.
LOL.

I just downloaded an episode of the new season of Hawaii Five-O, just to see how it holds up now. HA. Amazing how much interest I did not have in it. Seriously, it took me maybe six minutes to decide, "Nope. Bored. Good-bye."

Wow, I don't think my fandom interest has ever plummeted that violently. That whole ridiculous kerfuffle just flat out BURNED that guy out of my brain. Pity. He did have his moments. Maybe I'll be able to watch Moonlight again if I give it a couple of years. Long enough to wash the taste of that fish-flavored coffee out of my mouth, at any rate. ;)



Still glad I wrote those ficlets, though. It's too bad I never got to the third in the trilogy, Leechman. It was going to be about a heart surgeon. Oh well, perhaps it'll come through someday

.

.

Cutpurse


His mother had shielded him for as long as she could, until the blows began to rain on her back and she let go, crying for him to run, to get help. Marcus dashed as fast as his legs could take him, but still they'd come too late. He'd sat frozen on the stairs as the gurney passed by, and cried so hard his throat had locked up, leaving him curled around a pain that turned him to stone. And he'd watched as they took the bastard away, because suddenly that’s what he was, The Bastard, and that’s what he remained, forever and ever. Anger reared up cold and dark and his last few tears fled before it.

A week later he got the first tattoo. That pain felt good, it dripped in thick runnels like honey, and he stored it up, gritting his teeth and staring into the floor, seeing her arm thrown up to ward off death. For a long time, he kept the little drawing covered, and no one else knew it was there. His secret sacrifice. Except her, of course - she knew it was there. One day he would pour the honey out before her grave, so that she could be free.

But for now, he kept going back for more. Marcus grew strong and quick, with eyes that saw easily and didn’t care, living by his wits and his knowledge of the shadows, and he sacrificed over and over. His biceps grew armored with sigils, his forearms wreathed in knife-edged flowers, his back a map of promises, each long sweating moment another drop to feed the rage that lived deep in him like a beast in a cave in the earth.

But his dreams late at night were of sunlight and white cloth and tree branches, so now on the spot where once she'd kissed him goodnight curled a bird, blue and white, a detail from the cover of one of those scratchy old records she used to play. There was a lot of blood, his skin being delicate there, but the pain so close to his ear became the swallow’s whistling tune, became the sound of the lullaby she’d sung when he was sad. Became the voice that would keep him steady, the voice that would keep him sane.

.
My Muse is a duplicitous little shit, I swear. First he tells me he's not interested in getting me writing, and then he does this.

---

Vato


I look up to see a man kneeling right next to me. He’s staring fixedly at me, either puzzled or threatening.

( 'You alright?' he asks )

---

I'm confused. *pout*

.

There’s a dark crimson stain on my fingers
And a taste copper-clean on my tongue
It glitters like ruby-red beads on my nails
And I stare, wondering where it came from

And I don’t really want to look at you
At your throat where my kiss left its sting
No, I don’t want to know of the change in you now
And how pale my love made your skin

The breeze flows like wine through the window
Naked I rise from the bed
To gaze out as I drink from the river of scent
That caresses me, calling my name

It is rich with a thick crowd of odors
Joy and hunger, sweet pain and despair
I slide into my clothes as my heart starts to race
Nostrils flared as I step towards the door

And I don’t really want to look at you
At the sheets where your life has soaked in
How they’ve tangled like ropes at the curve of your waist
And how pale my love made your skin

Now my boot heels devour the pavement
I stride slow, for the night is still young
In and out of the shadows, with a smile at the thought
Of how small and remote is the dawn

The wind whispers to me of a woman
Breathing soft as she sleeps somewhere near
Oh, I burn at the scent of her innocent flesh
Hidden by the dark waves of her hair

And I don’t really want to remember
This one moment is all I live in
I’d prefer to forget the dead tears in your eyes
And how pale my love made your skin



for jim, and then for alex.


Lyrics © 1991