phinnia: hands typing; typewriter on grass (muse/typewriter)
A lovely, productive month. i approve of it.

fanfic:

new jersey heat a cop AU which i came up with in the spur of the moment and it kind of ran away with me. may well do more with it should the muse decide.

one most immutable more monks!

kanyu amber/kutner fic on the afterlife bus.

body double house/13 porny oneshot. mmm.

eh, maybe dialogue only fic in which wilson is manipulated (or is he? stay tuned for a part two.)

exothermic major character deathfic. but other than that it's pretty good, i have to admit. (hard to talk more about it without giving it away.)




non-fanfic: (new policy: these stay unlocked for one week after this post and get flocked again. they may not be as popular as my fanfic but they are definitely more saleable and i'm trying to work towards that these days.)

and after short fiction in one hundred words.

fifty words of smut f/f smut in fifty words, duh.

lost in translation m/m smut, original characters.




poems: (same policy as original works above: these stay unlocked for one week after this post and get flocked again. same reasons.)

farewell, cassandra written for the 'nine things about oracles' project.

graphology about letters and metals and inks and words.
phinnia: (starlights)
showgirl from the riverboat casinos, all turquoise tap pants, sugar and flounce; long legs and red seats, sweating cheap vinyl. knees creaked on the tile floor: she let me taste her, snowed sequins as she shivered against my lips and fingers and her cry was that of a bright-throated bird.
phinnia: nude touching lip with fingers (soft touch hand to lip)
light scattershot through the blinds; shining prison-bar tattooed across lean muscles. the day continues blissfully unaware as she sleeps deeply enough for both of us.

i trace the long lines of her - the blossoming curve of hips waist shoulders, the soft cup of a breast. she turns and the darkened nipple is revealed. i dare to kiss it, my tongue flickering out.

"What time is it?" Her voice is thickened by sleep and a hand with bitten nails tangles its way through her hair. "Time to go?"

The lie falls easily from my mouth. "Not yet, love. Not yet."
phinnia: sky and moon, with 'is it safe?' as the caption (is it safe?)
The path dissolves.

Within is silence, sharp and beautiful.

The air is cold and still; it snaps like a breaking bone, a falling icicle, skin between two fingers. Everything is shades painted on shadows; dark jagged curves of stone, palest rings as a water-strider defines surface tension.

Voices cast their own ripples through the air.

--You have to do it ---

I can't ... what if

She knows about the -- she'll --

-- need the money, right?

Right. Right..

The fog parts, allows them entry.

Three weeks later:

Bones, picked clean, scoured white: the only markers on a disappearing path.
phinnia: sky and moon, with 'is it safe?' as the caption (is it safe?)
At night she sleeps, dreaming nothing. Chest rising and falling, a soft rhythm.

She doesn't know about his boning knife, how its cool caress traces paths along her veins, veers sharp to count her tendons;

Doesn't know about his hands, how his hands twitch and shudder and clench the wooden handle with those cool knots of brass holding it together.

Every night he pulls it away.

Every night.

Every-
phinnia: sky and moon, with 'is it safe?' as the caption (is it safe?)
At the bottom of the closet Janice found a library book, one with a cracked spine and a coating of dust.

"The Brave Little Duckling." was the title.

The librarians sweated ice and mothballs and scowled at her from behind their ancient date-due stamp.

"You'll have to pay the fine." they said, and their voices creaked and echoed as if through a long tunnel of water.

A dull, thudding echo - card catalogue drawers - a scream - and the slow spatter of dripping blood.

Janice learned to live without a left hand. And after that, her books were always on time.
phinnia: sky and moon, with 'is it safe?' as the caption (is it safe?)
Radius, ulna. Left. Graceful arches, curving silverplate-etched grey reflections.

Perfect specimen.

Film tucked away, he turns to work.

Her skin is waxen; hair spills on the concrete slab, glowing amber cold under wire-wrapped fluorescents.

Scalpel point traces pronator teres, palmaris longus; strips them away from imperfect brachialis.

The perfect arm is at home waiting for this treasure.

Someday soon, an ideal woman will rise from frozen shreds and patches.
phinnia: smiling dolphin face (feathers/wings)
Bird geekery continues. Short even for this 'verse, but I'll take anything at this point in the block.

Late that afternoon, when the sunbeams were lazy and long and the ravens had come down from the trees and were trying to rouse their boy from his pensive funk by presenting him with shiny objects, the door to the little house opened again.

Corbin looked up and tried to swallow the surge of hope that rose in his throat at the sound of squeakng hinges.

It was not Columba: Columba walked with grace and precision, her doves perched on her shoulders like quiet guardians. Whoever this was was loud and exuberant, chattery. Wild, noisy blurs of blue feathers trailed in her wake.

"Hi." she said cheerfully, sticking out a hand. "I'm Jaye, Col's sister. You need anything?"

"You're not going to tell me to quit?"

"Eh, you'll do what you want." One of her flock - a Steller juvenile with its blue adult feathers just growing in - landed on her shoulder and chattered something in her ear. She tipped her head and grinned at it, scratching the top of its head with a blue-tipped fingernail. "We're Corvidae, both of us - nobody tells us what to do, am I right?"

Corwin smiled a little. "Yeah, you are."

"Anyway, I'll try and haul Col's tail out here soon. She's just skittish - doves." Jaye rolled her eyes. "Any chance you can get that hawk-boy to come back sometime? He was pretty dreamy."

"Sure thing. I - I really do just want to talk to her, you know." He held out a shiny pebble, something one of the ravens had brought. "Thanks, Jaye."

"Yeah, I know. Anything for a fellow Corvidae." Jaye winked: the pebble disappeared in her palm, and she turned back toward the house in a flourish of layered skirts and feathered pigtails.
phinnia: smiling dolphin face (paper stars)
for [livejournal.com profile] newtypeshadow, who requested a ficlet using the prompt 'a feeling of accomplishment'.

Guess what!

Yesterday I made mercury outta toothpaste. Pretty awesome, huh? Even Grandma says it was pretty damn good for my first transmutation - I know that's a swear but I'm just telling, that's what Grandma said - and Grandma doesn't approve of nobody. Least that's what Moms says. Moms says Grandma's a bitter old harridan that doesn't know enough to give up and die already. 'Course she doesn't say that in front of Dad no more ever since Dad said Moms only thought Grandma was a bitter old harridan 'cause Moms is a stone cold bitch with the world's longest running case of PMS in the world, and then they fought. I kinda hate it when they fight. Annie wants 'em to get back married again - Annie's my little sister - but I say no 'cause they don't fight as much now as they did afore the dewash. (That's what Dad calls it that he an' Moms aren't married no more.)

Is 'bitch' a swear? Dad says no 'cause girl dogs are bitches but Moms says yes. What do you think?

Do you know what PMS is? I don't. I don't know what a harridan is either. I guess maybe it's somethin' that happens to you after your husband dies maybe? Grandpa died when I was a baby - he was tryin' to make breathable water, Dad says, an' he made chlorine gas instead an' died right skippy an' his lab had to be fumigated. It was sad. Well, I guess it was sad. I was just a baby.

But yeah, moms is mad 'cause th' mercury is all over her bathroom an' she doesn't got toothpaste no more an' there's mercury all over the bathroom now an' it's in tiny little metal balls all over th' floor an' we gotta declare it a hazmat site. Cool, huh?

I gotta go - Moms said I gotta clean it up my bathroom good before dinner or I don't get no dessert. 'Bye!
phinnia: smiling dolphin face (feathers/wings)
For [livejournal.com profile] maladaptive, who wanted 'random things falling out of my head' and is a fan of my weird little bird-place, so. Continuation of this.

It was barely dawn, still more dark than light; the dew on the grass was heavy and thick. The ravens had gone to the trees for the night and Corbin was alone on the grass.

There was the sound of peeping and tiny nails scratching his face, snarling in his hair; he reached out to bat them away, certain they were figments of a dream.

His fingers encountered soft down and tiny, squirming bodies.

A small voice broke into his awareness. "Hi."

Corbin yawned, cracked an eye open and was confronted with grass-stained toes, tanned bare feet, and the lacy hem of a white nightgown. A chick tripped across his nose.

He rubbed the sleep away from his face and sat up, carefully so as to not accidentally injure any of the tiny yellow birds that were flocking around him. "Um, hi."

"I'm Henny." She flopped down in the grass and sat cross-legged, mouse-brown curls falling over her face. "Why are you here?"

"Because I want Columba to talk to me."

"It's not gonna work." Henny picked idly at the wet grass, picked up one of the chicks and plopped it in the cloth-covered triangle of her lap. "One time I wanted her to get me ice cream and she said no, not 'til I ate all my peas; an' I tried to hold my breath an' I did for almost a whole minute an' she still wouldn't do it even after my face got all red an' stuff."

"It's not really the same." Corbin replied, hugging his knees closer in an attempt to warm himself.

"Yes it is." Henny got to her feet and started toward the house again. "'Bye. Nice talkin' to you."
phinnia: smiling dolphin face (kaylee/willothewisp)
For [livejournal.com profile] starsong, who gave me the prompt 'scarab beetle'.

My girlfriend woke up yesterday convinced that she was the reincarnation of Cleopatra. She went out and got a scarab beetle tattooed just above the crack of her ass, bought a cat, and started playing the Bangles on repeat over and over again.

(I'm trying to tell her that mid-eighties girl bands don't have a damn thing to do with Ancient Egypt, but she's not listening.)

She keeps sorting through all of her stuff, tyring to figure out what to put in her tomb.

(I'm trying to tell her she's only twenty-seven and isn't likely to die yet, but she's not listening.)

So I just sit here and roll my eyes and try to be noncommittal whenever she asks me some crazy-ass question about whether or not she'll need this or that pair of earrings in the afterlife, or whether or not Coach bags will still be in fashion. How the hell should I know? The things are ass-ugly anyway, I want to say, but I don't.

The cat's shredding up my leg with its tiny claws. I pick it up by the scruff of the neck to give it a good scolding and get bitched out: cats are gods, she said. You can't be mean to them.

I don't care, I reply. The little brat was letting blood, for fuck's sake. I put the cat aside and it goes to attack one of my sneakers.

She starts looking online for a place to order a sarcophagus, and I sigh.

It'll pass. It was better than last week where she thought she was Eva Braun. Those human-skin lampshades and the white power music were just creepy.
phinnia: smiling dolphin face (feathers/wings)
(continuation of this.)

"Hsst."

He heard the whisper, but probably only because he was meant to hear it. "Hawke?"

"Who else? Cor, you've been here for three days, she's not coming out." Hawke swooped down and perched on the ground amid the sea of crows. His own red-tailed predators were circling above, a few landing in the tallest branches of trees. One landed on his leather-clad shoulder and started to preen.

"I'll wait."

"She's not coming out, man."

"She will." Corbin's dark eyes settled on the upstairs window. It was open a crack: he could hear laughter and the flutter of wings and girls' voices. Shadows danced on the lace curtain, thrown tall by washed-ivory lamplight. "She will."

"She's a girl!"

"Not just any girl."

"She does doves, man. Doves. Why don't you -"

"Doves are very territorial birds." Corbin didn't look away from the window. "Very loyal to their mates, too. I can wait."

"Could be waitin' a while."

"I can wait."
phinnia: (herself the elf)
I have absolutely no idea where this came from, seriously.

"News!" Jaye threw open the door without knocking like she always did. "Col - "

Columba pulled herself from sleep with a groan. Outside, she could hear the papery rattle and flutter of hundreds of wings. "Oh God, not again."

There were footsteps on the stairs, and the sound of peeping; her little sister tripped into the doorway and stopped short with her thumb in her mouth, like she'd just remembered she wasn't allowed to rush inside. "Col-lee, the black ones are back."

"I know, Henny, I know." She wrapped a silver-cream throw around her shoulders and staggered to the window, feet heavy with sleep; one of her doves landed on her shoulder and buried its head into the thick nest of her braids. She opened the curtains and leaned out.

The lawn was a sea of black-violet ravens. Light rippled across their feathers and was caught there. A leather-jacketed young man sat with his arms around his knees in the center of the group - unkindness of ravens, a pedantic little part of her mind corrected - and looked up at her with his dark, brilliant eyes.

She sighed. "Corbin, it's not going to work. It was just a one night stand! I just - we're not compatible."

"You don't know that." he replied with a slight smile.

"I'm just another shiny toy to you!"

"You don't know that."

The dove cooed, fluttering its wings next to her ear.

"You have to admit he is dreamy." Jaye murmured from her spot on Col's bed.

Columba rolled her eyes at her sister. "Look - I - I need to think about this, at least."

"I'll wait."

She closed the window again and sighed: outside, a thousand ravens and their boy settled in for the long haul.
phinnia: a woman with a butterfly and kanji characters over her face (butterflyface)
There's still time to send [livejournal.com profile] clawfoot some postcard fiction by email! You should send some. <3 It's addictive.

Aftermath
Fire purified, burned her down to the bones; cinders fell away, manifest excesses. She walked away with the clothes on her back and the echoes of another life clawing at her ears.




Peaks and Valleys
Life, like origami, features inward and outward folds. The baby turned me into myself, as babies often do, and I fight against the tensile strength of creased paper, hoping to turn back again as he ages.
Some never try.
Some try but never make it, crumpling into a ruined ball.
There are many late-blooming lotus, faded but beautiful.
I want to turn while the blossom is still pure.




Alone
The air is fresh, moist with worms and the exhalation of rain. Dying flowers stand forgotten in the bushes, thrust awkwardly there, an attempt at landscaping.
I wait.
phinnia: smiling dolphin face (feathers/wings)
They said it couldn't be done.

Obviously "they" underestimated the resources of a clinically insane organic chemist.

One of the benefits of being clinically insane, he thought, was that you tended to ignore limits that other people set on you.

All it really took was a tub full of tree sap, a lot of dry ice, and a thimbleful of anesthetic in a delicate blue vein.

Through the window he watches her face - yellowed by her embalming, but still calm, peaceful, beautiful.

Eternal.

The television behind him squawks terror about a missing girl. He turns it off and watches his experiment - his greatest triumph, he thinks - evolve into a marvelous trinket ensconced in amber glass.
phinnia: smiling dolphin face (gaiman/fictions)
Another one of those fiction pieces I promised for write-o-rama sponsorship. [livejournal.com profile] seattlejo told me I didn't need to write her one, but I habitually don't listen to her on this kind of thing. That's my perogative, of course. <3 Love you, sweetest.

And I did say 'anything that falls out of my head' if people didn't request something. This is the kind of thing that falls out of my head. Sometimes I wonder about me.


I saw a red slipper in the parking lot one morning: a single red ballet flat bold against the concrete and rain. An invitation, sitting there like that.

I'm never one to turn down an invitation, especially if it makes a good story, so I looked at it a little more closely. Seemed pretty ordinary - if it were in a more conventional place, like a store or a closet, I probably wouldn't give it a second thought, especially if it was half of a pair. But a single shoe holds all kinds of mysteries; the first of which being 'where's its mate?' and in this case the second being 'why is it here anyway?'

The shoe gave up no secrets, so I wedged it onto my foot. It was a little tight, but nothing I couldn't handle. I tried to take a step - and was overtaken by the sound of enthusiastic horns.

Strange. I shook my foot experimentally.

There it was again. It was like a mariachi band living in my shoe, or caused by my shoe, or something.

Weird. But kinda cool.

I felt guilty leaving the shoe there - no point in littering for one thing, and it just seemed wrong to leave a random magical artifact just ... out where anyone could grab it? I dunno - so I went up to my apartment and tried to figure out what to do next.

The mariachi band scared the living daylights out of the cats, seriously. One of them still won't have anything to do with me.

I paced around the living room, accompanied by marvelous trumpets and the sound of hissing cats. Thought about calling the police, but I wasn't quite sure how to explain the problem. "Yes, hello, 911 Emergency? Yeah, I've got a Mexican band in my shoe. Yeah, this shoe I found - there's a Mexican band in it. Hello?" They'd think I was a looney. I was starting to think I was a looney, to tell you the truth.

In the end I put it in my closet. It's still there, actually. I take it out every now and then when I've had one too many margaritas, dance around, scare the cats again, you know, then put it back, but it seems a bit of a waste.

There's salsa dancing Wednesday nights at the Y. I'm thinking of going.

Magic's no good if you keep it inside, I think.
phinnia: smiling dolphin face (eat the peach)
I promised people who sponsored me for Write-O-Rama that they'd get their very own piece of fiction that fell out of my brain. This fell out of my brain, and [livejournal.com profile] the_new_perfect probably knows why, and why you shouldn't mess with the banana. Love you, chica! Hope you like.

There was an old Woody Allen movie I remember seeing once upon a time, where the main character (played by Woody Allen, of course, and basically him - a neurotic Jewish New Yorker, like all of his characters) wakes up in the future and encounters giant food - the solution to world hunger. Towering carrots, enormous tomatoes: giant heads of lettuce, their leaves fresh green tarpaulins that hold off the rain.

I remember at the time I thought it was funny.

If I knew then what I do now I would have started digging my shelter that afternoon.

*

Like the lead scandals of the late 'oughts, it came from China. Maybe they'd seen the same movie, I don't know: I can't really imagine a group of impassive government officials taking inspiration from a skinny, balding nerd with enough neuroses to float a battleship, but stranger things had happened. All I know was they'd started irradiating the fruit, pumping it full of hormones and god knows what else. And the experiment was a success. It grew.

And grew.

The new, improved food was self-seeding: parent and child in one. It split off buds, threw sticky spores in clouds through the skies. The white masks, first seen during the SARS and bird flu epidemics, made a reappearance - not because of illness, this time, but because no one wanted to breathe in fruit spores. But other than that, things were good. China was self-sustaining. They were even exporting food. There was talk of repealing the one-child law. Things were good.

*

I don't know when things turned ugly. Maybe the fruit, unused to the long voyage by container ship, used its time wisely. Maybe it was inevitable no matter what, a case of science gone horribly wrong. All I know was that when the first shipments of the giant fruit reached US shores, fifteen hundred longshoremen ended up dead in the largest massacre this decade. The seaports couldn't cope. The skies were red with blood; the ground was slick with wet pulp.

But they had been engineered to replicate easily. The dying fruits only provided quick fertilizer for their meat-hungry children.

Humanity never had a chance.

*

It's different now. Radio silence has been declared. Every man for himself is the defacto rule of law. There are rumors of settlements in the inlands that take advantage of the natural borders created by the Rockies, but I don't think that's safe enough. I'm trying to get to Alaska. It's cold enough up there that the fruit will hopefully freeze. At least the temperature drop will make them sluggish.

I spend my days in hiding, armed with the biggest knife I can find and my brother's pellet gun. It probably won't do much, in the end, but the weight feels good in my hands. I travel slowly, deliberately, staying away from settlements and from large open spaces. My internal compass always points north. It's the only safe way to go now.

When I sleep (which is as little as possible) I dream of the blind, white safety of snow.
phinnia: prayerflags, spread out (prayerflags)
Dunno where this one came from. Also, OMG terrible title.

Saw an angel on the subway last night.

A for-real angel, with white robe and feathered wings. Well.

His robe wasn't really white all the way: the hem was dirty and I think he mighta had gum on his shoe.

An' his wings were kinda messed up, like the pigeons in the park after a rainstorm; all puffy and ragged every which way. Mighta been missing some feathers. Still, an angel on the subway. Ain't never seen that before.

Polite as all get-out though, I'll say that for 'im. Stood up t' give some pregnant lady a seat, hung from a strap alla way through downtown, smilin' nice as you please. Some punk tried t' jack his halo, but he just smiled an' waved his hand an' the thing popped right on back like a boomerang.

Me, I'dve smacked the little bastard upside th' head. I ain't no angel though, God knows.

Guess he does for real, huh?
phinnia: smiling dolphin face (explodingfish)
Assignment: write a short parody of a journal. Two in one day. For those of you who don't care about fiction, rest assured this is probably abnormal (I'm trying to finish up my writing class stuff and I liked this one.) For those of you who like this kind of thing, enjoy.

No actual cartons of moo goo gai pan were harmed in the writing of this piece.


3 April, 2:06 A.M. I pen my missive here, on the side of this vegetable crisper, so that future generations may continue my quest, should I be tragically stricken down before my plot comes to fruition - before I achieve total world domination!

Note to self: must find a way out of this box.

Time to evolve legs! If such an inferior being as the fish can do it, I don't see why I can't improve on evolution.

4 April, 12:35 PM. Evolution is bunk. If Darwin's theories held any water whatsoever, I would at least hold a Senate seat by now. Time for plan B.

Note to self: create plan B.

5 April, 4:30 P.M. Attempting to open negotiations with the celery. I have been inspired by those anime reruns the humans are so mesmerized by on that glowing box. I need a mechanical exoskeleton.

5 April, 10:02 P.M. Damned vegetables. All they ever do is lie there. But rest assured, I will not rest until I achieve total world domina- what's this? I have been spotted by one of the humans! The human is picking me up - I just need to overtake hi--

6 April, 10:25 P.M. They think they're so clever, trying to smother me in a plastic bag! But I'll show them! I shall rise again! I've already made contacts with some mercenary coffee grounds - will ....

so ... hot ...
tired ...

changeling

Aug. 6th, 2005 02:52 pm
phinnia: smiling dolphin face (clouds)
"Oh, isn't she cute! And what's her name? How old is she?"

"Fay. She's six months old."

Tess looked at the disapproving expression on the old woman's face and sighed, steeling herself for the inevitable lecture. She knew there was a reason she never took the baby to the park ... but it was so nice out this afternoon, with the sun and wind gently tickling the the trees, that she just couldn't stand being inside for one more minute.

"Are you sure she's eating enough? She seems awfully ..." The right word was searched for and discarded in favour of something more polite. "Small for her age."

"She's perfectly healthy." A teething toy flew out of the carriage, and Tess patiently retrieved it, setting it in Fay's lap. Two tiny hands curved around the chubby ring, chomping firmly on one of the rubber nubbles. "My husband and I are ... small-boned."

"I see." The woman peered more closely at Fay, kneeling down to level with the baby in her nest of recieving blankets. Fay looked up from the teething ring for a moment to stare at the big person with sober blue eyes and then began to cry.

"She's probably hungry. There, there, honey, that's all right." Tess grabbed the handle of the carriage and set down the weaving concrete path at a half-run, letting out an enormous sigh.

"Good thing she didn't ask to hold you, huh?" she murmured. "I don't know how I would've explained the wings."
phinnia: smiling dolphin face (sword)
With apologies to Tori Amos. At least I think it was Tori Amos. My Tori Amos-fu is weak.

He stood in front of her with hands on his hips, perfect curls falling over his shoulders, and glared. "Girls can't be paladins."

"Why not?" Tania continued lacing the plates of her armor together, humming softly to herself.

"Because ... they just can't."

"Why not?"

"You can't slay a dragon if you're a girl."

"Why not? I did better than you did on the practice dragons."

"You can't fight monsters."

"Can't I?"

"You can't rescue princesses." His irritated sulk turned into a victorious smirk. "Paladins have to rescue princesses. What are you gonna do, rescue princes and ride away and marry them? What kind of stupid thing is that?"

She did not reply, instead slinging the red-lined cape over her shoulders to keep it out of the way while she finished cleaning the chest plate. The boy sniffed and walked away across the training ground.

"Actually, I thought I'd marry the princesses instead." she murmured with a slight smile.
phinnia: smiling dolphin face (inspiration at last)
Another [livejournal.com profile] anthropomor_fic. These strike me at the oddest times.

They had been at this for miles now - certainly since she’d turned off the freeway. Mother Goddess clenched her teeth and counted backwards from ten.

“Stop it!”

“Stop it!”

“Mom, he’s-”

“Mom, he’s-”

“Make him stooooooooooop.”

“Make him stooooooooooop.”

She turned around and glared her twin sons into silent submission.

“If I have to stop this car,” said the Mother Goddess, very, very quietly, “you are both going to be very, very sorry.”

“He started it!”

“No, he started it!”

She was starting to lose her patience. “I don’t care who you think started it, you’re both going to stop it this instant if you know what’s good for you!

Silence fell over the small car.

Life reached cautiously across the back seat and poked his brother in the arm.

“Stop touching me.” Art hissed.
phinnia: smiling dolphin face (Default)
The son of God, in his present incarnation, runs a coffee cart in Southeast Portland just off the Hawthorne Bridge.

I see him every morning - birkenstocks and tie-dyed shirt, half a set of iPod headphones tangled in his beard as he grooves along to classic rock. Sometimes as he makes my morning chai he's singing along - hello, I love you won't you tell me your name - drumming along with John Densmore's beats on the tiny counter. Jesus has an incredible sense of rhythm. Naturally.

The milk frother shuts off and he turns on one heel and presents me with a perfect cup and the same smile he must have given Mary Magdalene all those years ago. "See you tomorrow?"

"Sure." I say. "Have a good day."

"Thanks. I will." He turns to his next customer, the pudgy Chinese guy in the saffron robes. "Dude! Long time no see."

Author's note: the neocons will now proceed to eat me. Ah well.
phinnia: smiling dolphin face (editing)
Yes, this is anthropomorphized linguistic vague-erotica-ish. It came to me in a dream. My dreams aren't like normal peoples'. Yes, I know, I should be working on something else. Isn't it always the way?

They were the unpairables; relegated to trivia competitions and free verse, occasionally passed off on half-hearted slant-rhymes that had given up trying. Doomed by accidental arrangement of syllables and phomes to be picked last on the playground of poetry, they naturally fell together for solace - everyone said misery loves company, but the cold fact of the matter was even misery didn't want anything to do with them.

One of them - maybe it was orange, it scarcely mattered in the end, but orange was usually responsible for the bright ideas - decided that perhaps a little wordplay was the ticket - seeking out lonely confused 'y's at Alphabet Soup, that new bar across town. Rumor was that they'd apparently join with anyone - consonant or vowel. But it was awkward, forced - at least for purple and orange. Silver seemed to enjoy his new status as an adverb, but tagged along with his friends after he realized that the same words that danced beside him in sentences were not so very long ago mocking his unattatched status. But the teasing allure of the club, the memory of being sandwiched deep inside a dependent clause; he couldn't give that up for long.

Purple's solution was absurdly simple, in the end. He found it in the newspaper.

Love, companionship, sex, adoration, devotion, marriage - there they were, all in the crossword puzzle, ready and waiting for new words to tag on and criss-cross in its orderly pattern of black and white squares.
phinnia: smiling dolphin face (snowdrop)
The name of the game is anthropomorphized pairings. Hence - good and evil. Try it sometime, it's like crack if you can get it to go right. :-D Follows this post of Saturday night, if you missed it, since a lot of people miss reading LJ on the weekend.

She was occasionally stricken with a crisis of the faith. )

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phinnia: smiling dolphin face (Default)
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