this year, so I figured I'd save some money and drive. It takes as much time to fly, since I have to change planes at least once, then drive another 45 minutes to get home. Why?"
Anna responded, "When were you planning to leave?"
"I was think the group is heading out early Wednesday morning. We've got to stop along the way and drop people off so I could be home in time to hang out with friends before the big Thursday events. Why?"
"Do you think you could manage to hold off driving out too early Wednesday morning, and wait until at least 9 or 10?"
Alex thought this was odd. The drive was a 7 to 8 hour trip down the lone Texas highways, and she would prefer to leave when it was dark, and arrive early, as opposed to driving during the daylight, and the traffic. She trusted Anna though.
"I'm not in control of the scheduling, since I'm going with three other people. I'd like to save my own gas money, and was really lucky to get this ride. What's the problem?"
"Just promise me that you won't take that ride. For that matter, see if your friends will wait to leave." Anna pleaded over the wires.
"Honey, I'll do the best I can, but I cannot guarantee anything. I've got a couple of more paychecks coming, so I'll see what I can do about making other arrangements, is that sufficient?"
"That would be great," Anna let out a sigh of relief. "I'll tell you more about it when I see you next."
"OK," Alex replied, "You sure everything is ok?"
"Yeah, I'm sure. Just make sure you don't leave until after 9am on Wednesday."
"Promise!" Alex responded. She knew it would make her friend feel better if she made that commitment.

Just one paragraph

[mteson.livejournal.com]

That night I dreamed I had gone to London to see Rachel. I met her father, a man who in my dream looked far too old to be her father, like an Italian mobster in the movies. Nonetheless he was a nice man, and the meeting between us was friendly and cordial. Since he was so busy with his work he asked me to take Rachel out to tour the city. Rachel was her same awkward self, maybe a little physically different like people generally are in dreams, even though you still recognize them as that specific person. In the dream we visited various places in London related to the Beatles. Some of them didn’t really exist, but in the world of the dream they were indispensable landmarks of Beatle history - real strawberry fields twisting in the gentle breeze on a street called Penny Lane that only existed in my deepest subconscious. And there we were, walking down that street, the sun glistening over the cobblestones in the same way light bounces off a swimming pool. I could feel my point of view detaching from my body and flying up into the sky, until all I could see were our two silhouettes outlined against the bright sunlight, walking together without a care in the world.

[dennysbryce.livejournal.com]

Chapter 2 - Beached

Husbands shouldn’t die.

They should live long charmed lives, filled with days and nights of hard work, steamy sex and lots of jokes. They must laugh out loud, as often as possible. Breathlessly, with dry lips and sweaty brows, and happy tears streaming down their faces. They also need to talk, seriously talk, a lot, and share their innermost secrets. They need to cry, too, not uncontrollable sobs, mind you, but sorrowfully, yet unashamed. If they can’t do that, what good are they?

Dr. Clifford Reynolds had done everything Chrissie asked, except for the not dying part. A microbiologist and president of Chicago’s largest privately owned science laboratory, he was driven and intelligent and respected by the world’s most prestigious authorities in quantum physics and the evolution of dark matter evolution.

Chrissie stared out the window of her 36th floor office, a half-smile on her face. Back then, like now she was an overachiever. Graduated with two doctorates and a few other degrees from Northwestern University’s Kellogg School, Cal Tech and MIT, all by the time she’d turned eleven. Before her first day at the Labriniyth, she’d been working for more than a decade.

Hired as senior vice president in charge of the laboratory’s research and development department, she'd bumped into Clifford in the hallway. He was ten years her senior and on his way to his first Nobel Prize. Tall, dark and handsome and outrageously wealthy, his lusty thoughts filled her mind, spilling over into every pore in her body. Three weeks later, Chrissie Matthews, the petite, caramel-skinned, whiz kid with green eyes and amble breasts, had jumped on board his bandwagon, figuratively and literally.

Fairy tale romance was what her friends called it. They fell in love hard and fast with their work and with each other. Right up until the day, nine years after their storybook wedding, Clifford dropped dead at the age of forty, they never looked back.

Turning from the window, Chrissie sighed. It was a massive coronary, some kind of undetected value defect, she barely remembered what the doctors said, or how badly her throat ached when she couldn’t stop crying.

Five years later, there were still days she feared she would lose it completely because she'd never hear him laugh or sing or cry ever again.

Chrissie jammed her finger on the call button of the telephone system. "Dolores, can you come in here please?” She put the papers back in the desk drawer and pushed it shut. She then grabbed the 100-page bound proposal resting on top of her desk. She’d glanced through it an hour before. “Did you see this?” She asked as Dolores walked into the office.

Dolores stopped and looked at Maxine over the rims of her style-conscious glasses hanging on the edge of her nose. A notepad in her hand, she pulled a pen from her mop of dyed blonde hair and waited.

Chrissie waved the Trinity document in front of her face. “There are at least 10 typos and god knows how many grammatical errors in this proposal.”

“Chrissie, it’s a draft,” Dolores said.

“A what?”

“Draft. Not ready for the client as explained to you at the meeting yesterday afternoon. Ginger said it wasn’t ready. You insisted that she give you the dirty copy. No one has had a chance to make any changes or edits since yesterday’s meeting.”

Chrissie slammed the report down on top of her desk. “We’ve been working on this proposal for three months. It should be perfect by now.”
“Didn’t you hear me?” Dolores asked softly.

Chrissie looked up at her. “Yes, you said this is a draft?”

"That's right."

[blubberoddment.livejournal.com]

[disclaimer: I abuse commas.]

In the early evening, when the sun was just beginning to disappear behind the tops of the bare trees, Grace lay in bed, the sheets covering her shoulders. She lay motionless, wishing she could sleep. It was all she wanted anymore; she didn’t care about seeing her mother or father again, she had no true connection to any of the people here, she was no longer concerned with growing older. All she really desired was to be unconscious. She hadn’t dreamed since that night, and she spent all day longing to escape into her empty mind once night fell. She just wanted to not have to worry about being broken anymore, she didn’t want to think about what had happened as she spent every waking moment doing.
She knew she shouldn’t have been wandering at night. If her parents had been here she would have been severely punished. If she had just been where she was supposed to be, nothing would have happened. It was her own fault, really. If she wanted to she could have fought the man off—she had stopped kicking so quickly. She had given up and allowed herself to be hurt.
Grace pushed the covers down. She couldn’t sleep here—it was where she had gotten up from to go out that night. How had she ever managed to fall asleep in this bed since that night, knowing what it had caused her to do? She walked out the door, her feet bare and her body covered only by a thin cotton nightgown. Her feet barely made noise along the carpeted hallway, and when she stepped outside she didn’t even notice the bitter temperature that numbed her nose and ears. She walked towards the quad, but suddenly her eyes were drawn upward towards the clock tower in the building across the grassy square. It was so tall, and the clock was so large. The metal hands had stopped ticking years ago, and the time was forever 4:24. The hands shone brightly in the moonlight, lighting up like a wonderful white fire. She needed to see it closer, to watch the metal twinkle and reflect near her face.
It wasn’t hard to find her way inside. There were rooms to chose from, but once she found the spiral staircase in a storeroom in the main hall, she knew the only way to reach the top. The iron steps were dusty and her feet grew soft with cobwebs as she climbed. The steep staircase wound higher and higher, but Grace continued to walk.
Finally, she emerged onto a flat plane hidden from view below only by column of stone. The back of the clock stood in front of her, blocking off a huge circle of sky. She could see the glow of the moon behind it, and she squinted and imagine she was looking at an eclipse.
She wondered if she could have seen the clock from the spot where it happened. She thought that maybe the clock had seen her. Her heart swelled with shame at the thought that there had been any witnesses to her behavior. The way she left her building, walking through the cold night on her own, not running and screaming at the first sign of trouble, how quickly she stopped fighting the man. It was her fault, it had all happened because of her.
All she wanted to do was sleep. Was that really so much to ask? She didn’t want to have to worry about any of this. She wanted to be asleep and not have to think that soon she might wake up and have to pray for sleep again. The clock called to her that it knew a place she could sleep. It knew a way she wouldn’t have to wake up.
She walked up to the pillars, looking over the edge of the building. She knew a place she could sleep. She knew a way she wouldn’t have to wake up. She looked over the edge of the building.
She closed her eyes and tilted her head back. All she wanted to do was sleep. She stretched her arms out to her sides, feeling the wind whip through the open room. She didn’t want to have to worry about any of this. She moved closer so that her toes hung off the ledge. She knew a place she could sleep.
The only sound in the night was the whip of a white dress again pale, bare legs as they toppled over and over themselves, tangling the dress into folds and knots as the wind caught it in a million different directions. There was a thud.
She knew a way she wouldn’t have to wake up.

[dogson.livejournal.com]

I have no idea how to feel about what just happened. Was he, like, testing me? Or was he trying to say that he wants to be as close to me as possible? Or was he just being spontaneous? Or did he feel like nothing else could possibly happen now? Emotions are totally confusing. I feel super distant from him already, just being away from him for a few hours. Maybe that’s because I can actually feel the energy we exchanged flowing around within me or something- but it’s really intense to have just done that and then go to other, mundane things. I guess that’s the way it works, intense / mundane in order to balance it out. I guess it just feels like the mundane is WAY more apparent in my life than the intense, and that when I Get a taste of something as intense as that, I want more! I want to live my life charged with that energy and when I look at him I know that to some extent it’s possible to keep that wild creatively awesome flow going perpetually. . . and I want that so badly. . . and I feel like a psycho for wanting it so badly because he’s just so cool about it, or just—acts that cool—or something. Fuck, I have no idea! Tantric sex! My neck is bleeding and I’m sitting here watching Deezy primp around in these crystalline faucet codpieces and neckties shaped like armadillo armor and trying on these chrome rings, and I feel two ways about everything right now. I feel that everything is ashes and I feel that everything is light. And that everything is burning from light to ashes all the time. And I feel horny and super aroused and happy and I Feel depressed and lonely and deadly and rough. And letting that paradox exist within me is challenging because the emotional tenor is so high. External shit is not effecting me at all. Getting the M5 slammed into is just “whatever”. $5,000, whatever. Smash smash, whatever. Party party, whatever. Death, whatever. You know? Where does it end? Where does it begin? What are we all supposed to be doing? Are we doing it or are we playing the total rebellious child and fucking it up for ourselves? What does Luna think of me? Am I just practice or am I serious love? Are we “going steady?” I know that every moment of his life is a spiritual practice, and that a big part of being spiritual for him is working with attachment. And letting things go. So I guess I am terrified because I know he is more powerful than me, especially at cultivating non-attachment, and feeling attached like that makes me feel weak and stupid.

Deezy is bending down testing the “crotch efficacy” of a pair of gaudy mustang trunks. He says his dancing style incorporates a lot of squatting, so he needs to test the trunks. They look like swimming trunks made out of leather, with gigantic black bowtie where the clasp should be. The pockets say RAPE ME FATHER on them, for some reason, and a picture of Ronald McDonald is on each butt cheek. I doubt the legality of that move, but I don’t really care. The trunks cost eight hundred dollars.

“I’LL TAKE THESE SLUTS AND THIS HAT!” Deezy proclaims as he marches out of the dressing room, still wearing the trunks, and grabs at $6,000 worth of diamond hat pins. He sticks them to his $250 mafia bowler haphazardly. They look like some drunken constellation. He is not wearing a shirt.
Prix rings him up, asking about his experience.
“BOOMSHIVA!” he screams.