| Beyond the Moonlit Shadows |
[Jul. 10th, 2004|10:54 am] |
Prologue
Rated: NC-17 [Romance/AU]
Summary: A witch. A boy who believes in quests. Highwaymen. Horses. Linkin Park.
( Read More? ) |
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| Random LP snippet |
[Apr. 2nd, 2004|11:00 pm] |
'No! I don't have time for this.' Chester Bennington snapped as he dragged his reluctant children away from the sweets, which were tantalising positioned at just the right height to encourage small hands to grab and then plead.
Grimacing and cursing under his breath, Chester finally reached the relative sanctuary of the checkout with the shortest queue. Trapping his children between his legs and the checkout he began offloading the groceries onto the conveyer belt. Chester calculated the prices in his head as he placed the items. Money was short this month and he'd only just been able to scrape together enough cash for essentials of milk, bread, fruit and vegetables. He had enough money this time, but the kids would have to do without sweets for another month. They were beginning to understand that Daddy wasn't able to provide them with everything their friends had, but it still balked.
'Sir?' The voice was hesitant and concerned.
Chester looked up to realise that he's been day dreaming and his shopping had already gone through and was packed waiting to go.
'I'm sorry, I was … somewhere else.' Chester apologised automatically and reached for his wallet.
The young girl smiled at him, condescendingly. 'It's quite all right, sir. I can see that you have your hands full there.'
Chester glanced down at his children who were both smiling at him, angelically. This was a very bad sign. Deciding he didn't want to know what they had been doing to attract the attention of the shop girl Chester waited for his scant change, grabbed the shopping and headed towards home. Dutifully the children trailed behind him.
'Daddy?'
'Yes, Draven.' Chester glanced down at his son who was holding his sister's hand protectively.
'Are you in a good mood?' Draven asked slyly, widening his eyes slightly.
Chester frowned, stopped walking and gave the dark haired six-year old his full attention.
'I'm in a good mood, munchkin.' Chester grinned and waited for the inevitable tale of Draven sticking his tongue out at someone.
'Only…'
'Only Draven took some sweets!' Leila interrupted, in a sing-song voice. |
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| Wanted |
[Mar. 17th, 2004|12:47 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  chipper | ] |
Do you have an interest in helping other fanfiction writers? If you do then visit muse geek and see if there is an article you'd like to contribute. It's a writing resource for fanfiction writers. It's owned by me, but I've managed to persuade people to contribute. It's bloody hard getting it off the ground though.
Please take a look and tell me what you think. |
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| The Mirror |
[Sep. 28th, 2003|09:42 pm] |
The Mirror
Everywhere I look, I can sense the eyes watching me. My first thought on a morning is whether the thick damask curtains have inched open during the night, and the neighbours are pressed against the window, staring at me in my innocent sleep. After reassuring myself this is not the case I drag my nude body from the covers and stretch out my sleep weary limbs. The movements accentuate my slender frame, making my ribs become an architectural feature rather than a part of my very core.
I direct my gaze, myopically, towards the bedside cabinet where my glasses reside. Gingerly I reach for them and put them on. Instantly the world becomes a much kinder place. There is something about blurred half-light that has always unnerved me. I imagine the ghosts of my past creeping around the room, taunting me with their half-formed mouths until they grow bored of my daily routine and return to the ether. Surreptiously I glance around the room and see that there are no presences here to concern me. I drag on my clothes and cannot help but be concerned by the loose fit. My jeans hang indecently low on my stomach, even with my belt tightened fully.
Brad has gone. Was it yesterday? The day before? I cannot remember. It seems as though the hours have merged into one metaphysical chasm. He left without saying a word. Perhaps there was a message of sorts in his eyes, but I chose to ignore it. He was leaving me. There was nothing else I could focus on except my own self-pity. It was all I had left and as self-pity nurtures, it gives you something to feed upon. And I, once so proud, desperately need sustenance of some sort.
The mirror seems to beckon to me, and I am its unwitting slave. I drag the emaciated carcass that I call my body to the shimmering surface and observe myself. What do I see? I see badly dyed hair, a skeletal face and the wrinkles that only emerge after hard living. Where is the man of a year ago? The rock star?
He's gone because you're a fraud.
I jerk my head round as I hear the whispering voice in my head. The room is empty, as it always is, and I shake my head as though to cast off the lingering words.
You are worthless. The lowest of the low. What type of man cheats on his lover?
Instinctively I screw my eyes up tightly and cover my ears. But the mocking voice continues.
Was he worth it? You lost the only person you ever cared for, because you can control yourself. You are despicable.
No! I scream, finally finding my voice. This is not real; it's just my guilty conscience talking. My knees buckle and I fall onto the floor. Curling up I begin to rock myself gently. Side to side, arms tightening whilst the voice begins to fade. I breathe in through my nose and exhale slowly through my nose. The rising panic that accompanied my collapse has lessened. I listen to the blood thudding in my ears as my heart attempts to gain control. Exhausted I allow the weariness to creep upon me and I sleep.
Tap. Tap Tap. Tap Tap.
The persistent noise of someone tapping awakens me. For one instance I believe that it is Brad that has returned and I sit up. Only then do I realise that the noise is coming from within the room. My eyes focus on the bed, then the window and finally a small movement catches my eye. Inside the mirror I see myself. Except it's a monstrous version of myself. Transfixed, I stare at my own sentient reflection as it begins to write in blood on the glass.
.retsehC m'I .retsehC olleH
The words appear backwards to me, and it takes me a second to work out what has been written. As the words become clear I look up into my own malevolent face and scream.
The End |
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| The White Poppy [Published March 21st 2003] |
[Mar. 21st, 2003|04:50 pm] |
War is never an easy subject to comprehend let alone try to write a story from, but I wanted to explore the differing emotions evoked in people in times of conflict. Chester is the main character and the story concentrates on his thoughts.
Please do not read if the subject matter offends you in anyway. This short story contains images of violence and thus is rated NC-17.
( Click to Read ) |
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| Free Writing Exercise |
[Oct. 10th, 2002|08:02 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  grumpy | ] |
Boy in Grey Shirt
I wanted you because you were there. Blue eyes twinkling in the autumnal sun, hand nonchalantly wrapped around a half-smoked cigarette, as you flicked through the pages of the tabloid. I watched from way up high and read the words that you read; watching the muscles in your broad shoulders constricted and relaxed as you flexed your fingers. God, for a brief second I was consumed with the feelings that I only normally experience when I am in bed. To have been able to reach down and touch your body, make my digits ruffle your hair and softly place my lips on your neck. But I am constrained by social conventions, ones that forbid from running down the glass steps and outside into the courtyard. If I could I would push you backwards onto the harsh concrete and ravish your lips with mine, give you plenty of reasons to see the true me, not the one you perceive me to be. You are no beauty, but neither am I. Yet still I want you more than I want life itself. I do not lie and pretend that what I feel for you is anything other than lust. My hormones colliding somewhere deep in my veins until they send an impulse to my brain that tells me you are the man I want to feel inside me. Hear my silent plea of ‘Look at me’ and do not limit yourself to amiable greetings, as we pass in the kitchen. Be the forceful one so I can be reticent. Ask me about my day, my life, just ask me something. Throw me a titbit of hope from your table. My boy in the grey shirt. In my dreams. |
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| Mutely Howling [Poetry] [Complete] |
[Sep. 22nd, 2002|05:39 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | content | ] |
They say the first step is admitting that you have a problem
I have a problem
My problem is myself
I cannot summon the energy to do the simplest thing
Picking up the phone,
Making the call that will change my life
But I don't want to change, I want to be me
Not drugged and blank
Unfeeling and numb
The call is never made and I die a little more inside
Mutely howling
I'm always mutely howling. |
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