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<font color=yourusername><b>yourusername</b></font> = anxietygrrl
I should have been in bed four hours ago. Instead I've been sitting here aimlessly websurfing, reading my flists, and playing the evil, evil Zuma.
I didn't watch TE tonight because I've made peace with the fact that I am unable to actually watch a show while I'm in the middle of a fic for it. Weird, huh? Unfortunately, said fic is going rapidly nowhere. It's not that I don't know how to get there. It's that I'm sitting in the driveway turning the key and the engine won't start.
Blargh. I've got notes upon notes, but the prose... she is not coming.
Anyway, if anyone's interested here's an itty bitty teaser for the next scene...
(part one here)
Six weeks ago
Of all the brain states he had experienced, he thought hypnopompic might just be his favorite. There was something comforting about that buoyant limbo between a dead sleep and full consciousness, before reality kicked him hard to the ground yet again.
Today, limbo was soft, and smelled faintly of rain.
He pressed his face into the pillow again and inhaled. Rain, and green apples. But only faintly. The mid-day light tried to force its way under his eyelids, but he resisted, choosing instead to malinger in the half-dreamed landscapes behind his eyes. Angles, arches, and curves; the slope of a shoulder blade, the turn of a neck, the rise of a breast. Something like an orchid in extreme close-up, something like a map cut up and pasted back together wrong. Georgia O'Keefe by way of Picasso, he mused groggily. And still, the faint smell of rain, which he knew when he finally woke up for good would become the far less pleasant odor of damp, green apples relegated to olfactory hallucination.
"Five more minutes," he mumbled, determined to hold on to that last image of feminine topography as it faded back into the negative space of his mind. Then he'd open his eyes and find himself looking at his own dingy walls and drab curtains, and the minor grief of that would make it almost sweeter, because he was screwed up that way.
"Do you want coffee?" she asked.
He came completely, abruptly awake, and remembered.
She lay on her side, facing away from him, the sheet draped over her legs, but no higher. That level of immodesty surprised him a little. It was not what he would have expected from her, even if he had ever sat down and decided to expect anything like this. But then, it wasn't the first time she'd surprised him. It was sort of a constant surprise that she was in his life at all.
"Sorry?" he offered, rubbing his eyes. He looked at that field of bare skin, and felt the memory of it under his hands. She was a horizon; he couldn't see past her.
I should have been in bed four hours ago. Instead I've been sitting here aimlessly websurfing, reading my flists, and playing the evil, evil Zuma.
I didn't watch TE tonight because I've made peace with the fact that I am unable to actually watch a show while I'm in the middle of a fic for it. Weird, huh? Unfortunately, said fic is going rapidly nowhere. It's not that I don't know how to get there. It's that I'm sitting in the driveway turning the key and the engine won't start.
Blargh. I've got notes upon notes, but the prose... she is not coming.
Anyway, if anyone's interested here's an itty bitty teaser for the next scene...
(part one here)
Six weeks ago
Of all the brain states he had experienced, he thought hypnopompic might just be his favorite. There was something comforting about that buoyant limbo between a dead sleep and full consciousness, before reality kicked him hard to the ground yet again.
Today, limbo was soft, and smelled faintly of rain.
He pressed his face into the pillow again and inhaled. Rain, and green apples. But only faintly. The mid-day light tried to force its way under his eyelids, but he resisted, choosing instead to malinger in the half-dreamed landscapes behind his eyes. Angles, arches, and curves; the slope of a shoulder blade, the turn of a neck, the rise of a breast. Something like an orchid in extreme close-up, something like a map cut up and pasted back together wrong. Georgia O'Keefe by way of Picasso, he mused groggily. And still, the faint smell of rain, which he knew when he finally woke up for good would become the far less pleasant odor of damp, green apples relegated to olfactory hallucination.
"Five more minutes," he mumbled, determined to hold on to that last image of feminine topography as it faded back into the negative space of his mind. Then he'd open his eyes and find himself looking at his own dingy walls and drab curtains, and the minor grief of that would make it almost sweeter, because he was screwed up that way.
"Do you want coffee?" she asked.
He came completely, abruptly awake, and remembered.
She lay on her side, facing away from him, the sheet draped over her legs, but no higher. That level of immodesty surprised him a little. It was not what he would have expected from her, even if he had ever sat down and decided to expect anything like this. But then, it wasn't the first time she'd surprised him. It was sort of a constant surprise that she was in his life at all.
"Sorry?" he offered, rubbing his eyes. He looked at that field of bare skin, and felt the memory of it under his hands. She was a horizon; he couldn't see past her.
