The Great Write Way, Chapter Two: Twice upon a time...
A place for Buffistas to discuss, beta and otherwise deal and dish on their non-fan fiction projects.
Ho. ly. Crap. Where did I get this?
Fingers. First gentle, then insistent on shoulders, arms, back.
Lips. Brush against lips, then spark on skin like spots of flame. A blaze is lit, the burn consuming you slowly, inevitably.
Squeeze. You are his talisman, his touchstone. You would sink without him, slide into oblivion alone if not for strong arms and legs.
Hips. Pushing into you, and all but him is forever gone. You feed, drink, breathe from him. He drives you to the edge, and suddenly you gasp, shudder, fall, then fly.
For the first time, and always, you are beautiful. He will never let you forget.
edited to apologize for perhaps being a bit fast and loose with the topic... and, of course, by that I mean porn.
No apology necessary, as far as I'm concerned. If that isn't a discovery, I don't know what is.
Gorgeous, Ailleann.
Sail, my husband astonishes me, most days.
Teppy, this is a fantastic topic. Thank you (and thank you, deb).
I think in semicolons and italics. It's bad. (Betsy)
So do I; and it is not bad! (deb)
I love this exchange far too much.
I'll use fragments a lot when writing dialogue, since it's how some people speak.
Yes. Fragments (and other grammatical errors in dialogue) don't bother me.
As for punctuation, I may have a bit of an addiction to the em dash.
My sister—also? Commas. Also? Doing the "also?" thing.
When I'm online, I use fragments all the time, and on purpose, because I am
talking
to you. Psychologically speaking, I am not writing to any of you. I am trying to respond to you as personally as I would, if we were face to face. Unfortunately, this has become a habit which has carried over to any writing I do on the computer. My grammar and punctuation (and spelling) are much more polished in longhand, but for me, longhand is too slow for me.
I write almost exactly as I speak, except that I speak a lot faster than I type, so that "as I speak" is more likely to be "thewayIspeak".
Discovery
Flying down the highway, music I hate screaming over the wind, on because it's angry and discordant and vitriolic, and it feeds my mood. How can I be so angry? Feckless and rude, I weave past slower cars, intent upon reckless speed and mastery.
Later, nursing a vodka as I watch them. I still am angry and reckless, but there's no vehicle this time to transmute spite to speed, and I still don't understand.
Tossing in my bed, alone, not as drunk as I need to be to slide into blissful unawareness. Finally, I drop off into dreams.
I don't dream about them, or her or him. I dream about me, and after all, isn't that what this is about? The lack of me, me not being wanted.
And when I wake up, it's clear and silent and the anger is gone. I'm not jealous of him wanting her, or vice versa.
I'm sad that no one wants me, right now. But it's all right again, because I've discovered it really isn't them that sparked this.
It's all about me.
still am angry and reckless, but there's no vehicle this time to transmute spite to speed, and I still don't understand.
I love this line.
I still can't decide if I know any drabble-worthy "discoveries". When I first started online my postings were nicer, I know. I've gotten so crude...blame HBO.
And trying to talk like a cop.
Although it's crazy to think a grown person can still learn to talk from television, right, babe?
Scar Tissue
Listen to a song, peel away a layer.
tore up over you and I just can't find my way oh man, layer gone, find the raw flesh underneath, getting conked in the head with a flying Zildjian cymbal, New Years Eve 1975
the song is over, it's all behind me peel me like a sunburn, watching him go back to her, not having any weapons, hardening myself, congealing
under the piano, waiting for the band to come too much, I can't breathe, bleeding, sobbing, afraid to see what's hidden
she comes in colours red, blue, black, the language of finding out.
Discovery Bay, Discovery Day
The water laps at her, pushing gently towards the shore, just as gently encouraging her back. Damp cotton clings to her legs, fashion sacrificed to sudden need for this view.
The traffic is silent now. Animal noises chase each other beyond her line of vision -- if she squints, the power lines disappear, the shack roofs sink into the greenery, and the scene shifts into timelessness.
War canoes, cinammon bodies brazen in the sun, challenging, strident, imposing enough to send the Portuguese ship to the south coast.
It doesn't matter. They die anyway. They all die. She marks the day.
