Farewell

this isn't happening

All the words are mine. He isn't saying anything. He's at the piano bench, hands resting on the keys, head lowered. If my soul wasn't vomiting inside me, if my internal voice wasn't screaming to not do this, if I wasn't 22 and ready to die, I might appreciate how fitting this is. I don't appreciate it.

stay with him don't do this

I spill it out. Too strong, too needy, can't get past her, don't want to be your mother, leaving. I wait, just a moment.

He lifts the brown eyes, just a glance, pain and history and all the things that will never, now, be.

OK, it's a little long. But I'm working on being able to write sexy stuff without feeling haunted by the ghosts of my Baptist ancestors. Who, I know, must've had sex themselves, or they wouldn't be ancestors. Without further ado, here goes:

Sleepless

She sits on the bed and watches him undress. She knows she must blow out the candle, but she wants to feast her eyes first. So lean and spare and perfect. She wants to trace the saber scar at his collarbone with her lips and tongue. Soon enough he’ll join her here, in this love’s hallow’d temple, this soft bed. Donne had the right of it. She stretches luxuriantly, and he grins at her.

“Do you know, I think it’s been two years since I slept in a bed,” he says conversationally as he tosses his shirt to the floor. “Once, last winter, we had a grand billet, and four of us started the night in a feather bed. But none of us could sleep--too soft. We finally took the blankets and made a pallet on the floor.”

“You’ll not sleep in a bed tonight.”

“Oh?”

“I intend to keep you awake.”

He kisses her and she pulls him down to her. Sleep is out of the question.

The bit about a group of sergeants being given a feather bed but sleeping on the floor really happened, BTW. I'm reading a wonderful book that's giving me enough local color for Wellington's army to fill at least a dozen novels.

Well, if you find it embarrassing, it's not cause you're not good at it. Speaking of embarrassing, I think my last challenge was and I'm very shocked by the response. Want to tell everyone that read it how I wrote it not even awake yet and everything, and why do people tell me stupid things like the ruler story? And why have I forgotten things I care about so much more? And why do I wake up in the morning and want to open my veins? I mean, figuratively. Literally, I understand not wanting to start the day as me. ita, another cool, cryptic one. I really am your negative, I think.

Susan, I seem to remember the feather bed thing from reading a few books about the Peninsula campaign, as well. It's one of those bits that bring the people somehow closer. I think Heyer mentioned it, either in An Infamous Army (my brain, undercaffeinated, wants to say she was talking about Wellington himself being completely oblivious to creature comforts) or in The Spanish Bride, her book about Jack and Juana Smith.

That's a nice vignette there - but there's a question mark where there ought to be a full stop: “You’ll not sleep in a bed tonight?”

Well, if you find it embarrassing, it's not cause you're not good at it.

Thanks! I think--or at least hope--that I'm getting better at it, but I'm not where I want to be yet. I'm trying to get past the formulaic and into the character-revealing, while at the same time trying to figure out what the hell to call the body parts that's neither too coy nor too shocking for a readership that by and large isn't as comfortable with nice blunt Anglo-Saxon terms as I've become from reading fanfic. An issue I dodged in the above drabble, largely because I was already well above 100 words, but also because I still haven't made up my mind.

Thanks for the question mark catch, Deb!

Heyer probably did mention it, or something similar to it, and there was certainly something in the book I'm reading (Life in Wellington's Army, by Antony Brett-James) about Wellington's camp bed, and how he slept in his clothes for months at a time while on campaign.

The people who managed to survive and thrive under Peninsular War living conditions? Hella tough. I don't know that I could've made it.

Aw...Crush Guy wrote me a murder from La Tep's challenge.
How much do I love him?(Although, not helping the get-over-it plan.) I gave it to him...he's not stalking us.
Only I would think this a sweet gesture, right?

“I hope you’re sitting down for this.”

The gun felt heavy in his hand. Warm. His shoulder felt leaden with the pistol’s unfamiliar weight. His ears rang with the pistol’s unfamiliar snap. Already his own words were drowned out inside his head by the noise.

It had a surprisingly light kick, he thought. Such a small thing, packed with such life-changing force. It slipped from his fingers and thumped on the unpadded carpet.

He’d been thinking about that line – I hope you’re sitting down for this – for weeks. Rehearsed it in the shower, in the car that morning, once more outside the doorway before he squared his shoulders and pushed, nearly stumbling, into that squalid room.

Maybe it would have been easier if he’d actually caught her in the act, he thought. But it didn’t matter. He knew, knew, what she’d done. Knew it in his heart like he knew the sun would go down at the end of this day and the next. Even as his body shook with a cocktail of righteous fury and adrenaline, his brain ran down scenarios of what was coming next. Soon enough, someone would call the police.

For the next few minutes, at least, he’d enjoy the novelty of freedom.

He couldn’t bear to look at the body, suddenly empty of her-ness as it slumped in the ratty overstuffed chair. He couldn’t bear the patterns of blood on the upholstery and the wall, almost matching the tacky floral patterns underneath both. He couldn’t bear the thought that she’d been holed up in such a certifiably low-rent place, hungrily indulging her affections after he’d practically begged her for just a taste of the same.

a chunk of drabble

Seated in front of the computer at work. Headphones on. Heavy thumping bass, ballistic drums, razor wire guitar riffs. In the groove, fingers nimble on the keyboard. This is why I love this job, I can settle into my own world and look at all I've accomplished at the end of the day.

Sudden grip on my shoulder, shadow swooping down on me. Heat and breath and something moving. I react automatically.

Thankfully the yearly reviews were two weeks ago. Elbowing one's project manager hard in the belly does not lead to glowing write-ups in the folder. But, hey, my team leader knows to stand out of arm's reach.

Ah, the poetry tour went down succesfully, and I'm ready to return to the columns again. It was WONDERFUL to see so many people out in California!

About the column:

As I've been readying the next installment of "How to Succeed As A Failing Writer" for its return in a week or two, it's occurred to me that I'd like to know what YOU want me to write about, so now's your chance--please send me questions about writing to victor@quantumredhead.com, and I'll try to answer some every few weeks. I can't guarantee the answers will be good, but, eh, we'll see. 8)

Please put the phrase "Failing Writer" in the subject line, so I can filter it all to the correct mailbox.

See you soon!

Remind me that it's OK to write a shitty first draft.