chicks, pants, showing it all, dancing

shadows_of


See the Shadows of Innocence and Sanity

a shadow of the day


SummerWrite 2008 Archive
chicks, pants, showing it all, dancing
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Archive
about me // what i’m listening to // Servant of Duty // Ret-Con




Project: Summerwrite. 150,000 words written between May and August of 2008.
(1) A Servant of Duty [Genre: Historical Romance, Regency]
(2) Ret-Con [Genre: Science Fiction/PWP]


cut here for spaceCollapse )

NaNoWriMo 2006 (The Round Table, prompt table)
narcissistic bastard, smarter than you, genius
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001.Beginnings. 002.Middles. 003.Ends. 004.Insides. 005.Outsides.
006.Hours. 007.Days. 008.Weeks. 009.Months. 010.Years.
011.Red. 012.Orange. 013.Yellow. 014.Green. 015.Blue.
016.Purple. 017.Brown. 018.Black. 019.White. 020.Colourless.
021.Friends. 022.Enemies. 023.Lovers. 024.Family. 025.Strangers.
026.Teammates. 027.Parents. 028.Children. 029.Birth. 030.Death.
031.Sunrise. 032.Sunset. 033.Too Much. 034.Not Enough. 035.Sixth Sense.
036.Smell. 037.Sound. 038.Touch. 039.Taste. 040.Sight.
041.Shapes. 042.Triangle. 043.Square. 044.Circle. 045.Moon.
046.Star. 047.Heart. 048.Diamond. 049.Club. 050.Spade.
051.Water. 052.Fire. 053.Earth. 054.Air. 055.Spirit.
056.Breakfast. 057.Lunch. 058.Dinner. 059.Food. 060.Drink.
061.Winter. 062.Spring. 063.Summer. 064.Fall. 065.Passing.
066.Rain. 067.Snow. 068.Lightening. 069.Thunder. 070.Storm.
071.Broken. 072.Fixed. 073.Light. 074.Dark. 075.Shade.
076.Who? 077.What? 078.Where? 079.When? 080.Why?
081.How? 082.If. 083.And. 084.He. 085.She.
086.Choices. 087.Life. 088.School. 089.Work. 090.Home.
091.Birthday. 092.Christmas. 093.Thanksgiving. 094.Independence. 095.New Year.
096.Writer‘s Choice--California. [nix] 097.Writer‘s Choice--Drowning. [sin] 098.Writer‘s Choice--Song. [alex] 099.Writer‘s Choice--Styrofoam. [nisha] 100.Writer‘s Choice--Flyer. [louise]

old stories: Death by Murder, My Dear Watson, 2013
geekery, writing, help
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Death by Murder, My Dear Watson
A Sherlock Mini-Bang fic on Tumblr. Co-authored by singthestars
Find it at AO3, here

Summary:
John, on the other hand, still tastes metal. When he sleeps, it is no longer the harsh grit of sand and rock that fills his mouth, no longer gunpowder and sun-cracked lips. Instead, he tastes blood.
Notes:
Special thanks to johnwatsonsass and the-sass-of-the-ass for getting excited about this story and for the 2 cow.
Very very dark. Gory. Seriously, incredibly dark. Death and gore and violence and m/m sex.

Chapter 2: Howlin' For You
Read more...Collapse )

old stories: Death by Murder, My Dear Watson, 2013
chicks, pants, showing it all, dancing
shadows_of
Death by Murder, My Dear Watson
A Sherlock Mini-Bang fic on Tumblr. Co-authored by singthestars
Find it at AO3, here

Summary:
John, on the other hand, still tastes metal. When he sleeps, it is no longer the harsh grit of sand and rock that fills his mouth, no longer gunpowder and sun-cracked lips. Instead, he tastes blood.
Notes:
Special thanks to johnwatsonsass and the-sass-of-the-ass for getting excited about this story and for the 2 cow.
Very very dark. Gory. Seriously, incredibly dark. Death and gore and violence and m/m sex.

Chapter 1: Baby Did A Bad Bad Thing
Read more...Collapse )

tin men
sounding smarter than i am, so full of shit, verbal diarrhea, textual proctology
shadows_of
tin men

We are not to be held at fault or our birth
Circumstance's victims inheriting ruins
As the world crumbles beneath our newborn feet
Never let it be said we were unaware

Time turns and grows wickeder apace
A coin toss between morality and sin
And watching best efforts to secure a future
Slipping like sands through grasping fingers

Whoever asked to be brought into this world
Dying, failing long before we began
At war with itself, and we, reluctant soldiers
Outdated maps clutched against clear and present danger

It's no wonder we're afraid to grow to a full adult
Responsibility latched on since we were young
But how can we all be held to blame
When facing dragons with no sword, no armor?



written on a windowsill in my bedroom, march 8 2014
Tags:

something i couldn't write
chicks, pants, showing it all, dancing
shadows_of
hell has made its home in my belly
and i don't know how to finish this sentence without
the silent screaming, the muffled shout
this fire raging inside while i wait for something to happen

hell curls hot and sickly in my belly
with nighttime fires that consume and leave me
awake and empty shell of bitter meant-to-be
the taste of copper in my bitten shut mouth

hell burns home fires in my belly
slack-jawed yelling for a lack of things to say
so lonely that i push any other people away
for the fire that burns on inside without warmth.

8/5/2012
Tags:

[poetry] Fall
chicks, pants, showing it all, dancing
shadows_of
Fall

predictable,
the haze of heat and dust after summer break in classrooms too long in disuse
the state fair outside: raucous and disappointing
smell of animals in their stalls and lowing as the city gives way to country.
long days of sitting and staring at whiteboards while the world still bakes...
you come, predictable, a half forgotten memory
kisses under flickering streetlights that meant nothing at all
and your promises that fell apart like we'd fallen in love
another day staring out windows
dismal fluorescents buzzing like a sickly bee
full circle to where we began.
Tags:

[100 days] day 2: 315, the end
sounding smarter than i am, so full of shit, verbal diarrhea, textual proctology
shadows_of
A quiet suburban cul-de-sac. A child's bicycle lies on its side, one wheel slowly turning.Collapse )

[100 days] day 1: 372. at the gallery
chicks, pants, showing it all, dancing
shadows_of
An art opening at a lavish downtown gallery. A car crashes through the plate glass window. The driver's door opens, and an eight-year-old girl steps out.Collapse )

[drowning!O] lines of poetry
sounding smarter than i am, so full of shit, verbal diarrhea, textual proctology
shadows_of
i remember them in lines of poetry. strange, isn't it? that they should fit so neatly into journal entries or memoirs as lines of poetry.

he was "when reading between your unlined/a4 pages".

he was "where i can't whisper...//"sweet dreams, trezo"/into digital ears".

he was "the darkness that curls on pillows left empty by lovers".

he is "we no longer love, but stare out windows/to old skeletons, the bones we expose".


i would try to explain it more, understand it more, but all i can see is loss and anger. is struggling to see something in them that i cannot see in me. unwanted and wanting. loved and unloving. desperate for something more than real.

?

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