Let there be kink, sort of

Alright, Danz went to bed so that means its safe to talk shit about him. Well, not talking shit really, but I know he may or may not appreciate this in the morning. But he's already seen a great deal of it.

So it seems our boy has a little hero worship, and a while ago I threatened more or less to write some fanfiction *shudder* _{oh god} with him and one of his actor heroes. I couldn't do that with a straight face though so I dropped it. It was funny to watch him virtually sweat though.

Then I picked it up again, for whatever reasons, I've been extremely bdsm/kink inspired. Rather than start something totally new I just went back to this. And I still can't keep a straight face while writing it but now that he's gone I may just be able to finish it. What is it you say? Well shoot, read it why don't you?

It's still got some fanfiction-y elements, obviously, but really I'd think of it less as "fanfiction" and more fantasy gone extremely awry. Technically that's all fanfiction is, but you really have to remove any semblance of familiarity from this or I think you might actually go crazy. In short, I'm depraved and I don't care. If I ever manage to finish the whole thing I'll probably just store it in my writing journal, away from you good respectable readers, but for now have a taste of my sick vision.

_{Note: That intro was all in jest, I'm out to scar your mind.}

Warning: Man-on-man relations, kink, bondage, burning, typos, in-jokes


The throbbing noise of the disappointed and hysterical fans outside died in his ears as soon as he stepped in the room. The door shut behind him mere seconds after he crossed the threshold into the crimson-colored room, dimly lit and sparsely furniture. He cynically noted the blatant cliché, right down to the shag carpeting and faint scent of patchouli in the air. Even the lamps were draped. Was this a meet and greet or the set of a low budget 70s throwback porn? It was hard to say.

What set him off completely was the figure in the shadows, lounging on the strangely modernist, sleek black couch. He was swilling a glass of wine in his hand but looking wholly uninterested at the drink, and the bottle currently lying on its side on the table in front of him seemed to attest to this. But there were other things, like a half-heartedly open pack of cigars, a beautifully designed butane lighter, and a silver case with a European dragon carved on the front. Had he interrupted something? The thought made him a little uneasy as he walked across the room slowly as if on glass.

“Mr Craig?” he said gently. The man peeked up a minute with the sort of bored ennui he’d always imagined actors had for their overzealous fans. Or contempt at least, especially when faced with such a forced meeting. For the first time since hacking his way into this little contest he began feeling doubt, and what’s more, remorse. Could he turn back and leave now, and leave everything he’d ever wanted in the world?

Just as he began moving back, apologies already on his lips and head bowed, the man stood up, setting his glass on the table in the process. He ran a hand through his sandy hair and let out a sigh.

“So you’re the winner are you?”

“Yes sir.”

“Was expecting a girl,” Daniel said with a smirk. “They enter these things in droves, fucks up the results.”

“You’ve got male fans too, you know.”

“Right, of course…” Daniel folded his hands behind his back and began to pace. “What’s your name?”

“D—”

“Do you mind if I call you cheap bitch?”

The words died on his lips. His mind was reeling in outrage, a thousand insults bursting between his ears but only indignant squeaks fell from his mouth. He stared in wide-eyed horror as Daniel came at him far too fast, dressed in a white button down that he just realized was wide open, displaying his fine physique. Before he could make another move his wrists were bound in a fierce grip and he was staggering backwards and would have fallen. Instead he was barely kept on his feet by the painful force around his wrists, cutting off circulation to his hands. And then he was on the ground, thrown forcefully and out of breath. He tried scramble up but his fingers were entangled in the shag—it would have been comical if he weren’t so confused, and if it weren’t for the knee currently pressing down on his ribcage.

“As long as you’re in this room, we’ll call you D. You answer to nothing else. Don’t do anything unless I say so. Don’t even breathe.”

A strong hand wrapped around his throat, effectively cutting off his air. His eyes bulged as he clawed desperately at the hand around his throat, but he was quickly getting light-headed. His struggling slowed then finally stopped completely as time slowed and his vision became blurry. After what felt like several minutes, the hand was gone and Daniel no longer in his line of vision. He coughed and swallowed, his mouth dry and lined with cotton as he lay on the floor in a stupor.

“It’s good you’re putting up a fight,” he heard over his head, but the voice sounded miles away. “The past couple of nights have been too easy for my tastes.”

He heard a door open and for a fleeting moment hoped it was he exit, someone come to save him from this sudden lapse of madness. But no one came. Feeling stronger, he sat up and looked around him. His captor was at the end of the room rummaging in what appeared to be a closet of some sort. Daniel popped back into the main room and shut the black door behind him. In his hands he carried a red ball and his glare was mean and heavy.

“Did I tell you to get up?”

“You didn’t tell me to stay down either.”

Another smirk, this one more sinister. “That’s true. You’ve got a mouth on you, don’t you?”

Daniel crossed the room again and loomed over his victim. D could see that the ball had black straps hanging down from the sides and suddenly everything clicked in his mind. His mouth opened, prepared to let out a horrified scream of alarm, but he didn’t get much more than a gasp before the ball gag was shoved in his mouth, tied so tightly behind his head he could feel it cutting into the bridge of his nose. A second later and Daniel loosened the straps but not by much, and certainly not enough to make the situation any more comfortable. D still managed to howl around his gag, the sound forcing silvery strands of saliva down his chin.

Daniel gripped his victim’s chin and forced it around to look him directly in the eyes. “You can scream until your blue in the face, no one out there is going to come in and save you. In fact, please do scream, I want you to.”

Another muffled scream followed by a short burst of sobbing before D went completely limp. Daniel threw him down like discarded rubbish and went over to the walls. He began to strip the hanging lamps of their warmly decorated scarves. This didn’t improve the dim lighting of the room D noticed, not that it mattered at present. Daniel was coming back over to him and he numbly registered his wrists behind tied over his head. Then he was being dragged across the floor, his head just avoiding bumping into the steel legs of the table. His wrists were bound to the table, which was either very heavy or nailed to the floor; D couldn’t say which from his perspective.

The actor hovered over him now, cigarette lighter and cigar in hand. D blinked bemusedly at the objects, having a vague notion of what could be done with them but not making the connections in his brain. Daniel lit the cigar and took a long drag off it, staring his victim in the eye the whole time. When he was done he plucked the red ball from D’s mouth and hovered close to his mouth, exhaling. The smoke floated to his eyes and made them water, and the smoke snaking into his throat made him hack and cough. The ball snapped back between his lips, smacking his teeth and making him cry out in pain. Daniel smiled over him, a gesture that would have been described as winning or charming by the press, but in this context it felt so horribly hollow. That smile wasn’t for him, it was for his suffering.

Still smiling, Daniel nudged his captive’s shirt slowly, as if measuring the individual inches, feeling the lightly haired young stomach. His fingers crept on the flesh like a growing vine, making invisible etchings and nonsensical words as he went up. The shirt was pushed until it bunched neatly under D’s chin. Dark nipples peeked at him as he swiped his hands over them, carefully keeping the lit cigar out of the way. He pinched and rolled the nubs between his fingers, pulling them in short jerks. D’s breath hitched in his throat in horror, but something deep in his mind responded, more primal than the utter terror he was feeling right now. Against his will he let out a low moan, pausing in horror and hoping his captor had not heard.

The sly smirk signaled he had.

“Like that do we?” Daniel sneered, slapping his victim’s chest. The cigar briefly met flesh and D cried out in pain. It came down against but stayed this time to eat away at his flesh. His screams became louder but hoarser as Daniel made long, cursive strokes all across his chest. By the time he was done D had tears dripping into his ears, threatening to fill them with their salty remorse. Daniel merely laughed and finished the cigar off, then put it out in the hollow of his victim’s throat, eliciting another painful howl.

His hands returned to his captive’s nipples, squeezing them as if he’d bring forth milk or blood. D only clamped his teeth down on the gag in his mouth, determined not to scream this time. That, and he didn’t think he had it in him to make any more noise, it’d already proved quite futile now.

As if he’d read his mind, Daniel looked down with another charming but hollow grin. “You finally stopped screaming. That’s too bad, the best is yet to come. What shall we do next, hm?”

Fiction time again

At least I hope so!

First off, me and Microsoft Word 07 are really having some damn issues. I think I might just get rid of it and go back to 03. This is like too much grief ~_~ it's pretty neat superficially but on a working level it's just damn ANNOYING.

Maybe it's just me though...I've been having some stupid formatting problems suddenly *shrug* but enough of that for now.

I'm about ready to try this whole story posting thing again. I've sat down and gotten actually-actually serious about writing something and completing it. I've accomplished a few goals actually, including: Not getting ideas all mixed up, keeping things simple (I don't really need social commentary in everything, do I?), and keeping things relatively short. So here I go...

I don't have a concrete title yet (I'll think of one!) but the story I'll be posting over the next couple of days is pretty much my first venture into Sci-Fi. I like reading science fiction but I hate trying to write it--my mind doesn't work like that. I like science but I'm not the most technical person. I'd actually call this more just speculative fiction (yeah it's almost the same thing but...yeah :P). But...you know, let's just call it sci-fi and not worry about particulars right now.

It's the story of Alex Lo, your ordinary Chinese-American living on the Continental Republic of the Americas. He lives pretty simply and comfortably, works a decent job and hangs out with his best friend Travis "Traveesh O'ctchnor" Smith, an alien from a distant solar system.

Travis is in a bit of a bind today, he wants a personal robot. Even though he can't afford one, Travis is pretty addicted to gadgets--it doesn't help that he's under pressure from his rich parents and richer neighbors. Despite Alex's protesting, Travis goes off and buys a re-processed robot--which are notorious for flying off the handle at any given moment or time, which isn't that surprising considering they usually consist of parts from serial killers and other nefarious criminals.

Antonio, in his former life, was a notorious outlaw from the United Nations of Cuba, Florida, and California (this is like part of a long, oooold side joke). But as a personal robot, he does fine enough. Dishes, windows, floors--however, his duties certainly didn't include stalking Alex around, alternating between trying to kill him and trying to fuck him. Travis's robot has already flown off the handle, but is this just a dangerous malfunction or is there POSSIBLY some other underlying cause? Or maybe, even 2000 years into the future, you can't trust a 50% sale.

Yup, I'm hoping it will be funny. It'd be more funny if Word stopped fucking with me, but I make due with what I can :P as Travis says at some point, "This sounds like some straight Philip Dick shit," and it really does. But I'm having fun with it, for once not trying to be overly original and ground breaking. I've accepted that sometimes you've...gotta walk on the firm, established land before you go trying to break it. Get it? Analogies...

Well, here goes nuffin' special. I think I'll start posting officially tomorrow, give me time to think of a damn title.

Rosette's Ruby

I have two quick stories I want to post at some point during the day, and I'll explain them both later. For right now, let me say that I feel like a strange mix of Angela Carter, Bob Dylan, and Col. Stinkmeaner from Boondocks....

______________________________________________

The tight embrace of Winter was loosening and Spring gradually shook the cold off her back, the snow which had draped her trees and flowers for far too long now shrinking in her growing radiance.

“Despite the looks of things,” Father had said, “she will crawl on her hands and knees to make it this year.”

And so Spring inched in ever so slowly, not with her usual boisterousness. The hard weather had drained her spirits from last year but a fine season it was regardless. The garden was in full, spectacular bloom as ever, the wild lilies intertwining with fresh grass and early morning dew in Rosette’s room every morning. The sweet smell intoxicated her so much that she often didn’t want to leave her room, instead basking in the warm glow and sweet scents; Spring will crawl indeed, this year she was as victorious as she’d ever been, if not more so!

Two weeks into May, Father had taken his axe and gone to hunt with the other men of the village. They would return to the women and children before dusk to eat but until then, the village was saturated with the sounds of washing, chatter, and laughter.

Rosette was dreamily reclining in front of her window when Mother called.

“Rosette,” Mother called, strong but quiet. “Come in here, I have something important to show you.”

Rosette entered Mother’s room; the woman was sitting on the bed in her apron, her supple legs forming an X beneath her, lean and elegant arms tapering into delicate hands and long fingers which held a long hunting knife with a wooden handle that was covered in precious gems.

“Rosette, I have something to give you. Bring me that tray.”

Rosette looked to her right and saw a silver serving tray on the dresser. She brought the tray over and watched as her mother carefully balanced it on the edge of the bed, took the ceremonial knife and drew a straight line down her arm. The blood began to gush, curled around her wrist like a serpent and then began to harden, and the drops that the tray caught tinkled and chimed like windpipes, not splattering against the surface like a liquid should. The blood pooled in the tray and cooled, solidified into one ruby as big as Rosette’s palm.

“This is the most precious jewel you will ever have,” Mother said, her voice softer now. “It was given to me by my mother, and her mother before her, and so on for generations I can’t bare to count. And now it is yours.”

“Mother, whatever shall I do with it?”

“Keep it safe. Protect it, and pass it to your daughter so that she may pass it to her daughter. Most importantly, keep it safe from the men; they only wish to destroy it because they fear it.”

“Mother, does every girl get a precious jewel as this?” Rosette fawned over her new possession, cradling it in her hands and examining it in the sunlight. The ruby cast gentle crimson shadows on her pale face and she marveled at the smoothness of the jewel. She noticed her mother had gone silent and was now lying on the bed, looking paler than she had before.

“Why do the men fear it?” Rosette whispered softly, laying on her mother’s stomach. The coarseness of the apron did not deter her for she knew the feather-soft stomach that lay beneath it was trembling.

“They fear it because they don’t understand it. They can’t possess it so it angers them. It threatens them so they will destroy it.”

“Even father?”

“Even father.”

That night, Father came home and ate supper with them. Rosette went to bed on the instruction that she never tell Father about her precious ruby. Father eyed the scar on Mother’s arm, and as soon as he knew the whole village would be asleep, he took Mother out to the woods and chopped her head off with his axe. Defiantly, she did not scream and so no one knew what became of her.

After the funeral, Rosette was permitted to walk in the woods alone for the first time. She took Mother’s ceremonial knife for protection and took her ruby and traveled deeper into the woods than she had ever gone before, even farther than the hunters. All that lied beyond their hunting grounds was what they called “dead woodland”; nothing but carnivores and rotting trees, with mold and algae spiraling up their diseased trunks like staircases for dwarves. Rosette laughed to see such tiny furnishings and sat on a petrified log.

She unpacked the bread and cheese she had brought from home in a white handkerchief and began eating. She heard crickets in the woods and was surprised to hear such lively chirping, as if they were playing a special tune for her alone. It wasn’t nearly as scary as Father had made it out to be, exaggerating the jaws of a wolf with his broad hands in an attempt to dissuade her. She laughed at him then and she laughed at him now, a cheerful melody echoing in the forest to accompany the orchestra of crickets, grasshoppers, and now frogs.

One of the frogs that had chosen not to sing hopped right to her handkerchief but politely did not encroach on her meal. Rosette looked down at the creature and it smiled up at her. The frog attempted to croak a couple of times but his voice caught in his throat at the sight behind his hostess. Rosette turned around quickly and saw a wolf—sleek and grey with wide yellow eyes—darting deftly between the trees with a rabbit in its jaws. Rosette saw the surprised expression on the frog’s face but merely laughed.

“Don’t worry my friend, he won’t harm you.”

From a patch under her dress Rosette pulled out her ruby and, with some effort, managed to swallow it whole; her stomach rebelled violently against the intrusion but subsided after a moment; Rosette smiled at her frog friend, who was now smiling back. She tucked the handkerchief under her skirts for a moment. When she removed it, she displayed its bloody contents to the frog who finally croaked excitedly.

“Come see me again next year, you’ll see then. But for now, its time for me to go; the sun is setting.”

The frog hopped off the log and Rosette wrapped up the remains of her lunch with the cloth. She exited the dead woodlands with ease, the ceremonial knife tucked back into her waistband, her jewel safely secured inside her. She returned home and waited patiently for Father to return from the hunt and when he finally bounded into the house, Rosette proudly stood in front of him and displayed her bloodied handkerchief.

“Father, today I’m no longer a girl. I understand now; you have no restraints on me and you won’t conquer me. You’ll never own me again!”

Weird eyes and lady lovers

Every so often, I remind myself that I write stories XD good ones, bad ones, mediocre, epics...I write. I've always loved writing. Sometimes, though, I find the urge to write...hard...to come by. But...even so, ironically, I just go write something else! That doesn't make sense to anyone but me, but oh well.

Anyway, I was just thinking...I've written or attempted to write a lot of...gay fiction. Slash, man-man, pr0nz, yaoi, boy's love, whatever you want to call it. There's not much more fascinating to sexually confused 13 year old girls than 2 men gettin' it on, plot or no plot. And for a long time I fell into that. Then I got overly ambitious and, a few Ernest-Hemingway-meets-Tolkien epics later, I decided to tone that shit down. It's been working, one paragraph at a time.

So I was reminiscing on all the bad male-porn I've written and realized, "Hey, why don't I write any femslash?" I mean, there's no reason for me not to. I think I attempted it a few times but it never seemed to get off the ground much, or not in the way that I wanted. Even more neglected is just good ol' fashioned man-on-woman action. Why? Why-oh-why?

Well, instead of complaining about it or pondering the great questions, I figured I'd remedy it eventually. Most of the stories I'm working on now that might involve the Sexing are either slash-related or, strangely enough, androgynous/ambiguous, so I don't have to choose.

This is all, eventually, going to lead me into my obsession with eye-color. I love weird eyes. I love weird eye colors. I love blue eyes, violet eyes, green eyes, even brown eyes--I love eyes in general, but there's just something about those rare eye colors.

I want to do something to remedy, in a way, or nourish my love of strange eye colors. And my love of femslash. And...man slash, and het, and ambiguous!sex and just all kinds of things, but I also have to stop myself from getting so ambitious that shit just doesn't get done. So I'll mull on it...until it magically happens.

New layout...again

Hah, you'll notice that I've apparently gone purple and pink again. What can I say, the blue was putting me to sleep...and purple IS my favorite color :P it's an addiction.

Runaround

Why its called Into Gold, I don't know. I get tired of fancy titles. I wanted to say "Into A Swan" but that's a Siouxsie Sioux song now, plus it doesn't quite fit anyway. I got lucky :P

Matt is a combination of 2 girls and 1 guy that I know...yes, it's sickening and weird. I got Ezra's name from Ezra Pound, the poet/author, even though his personality isn't really that similar. He's a combination of a couple of guys I know. The whole flow of the story is a little Catcher In The Rye-ish.

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I never liked Matt. At all. Not since the first day I met him about five years ago.

Creepy dude. He always had this big corny smile that just felt like Saran wrap stretched over his face. He had bottle blonde hair and always dressed like some Hollywood slut—which he really is, but have some decency for Christ’s sake. Well, he was all that before I changed him—I’m getting ahead of myself a little though, let me explain.

~~~~

Like I said, I never really liked Matt before last summer. At that point I’d known him for five years at least, and…well, I still can’t even quite put my finger on it. Why I didn’t like him, that is. It wasn’t even just one thing. First of all, he was so damn superficial everything he said felt like an ass kiss. I told you about his smile and his dress, but his demeanor. God! He was so flighty and air-headed and had the most irritating giggle I’d ever heard. He was always leaning on someone, laughing, talking, rambling. Grade-A suck-up.

Oh, he likes girls by the way. Loves girls. He’s 100% straight to the most annoying degree. He won’t let you forget it either; he always has at least two girls on each arm. I just got sick at how he went through “girlfriends” every couple of weeks, a month if the girl was lucky. Moreover, I couldn’t understand how the girls let him. How they could fawn so much over a nobody was beyond me. I didn’t even think girls did that. At least he doesn’t whore himself out so much now, but first let me explain how we met.

Our mutual friend Robbie introduced us. Well, not really, Matt was actually just tagging along with Robbie. They’re pretty good friends. I think Robbie’s the only one Matt doesn’t annoy to death, or he hides it better than I do. Robbie’s always been a gentle guy with chestnut hair and practically see-through skin. He made Matt’s fake, orangey tan look really dark, almost real. He’s pretty good at keeping his issues inside, right up ‘til the last possible moment.

So anyway, Matt and Robbie were hanging out, and Robbie invited me to lunch, said he’d pay. Nine times out of ten I’m usually broke as hell, so of course I agreed to a free meal. We were in this family-owned restaurant called Vic’s, even though the guy that owns it is named Larry. Maybe a Vic owned it before him, I don’t know.

By the time I met up with Robbie, he was already in the place chatting with Matt. It was a warm day out so we were at a table outside. I wound up sitting next to Matt, who briefly paused his rapid-fire conversation to look at me.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I should ask you the same thing,” I said back. I didn’t like his tone, he sounded like he didn’t want me there. Robbie nodded his head in my direction.

“Matt, this is my buddy Ezra Quint. Quinty, this is Matthias Woldenhurst or...Matt.”

“Quinty…” Matt said, and I still didn’t like his tone. He sounded like he was sizing his competition up this time. I sorta mentally sized him up too and tipped my head to him.

“Sup man?”

“Sup Quinty…can I call you Quinty?”

“I prefer Ezra or just Quint really…”

“You don’t like ‘Quinty’ anymore?” Robbie asked, looking oh-so hurt. In truth, I never liked Quinty anyway. I’ve always been an Ez or an Ezra, or maybe just a Quint, but Quinty just sounds like a baby name. I’m twenty-six, for Christ’s sake. He’d been calling me that since I was—I don’t even know, like thirteen.

“I think he just doesn’t want me calling him Quinty,” Matt said as he finished his drink off. That was only partially true, but I didn’t tell him that. Robbie shrugged and fingered his napkin and fork.

“Maybe. Quinty...well, Ez doesn’t do good around strangers. I’ve known him for years.”

“About ten give or take, isn’t it?” Robbie nodded at this and we both just kind of grinned, but Matt looked just short of incredulous.

“Ten years? Wow, you guys are really old friends. I don’t have friends for more than a few months!” He guffawed, and if I had eaten anything that day I probably would have thrown it back up. Robbie just kept on grinning but he didn’t laugh, which made me feel good. It made me feel like he wasn’t buying into all of Matt’s bullshit. I mean, sometimes you have to put up with your friend’s bullshit but there’s a limit.

After he was done laughing, Matt went back to his little walnut salad and water. Robbie asked me if I wanted anything and I said I just wanted the biggest burger they had. I really hadn’t eaten anything for a while at that point, I don’t think. Robbie laughed and said he’d see what he could do. He signaled the waiter and ordered me a burger with everything and a beer. It came and I got right to chowing down while Robbie and Matt talked over my head, since I was sitting in the middle of them.

“So how’s life Ez? I haven’t seen you in like three weeks, not a call or anything,” Robbie asked around his sub sandwich.

“Busy studying,” I said. That was my last year in college, not because I was graduating but because I was dropping out. I was working on a B.A. in mass communications, something I actually really loved, but the workload and the payload just got way too much for me really. I’m going to be paying loans for the rest of my life, I swear to God I will. Robbie had already gotten his associates in Accounting at that point.

“I hope that’s going good for you. You get that job for 99.6 yet?”

“Nuh-uh.”

99.6 WVU is the school’s radio station for updates and entertainment and the perpetual college rock roster. They were offering internships and they needed writers, broadcasters and other staff because they were pretty much a revolving door of workers. No one stayed there for more than a few months, why they let it go on like that I have no idea. I figured a radio job would be good experience for my communications degree, plus I’ve been told I have a nice radio voice.

Matt decided to perk in here. He knew about the radio station and said he had friends at the top, so to speak. I got a little sick again.

“I could pull some strings, y’know, talk to my friends and get you that if you really want…” He had this glint in his eye, it wasn’t evil or sly or anything, just kind of outta place talking about a damn radio job, for crying out loud.

“If you don’t mind, I think I can get it on my own,” I told him.

“Apparently you can’t,” Robbie said and snorted. “You’ve been trying for a month now, man, how hard can it be?”

I felt mortified. Here was my own friend blasting me out in public, to a stranger I didn’t even like. I’m sure my face just went white as a sheet. But to my surprise again, it was Matt who stood up for me.

“C’mon Robbie, radio is actually pretty cut-throat.” He took his fork and pretended to cut his own throat with it, then he did that annoying giggle. It was more of a distressed titter, like a hyena’s alarm call.

“If you don’t have the right connections,” he went on “you’re really screwed…are you sure you don’t want me to try for you, Ez?”

“If I can’t get the job on my own, I’d really rather not have it,” I said and finished off my beer. I was starting to get a little pissed at this stranger trying to interfere in my life. And he just wouldn’t stop. He leaned over to me and I could smell his cologne. It was so strong I was getting dizzy and wondering how I hadn’t noticed it before.

“There’s a lotta people that talk like that,” he said lowly. “Do you see any of them working, anywhere? I’m telling you, make the right friends and you’ll get anything you want. It’s not really leeching, y’know, it’s like…mutual.”

“Mutual.”

“Yeah, get something for him and he gets something for me, right? It starts out small, you get cigarettes here, a beer there, pot there. Then it just grows and grows until one day you own a company and you don’t know how the hell you got there. And you’re doing good and taking care of the people that took care of you. The only hard part is keeping your friends from the scoundrels.”

He wasn’t making sense, and yet, he really was. I understood him completely. He was talking about mutual mooching, black market shit. Running “errands” for people so they’ll give you stuff in return. I was getting really ill, physically ill. I had a headache from grinding my teeth to keep myself from telling him to fuck off and I felt so nauseas my eyes were swimming.

“Only right now, I feel generous,” Matt continued. “Since you’re Robbie’s friend.”

“I said no, goddamnit,” I snapped. I think I was yelling because a few people behind us turned around, I could see them from the corner of my eye. Matt was taken aback and so was Robbie. I stood up, feeling like punching someone and vomiting all at the same time.

“Ez—” I think Robbie called.

“Shut up, you fuckin’ sleazes, both of you!” I know I was yelling now. I was sweating a little too, I could feel that. “I don’t want your goddamn favors, understand? Do you understand? I don’t want your help with anything!”

“Whatever,” Matt said. He’d turned around and crossed his arms, looking totally passive. I glared at him and Robbie and ran back inside the restaurant. I headed for the restrooms and leaned over the toilet, sure I was going to retch up everything I’d eaten in the past month. I heaved and heaved but nothing came out. After a few minutes, I came out feeling drained. I peeked out the window and saw only Matt was outside still. He looked at me over his shoulder and smiled, and I could see him asking if I was okay. I flipped him off and headed back for my apartment.

Serialize!

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Essay for money time!

As you may realize, I like writing. I really like writing. I like fiction and non-fiction, poems, dramas, plays, classics, teeny-novels...

You know what I don't like writing?

ESSAYS.

I hate essays. It's not that I can't write an essay - I think I can, or I've been told I can turn out a nice essay - it's just that, for me, they're so improper and stiff. I did a really loose, fun essay in 9th grade and it got a 6 (out of 6, which is like a Super 100%) but I've yet to do that again, just because it wasn't really a "proper" essay. But then again, what IS a proper essay?

Plus, I've never really gotten an essay topic I like, until recently. If I answer one of these essay topics by July, I might get some monehs :D

Without going into too much (not that I'm trying to be secret, mind you, I'm just tired right now), the essay topic I found most interesting was this:

Topic #3: Many experts believe that a major catastrophic event will occur in the year 2012. Do you agree or disagree? and Why?

By that I'm assuming they mean the so-called Mayan Calendar disaster sometime in the year 2012. I don't really have many facts going with this (nothing a little research can't cure) but, in the form of a sort of pre-write, here's why I DON'T think that bullshit's going to happen.

For one, there's really no predicting "the end of the world" or the end of human civilization. Nature and the whole universe are too unpredictable; the end really could, I think, come tomorrow, the day after, 2013, 2100, whatever. I think that's the biggest reason. Yeah, human civilization is eventually going to go extinct as everything tends to do (you know how many animals and plants there used to be on the earth?) but saying WHEN is just ridiculous.

Secondly, about the Maya calendar thing, isn't that a little...subjective? They had a different religion, different society, different methods, and different reasons why their calendar was put into use. Is it really predicting the end of the world? That's more of a personal question than a reason though. It's the end of their calendar but is it really their version of the Apocalypse? I really do have to go look into this some more.

But anyway, I'm a little stumped for a third reason which is why I hate essays so much. I have a counterargument involving a few people who say "well the Mayans were right about everything else!" to which I'd say, "and?" It's so hard putting personal feelings into a properly structured essay.

And now I must conclude...for my shoulder hurts for some reason...next post will probably talk about my latest failed novelistry.

Here, have an excerpt if you may

Hello again, please enjoy my failing failures.

I've wanted to get this one off my chest for a while :D I don't really have a title for it. Uh, I guess something funny and cheesy like "Ms. Kirkland & Her Marvelous Obsession" would be good. Or just "Ms Kirkland".

Anyway, it's about Ms. Kirkland and her mildly creepy obsession with Mrs. Grant, the end-all be-all teacher.

Did I say mildly creepy? How about...very creepy. Creepy as FUCK. I love how my blog colors wildly contrast with the darker tone of the story. It's fantastic :D like me!

So it starts like this:

Mrs. Grant. The woman’s short, wavy black hair (with the occasional grey streak) was in her face and she was smiling. At least a few of her students were attentive, and that was good enough for her. Ms. Kirkland’s hair had gone almost completely grey very early, something she tried to cover with hair dye. But it was a failing front, as nothing was dark enough to hide her age. Today she was a brunette, tomorrow a redhead perhaps? It had become one of her signature traits, the color-changing hair. She was only in her late thirties yet she felt so much older, looked so much older, especially in the face of Mrs. Grant’s bottomless energy and enthusiasm. Mrs. Grant’s hair was a paradigm, immutable and immaculate; she wasn’t afraid of her age and welcomed it gracefully. Ms. Kirkland wasn’t so much envious as she was proud, proud of a woman so unlike herself. And maybe a bit infatuated. But that was alright, a little deep respect between teachers was nothing wrong.

The bell rang. Ms. Kirkland noticed her laptop screen had gone dark, and she hadn’t graded a single paper. She’d promised the students they would get their tests back this period, but now they’d have to wait another day. Or maybe two, she wasn’t really sure. There weren’t that many tests, but so many questions and grading was such an arduous task.

She watched the students file out the library to their next class, splitting like an amoeba in the hallway. Amoeba. Biology test. Damn.

Mrs. Grant breezed past Ms. Kirkland with a suspicious look and a slight nod of acknowledgement. Ms. Kirkland smiled and waved, then packed up her things and departed back to her own class.

Then turns into this:


“Excuse me, Ms. Kirkland,” one student in the back asked. “Are we getting our tests from last month back before or after the next test?”

Some of the class giggled uncomfortably because it was a genuine concern. Ms. Kirkland sent a glare in the general direction of the student.

“You’ll get them when you get them, now get out some paper. By the way, do any of you have Mrs. Grant next period?”

A couple of students raised their hands. Ms. Kirkland nodded to each of them, grinning.

“She’s doing an exciting lecture in the library today. Make sure you all pay attention, I think there’s a quiz when you get back to class. Tell her I said hi, by the way, I didn’t get a chance to earlier.”

The class groaned. They knew fleeting hints of Ms. Kirkland’s one-sided friendship with Mrs. Grant. But they could never know its true depth. They were like bosom buddies, in Ms. Kirkland’s mind. Friends ‘til the end, even though Mrs. Grant would rather Ms. Kirkland not exist at all.

Mrs. Grant had told that to Jenny Laker’s class one day. She’d given Ms. Kirkland’s greetings and Mrs. Grant had whirled on her with frightening speed.

“Who?” she demanded, chalk trembling in her hand.

“M-Ms. Kirkland,” Jenny had stuttered. “She said hi.” The chalk broke in Mrs. Grant’s hand.

“Don’t mention that vile woman,” she said, voice barely below shouting. “I despise her. She’s a horrible teacher and a horrible person. If you’re in her class get out now. If I hear one more word from her, I’ll…I swear I will…”

Mrs. Grant had set to muttering, the class totally forgotten. She was entranced by the board and Ms. Kirkland’s tidings. No one else had ever mentioned Ms. Kirkland in her class ever again.

"First Bell"

I'm a failed novelist, it's true :P anyway, I've been working on my short story writing, that is, writing short stories at all.

I've been doing what I call my "memoirs", taking funny (or not funny) situations and stories from my day/life and putting a twist on them. So far it's been nothing but horrific twists because I'm a jerk :O

So here's an excerpt from something I wrote/am writing called "First Bell" (actually not in quotes), about a new bell schedule system that goes awry...or, actually, kinda goes appropriately since it does its job. I think it might turn into a wrap around story, with 6 classes getting subjected to the new late bells. Get to class on time, fools!

It starts off innocently enough (they always do):

"The physics class was rather quiet, thank goodness. It was a Wednesday, for one
thing, and the students seemed to be silently reveling in the liberation that
comes with no teacher and a laid-back sub. She hadn’t even told the class her
name, just descended unto them like a shadow, observing. The class, when they
needed her (which was rare), decided to call her Miss F.

Miss F was behind the teacher’s desk making sure the class didn’t try to set anything on fire. She didn’t have to worry really, the class wasn’t going to disturb her or
anything else. And she wasn’t going to disturb them. No distractions, just an
hour-long free period.

Midway through class, however, she heard a noise coming from one of the rows upfront. The noise got stronger and stronger, not an unpleasant sound but a gentle twinkling, like the chiming of bells. An odd ringtone for a teenager to have, but nonetheless it was definitely a phone. Miss F sighed and shook her head with a sly smile."

Then turns into this:

"The class fell into silence once again. Chatting, reading, studying. Miss
F sighed, strangely relieved, and turned her head to look out the window. The
twinkling of the bells irritated her a bit in the back of her mind; she’d never
heard any church bells that sounded like that. But that must have been what the
noise was. It wasn’t the school bell, and judging by the class reaction it
wasn’t a cell phone. It could have been something from another class, however;
there was a sub next door, maybe they were watching a movie. If that was the
case, she should go tell them to tune it down a bit…

A dull ringing erupted from the back of the class. The bells. First slowly, like a funeral knell creeping like a cold mist from the back of the class. Then the noise grew louder and louder, rising like a hellish symphony. The sound rattled the classroom, shook the floors and made the desks vibrate. Glass beakers fell from shelves and shattered and the students ducked and covered their ears against the deafening noise, but no amount of insulation could stop the sound from penetrating; the thunderous bells continued to jolt the room. Miss F was under her desk, purse over her ears, her eyes darting around in terror. She could barely see the class with her vision being shaken by the tolling bells. She cried out to them, praying they would be able to hear her."

And then I threw this in, just for the fuck of it:

"Suddenly, a girl in the back of the class began shrieking again. The very
noise offended everyone around her, still trying to get used to the quiet. Her
guttural screams continued as she rose to her knees, her once-blonde hair
rubicund with the blood pouring from her nose, ears, and eyes. She raised her
hands and plunged her forefinger and thumbs into her eyes as if to pinch them
out and the jelly-like substance ran down her face and mingled with the blood.
She did this several times before proceeding to strike her head upon the stained
tile surface of the floor, driving her fingers deeper into her sockets. Finally,
she rolled over onto her side and, with a final whimper, died. She was silent.
The class would have cheered if they’d only had the heart and the voice."

Poor girl. Ooh, how often do I get to use the word "rubicund"?

Bleh, I'm tired and my computer is either acting funny or I'm just on crack.

T. R. Xands?

Hi, good evening :D my name is Xands. Of course, like many residents of the internet I don't go by my real name, but a fake name. Xands is sort of my nome de plume or nome de tout really (I don't speak French :/).

So first, my name because I'm all egotistical and weird like that.

Anyway, T. R. Xands came about when I had a little Roman naming fit and gave myself a latin-ish title befiting a king :P literally, it's all noble and shit. The full thing is Titus Renatus Alexandros, and Alexandros is actually Greek anyway so yeah. Just...call me Xands. Or Lex, actually, if you want to :O Lex S is sort of an injoke and you missed it so hah.

So anyway, I'm a self-styled author, artist (I paint, sculpt, all that goodness), and I generally just like to gab and gab until my mouth falls off. I was political until I just gave up the ghost a few years ago. This isn't my big political statement but more of a place where I can do what I like (mostly) and just be in peace.

I'll be posting my writings here :/ I'm a weird author, I don't write in any particular genre and I often just do shit on a whim, which is a serious fatal flaw for me. I like internet memes too, for some reason, a lesser fatal flaw.

On that note, I'm a weird artist too...I guess what I do could be called abstract? I don't really like the term "abstract", it makes me think of a child throwing ketchup on a wall.

It's so weird when you've got so many influences to incorporate in work. I mean, I didn't even discover I had "artistic talent" (hoo boy) until 8th grade, and now that I look back on it, the things I've done since then are pretty fantastic. So I'm a novice, I've also done some badass shite.

I'm an avid reader as well btw, and an even more avid TV/movie watcher and music listener, and sometimes you'll see me do reviews :D I think I do pretty decent reviews, I try not to spoil and just assume you'll check out whatever I be reviewin'. I think reviews are best when you just give a simple opinion without trying to look all hip and snazzy with your stupid one-liners. Actually, I think Life itself is better that way.

So, about this blog, this is my "professional thing". I'm on Livejournal too (rizui.livejournal.com) but--wait, wait, come back! Let me explain.

I'm on LJ but I just want something a little more snazzy looking I guess. I mean, my layout over there is pretty pimp and all and I post like a monkey on speed, but I don't get a lot of feedback over there and frankly LJ's policies are starting to freak me out a bit (me, a P--ahhh internet police!). I just decided it was time I...better separated my angsty life from my less than angsty artistic pursuits yes yes?

Let's see...my green layout is meant to put you at ease, gentle reader :D if green is the color of mouring or war in your country, then I'm sorry.

Lastly, the...Control Voice plz to your right that you probably didn't even notice. That's just the opening narration to the show The Outer Limits and I just tweaked with it a bit. Can I get sued for that? Can I?

Okay, I think that's about it for this post. See? I can go on and on about nothing. NOTHING AT ALL. Put on your helmet because shit is gonna be falling around here (did I mention I curse a bit?) for a while, as I figure this thing out and make adjustments. Well get some real posts eventual.

Oh, you're wondering about my title. Well, you're here aren't you? ...Aren't you? Well here we are :/