But words are things

Wasting words on lowercases and capitals...

Sat, 10 Dec 2005 23:30:17 GMT

Okay. Time for Jess to post her first little piece. I wrote this one on November 1st of this year. I don't know where the idea came from, or why, but I woke up in the middle of the night and it all just spilled out onto a page of my notebook while I was half-asleep. Completely weird, like I was channeling some spirit or something. It's not really a story, it's more of a scene or vignette for right now. Maybe someday I'll come back to it and make a story of it, but for now it's just a gooey, romantic piece of fluff with no real point except to put my sleep-haunting muse to rest.

So, enjoy...and puh-lease comment and let me know what you think...

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It was a lovely day, the kind of day that couldn’t even be recreated in the movies, the kind of day that was impossible, even with computers and special effects. It was beautiful. I had always been a romantic, an old soul, so I seemed to notice all the right things and positively drink them up with appreciation and affection.

The sun was gleaming, of course, but it was an autumn sort of shine, muted and golden, certainly not white or blinding. The blankets of fallen leaves—in brilliant oranges, reds, yellows, and browns—glowed beautiful as the October sun illuminated the colors. Almost bare tree branches rustled the last of their crisp foliage as the crunching of feet against leaf sounded into the cool air. Students milled around campus casually, and while their presence usually annoyed me, everybody seemed so perfect and in place strolling by the ivy-covered stone buildings.

I was warm and cozy, not just from the sunlight, but also from a soft cabled sweater gracing my frame. We walked right beside each other, our shoulders brushing as we held hands. Mine felt small and feminine in his strong warm one, his thumb lightly brushing the side of my forefinger in feathery soft rhythmic strokes. My CD player’s headphones rested around my neck, the volume turned as high as possible so we could both enjoy the mixed CD he had made for me as a thoughtful “I’ll miss you” gift. Nobody noticed us and I issued a contented sigh at the much desired privacy.

We didn’t speak and we had no need to; we simply enjoyed each other’s company and the beautiful music humming lightly in the air. It was a perfectly comfortable and happy silence, not awkward at all. My eyes darted everywhere, enjoying the scenery as we walked, but his eyes were aimed downward, a smile stretched across his face. He was obviously in thought, as was I.

I thought of the upcoming ending of the week when he would leave again, taken away from me in a demand for work. I thought of the next day’s dreaded event and how I couldn’t possibly survive it. My expression must have changed—not doubt into a worrisome pout—because when he looked up at my face, he frowned.

“What’s wrong?” He murmured. Worry was sculpted into his features and he gently nibbled his lip as he looked at me,

“Oh, just thinking, I suppose,” I answered. I repaired my expression, returning to my former smile.

“Penny for your thoughts,” He offered lamely. He gave an embarrassed smile; the saying was so unlike anything he’d usually say. “Sorry. Your thoughts are worth more than that. But tell me what’s up. Good thoughts don’t yield frowns like that.”

“I’m just…filled with anxiety, dread, I guess,” A shrug followed, and then a glance downward.

“Why?” His dazzling eyes met mine, glowing earthly greenish-brown in the sunlight. His facial expression—the movement of his lips, the contours of his facial creases, the angle of his brow—hadn’t changed a bit, but I knew he felt a sudden rush of concern and protectiveness as I looked deeper into his eyes. They were shining widely and darting furiously, almost glazed and glacial, as if they were sad, or shivering from fright.

“Oh, Patrick,” Another of my sighs ensued, this one tired, not at all contented. “It’s just…you’re leaving on Saturday and it’s already Wednesday. And then I know I won’t see you again for at least another month after you leave.”

He suddenly paused in the middle of the sidewalk and gripped my forearm to stop me also. We stood face-to-face and he drifted closer, so our bodies were touching and absorbing each other’s warmth. His hand slid along the side of my face as his eyebrows did an unusual dance downward.

“All this time apart only makes our time together more special,” He was whispering, loud enough for me to grasp each syllable, but quiet enough to only sound like smooth hissing to any passersby. His tone was sweet, loving, warm. “We’re so completely in love and I can only assume it’s because of this long distance situation. Jenna, we’re going to be together forever, I know, because we’ve already stood the test of time. We’ll be able to endure anything together, because we know we can survive apart. Don’t worry, baby. We’ll talk every single say and I know those phone calls will be coupled with daily letters from each other. We won’t be saying ‘goodbye’, Jen: simply ‘see you later’.”

His words were sincere and well-spoken, and a familiar warm flush spread through my body, feeling grateful for being in love with such a wonderful man.

“I love you, Mr. Riley,” I brought my own hand to his cheek, rough with stubble, yet warm. “Who knew you could be so sweet and romantic?”

A cheeky grin warmed his face and he gave a nonchalant nudge of the shoulder. “I try,” was all he said, which made me giggle. My laugh widened his grin and he enveloped me into a swallowing hug. I nuzzled my face into his neck, gently brushing my lips against his skin, inhaling his scent, masculine, woody, and spicy. His hands were buried into my hair, doing a gentle stroking against my scalp, which sent shivers through my body. With reluctance, we pulled away, gave equally lovesick grins, and began walking again, our hands wound together.
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So, what did you think? Cute and sugary sweet, right? Anyway, maybe later on I'll post something else, but for now, enjoy this and if you like or hate it, let me know.

A writing journal. How nice.

Fri, 09 Dec 2005 10:03:41 GMT

To start out this fantabulous writing journal, I'll post different little blurbs from different pieces I'm writing right now. Fun? No? Yes? Anyway, I'll get more heavy duty into actually posting entire stories once I pick up some movement, but for now, this will suffice. And maybe, whoever happens to read this, leave a little comment about what you think. If you like something, tell me. If you hate something, tell me. If you have suggestions, praise, criticism, or whatever, leave a quick little comment. You don't have to have a LiveJournal account to leave comments. If you do have one and are shy, you can leave a comment anonymously. All that I ask is to please be helpful...if you're going to criticize, do so constructively, not pointlessly. I like comments because they help me and if you're going to say something lame or unhelpful like "u sUck and So DoEs uR wRitiNg!!!!11!!!", don't bother. If my writing sucks and you want to tell me that, tell me why it sucks or why you don't like it.

Before I begin, a little admission: I occasionally write fan fiction. I know...completely lame and unexcusable, right? In any case, when I post a new story, I will let you know in advance if it's fan fiction and what nifty celebrity it's starring. That way, if you don't want to read it, you don't have to. I will also rate every story on here so you can know what to expect in terms of content. A little untraditional when it comes to writing, but if someone doesn't want to read a story with heavy bad language or sexual content, they will know to steer clear. Now...a few snippets from pieces that I may or may not post on here. They're under a trial run, just testing the waters to see if I like them and want to continue...

Nothing is perfect. Ever. Nobody is perfect. Ever. Perfection does not exist. Perfection is only something made to assuage crappiness, something to make people feel like there’s hope when their lives are swirling miserably down the toilet. "Oh, everything is so perfect right now," someone might say, but deep in the inner recesses of their mind, they’re subconsciously brooding over the death of their grandmother or failing a particularly important midterm or being dumped by a significant other. Saying everything is "perfect" somehow can make everything seem all right, just fine and dandy. And sometimes, things really can seemingly be heading down that proverbial path of perfection…then BAM! Something far from "perfection" sneaks up behind you and knocks you onto your ass. Hard. To the point where you have everlasting bruises and scars.
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I waited a few moments, preoccupying myself with putting my spare laundry tokens into my wallet and wishing he would just say something. But all I heard was the gurgling of my washer and the click-clacking of his wrench against a bolt. I felt stupid for expecting something, but what girl went to a foreign country surrounded by handsome men and didn’t want to be swept off her feet? I definitely fell into the hope-to-fall-in-love-with-a-knight-in-shining-armor category. When he didn’t say anything, I frowned and began to head out of the laundry house.
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It was a lovely day, the kind of day that couldn’t even be recreated in the movies, the kind of day that was impossible, even with computers and special effects. It was beautiful. I had always been a romantic, an
old soul, so I seemed to notice all the right things and positively drink them up with appreciation and affection. The sun was gleaming, of course, but it was an autumn sort of shine, muted and golden, certainly not white or blinding. The blankets of fallen leaves—in brilliant oranges, reds, yellows, and browns—glowed
beautiful as the October sun illuminated the colors. Almost bare tree branches rustled the last of their crisp foliage as the crunching of feet against leaf sounded into the cool air. Students milled around campus casually, and while their presence usually annoyed me, everybody seemed so perfect and in place strolling by the ivy-covered stone buildings.

I was warm and cozy, not just from the sunlight, but also from a soft cabled sweater gracing my frame. We walked right beside each other, our shoulders brushing as we held hands. Mine felt small and feminine in his strong warm one, his thumb lightly brushing the side of my forefinger in feathery soft rhythmic strokes. My CD player’s headphones rested around my neck, the volume turned as high as possible so we could both enjoy the mixed CD he had made for me as a thoughtful "I’ll miss you" gift. Nobody noticed us and I issued a contented sigh at the much desired privacy.
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As she bounced between sleep and consciousness, she absent-mindedly ran her tongue along her teeth, tasting the lingering punch of alcohol and the unpleasant tinge of morning breath. She rolled over into her pillow with her eyes wrinkled shut, trying to black out the daylight pouring in from the windows. She slowly eased open her eyes, her face pressed into the pillow. She could see splotches of bright light from the corners of her eyes and she snapped them back shut. The light made her suddenly well-aware of the pounding, painful headache beating from her forehead to her nose.

"Ow," she huffed hoarsely, cringing as she heard her voice; she sounded like she’d been smoking a pack of cigarettes a day for twenty years.

"Good God!"

Layla remained buried in the pillow for several moments, finally rolling back over and facing the morning. She let out gasp as her eyes popped open; she didn’t know where she was. She definitely was not in her apartment. From the looks of it, she was in a very fancy hotel room. Or what used to be a fancy hotel room; the room was completely trashed. And she was naked. Completely naked.
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He wrinkled his nose and turned briefly away from the road to glance at her. "Put that out."

"Make me. I just had a traumatic experience and traumatic experiences call for nicotine." She continued to smoke the cigarette and the rental car was slowly filling with smoke.

He rolled down the window with a frown. "Please put it out. I quit smoking and I’m in no hurry to start again."

She inhaled deeply and blew the puff of smoke in his face. With a cough and sputter, he grabbed her cigarette, took a drag, and tossed it out the window.

"See what you’ve made me do?" he spat. "I haven’t smoked in three years and you had to go blowing that shit in my face."

"You threw my cigarette out the window!" she cried in protest.

"Damn right, I did,"

"Stop the car."

"No."

"Stop the damn car!" She ripped her seat belt off.

"No!"

"If you don’t stop the car, I’ll jump out and sue your ass when I break my other ankle."

The anger started to slowly fester in the pit of his stomach again. He issued a growl and smashed his foot against the brake. The car came to an abrupt stop and Layla, since she had taken her seatbelt off, flew forward, hitting her forehead against the dashboard with a thud. She methodically rubbed the reddened spot on her head and wrenched open the car door. She shot him a deathly glare before climbing out of the car. She had barely grabbed her crutches and slammed shut the door when he sped off into the distance.

Fuming, she stood on the sidewalk, waiting for a taxicab to drive by. He was an asshole, she decided. One minute, he could be perfectly nice and sweet, a real gentleman. Then the next minute, he’d be firing insults and playing nasty pranks, the kind that made Layla want to shoot herself.
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