i, sponch

RW drabble

Wed, 11 Jan 2006 00:38:35 GMT

A drabble for yst_100
0 171 words
0 Gen

He throws off the jest, with a smile. Walking through the shadows of the subway station like he’s casting every one. It shouldn’t seem so out of place, that confidence, but then Sai would be the first to admit he never quite understood the machinations behind the other boy’s actions. A worrying air strikes up from the other three, a tightness settling between eyes and lips and set of shoulders. Kento makes a rude gesture in the commenter’s direction and throws an arm around Ryo’s shoulders. And before Sai has a chance to contemplate the possible routes their anger can take, he’s spun Ryo around and dipped him low over the cracked cement floor. The change is immediate, the five of them laughing and loose about the limbs. Rowen launches into an explicit (and decidedly embellished) anecdote; Ryo’s hair is briefly lost to shadow when they pass under a broken light.
It smells faintly like ozone and Sai goes back to wondering, what about the night makes them burn a little brighter.

Drabble [RW]

Thu, 22 Sep 2005 03:39:21 GMT

Cheeba
Note: The author does not promote the use of illegal drugs, she merely suggests it.

The sun settles high in the sky over foreign countries with languages that sound like butter melting over hot stones and you’re stuck counting the moments between sleep and sunrise like it might decide to move out permanently. Not everyone is afraid of the same bump in the night, but your senses heighten, your hackles raise all the same. Its instinct, its wild in definitions we’ve forgotten, it’s the metaphor of the werewolf creeping up on the loafers walking deserted sidewalks to wait for buses that come only seconds before the pounce.

Ryo thinks maybe he shouldn’t watch horror films after a third bowl.

They’re walking two abreast, with him lagging hopelessly behind. The concrete of the ground before him wavers friendly and out of the corner of his mind he thinks, maybe, that he should sit down and see if it feels as soft as it looks. But, in all honesty, he knows it for what it really is and he doesn’t particularly care to give the guys any other reason to shoot him dirty looks over their shoulders.

Ryo thinks maybe you shouldn’t take the boy you have a crush on to get high at the same movie theater your best friends frequent.

In class, whenever he tries to picture the artic, it always comes out looking like the inside of a snow globe- all dancing penguins and low glass ceilings that arc down forever. Which is a terrible analogy anyhow seeing as he’s pretty sure there aren’t any penguins at the North Pole. Well, mostly.
The boy to his right leans over and taps the notes Ryo’s taking with his pencil. His thick mouth forms Do penguins live in glass houses in Greenland? as he traces a finger across the lines forming the beak of the bird. He raises an eyebrow and Ryo would feel stupider if the boy weren’t smiling like that.
By the end of the week they’re spending nights in the back of the boy’s car, fogging up the windows with the tropical energy that exists in every teenager.
Ryo understands why they aren’t to so much as talk to each other anymore during classes. Well, mostly.

Still, he sometimes thinks the sky around here must be very low as well.

On a field trip a few months before, he was startled by a suit of armor keeping careful guard of the tiled floor beside a bathroom entrance. Noises in the subway make him wary; he could swear the people walking by look familiar- old men in ancient hats and guys with forked tongues scenting the air as he passes.
And sometimes, sometimes the line he walks between murderer and former something-approaching-hero seems more the steam rising from a hot road than the road itself. In the middle of the night he’ll roll over and half think that none of that ever happened.

Ryo thinks that’s when he’s happiest.

Sai compares marijuana use to murder and Ryo is just completely baffled. Falsity of the statement aside, aren’t they already? (Or maybe that part was only him, he isn’t certain anymore.) Later, when hes home watching his father putter about attempting to cram 3 weeks worth of gear into the only battered suit case they own, it occurs to him to wonder about the real cause of their anger; the pipe in his left hand or the boy holding his right.

Mon, 23 May 2005 00:03:16 GMT

Blaise/Draco, R. An amalgamation of parts of several ‘Coil’ challenges and the TS Eliot poem, ‘The Dry Salvages’, I and V. Something of an experiment.

i. Summer (Mexico)

Summer and the heat was predatory in it's destruction of the country side. Everything was parched, hungary- bones bleaching in the sun. There is the pant of moist breath on the back of his neck, the pool collecting, drips down his spine. Turns to find eyes like oil glinting purple in the light; I do not know much about gods.

The light, beating staccato rhythms off terracotta roof tops, rusting car parts. A natural tango of voices and voices and skin. This elemental sin; to burn off more then is burnt in; then only a problem confronting the builder of bridges.

Burnt into the mind until its only the haze of purposefulness. There is something more dark under his fingertips, something without the syrup of word melting sugared holes into the form. No switch in architecture, no shift in circumscription. And no powers left to scold the hope of these as fact; of what men choose to forget.

iii. Winter (Hogwarts)

He walks past and,
Things are flowing together now. He can feel it gathering in the hallows of his hips, the crooks of his arms. To have this wall torn from his back, divinity; then what is the cruelty here? Where is the kindness? Well, if it isn’t broken then you can’t fix; its hints of earlier and other creation.

Can’t fix something that is still fluid, motile. Not unlike the coldness of this wall seeping through layers of wool, of generations of similar blankets. Ones that grow up around someone and weave heavy patterns into bodies and this; the sea has many voices. Many gods and many voices.

This is what it is to remember. Transcending the idea of learning, of being witness to this scorn first hand. He knows, though it has vanished from the patriarchal consciousness, there are still pieces that fit into him. Its like this, you can shudder at the whip crack or you can bleed along with the form of the strike, the lines it creates; and under the oppression of the silent fog.

It creates a need, yes but, what does he bring that cannot be found in more pneumatic conditions? What does he have? Wind ruffles the scarves they wear; one boy against the wall, and one,
he walks past.

ii. Fall (Southern England)

The air was chilly and smelt of overly ripe apples where ever they walked. One boy pulls the other into himself, drowns out the sharp angles of his movement. They stand on the parapet in the evening chewing the bitterness, the simmering arrogance of the land under their surveyal; observe disease in signatures.

And there is an understanding between wolves that evades them-- You can break a dozen mirrors and never once be cut. One looking to the west, One looking straight up. One collecting stones to erect vestigial monuments to this, One on the look out for smoke. Both hunters, huntless, reading lines from each other’s skin; biography from the wrinkles of the palm and tragedy from fingers.

Retreating inside, they extinguish the candlelight, and the wail of the wind. Touching and separating like folds in the same cloth. Sharing the body of all things secreted away from children; the recurrent image into pre-conscious terrors.

iv. Spring (In Motion)

His ribs are reminisenct of piano keys or would be if he could only peal away the muscle and sinew above them and run his fingers across their ivory surface. But he will not twist or writhe in the chains to see what damage can be wrought; music heard so deeply, that it is not heard at all.

Instead he thinks of matches that produce no fire but rummble like thunder when struck. He thinks of kisses laid without lips, more powerful than the fists he forms at his back.
He thinks of the virgin sweating through sacrifice after sacrifice for the tangle of inevitability in her hair; here the impossible union of spheres of existence is actual.

And somewhere another boy is walking parapets and deserts and the ruins of what once may have been a classroom wondering if this is what the virtuous had meant to rectify. There is dew and dirt, a placental symbiote, on the skeleton of celebration he still hears whisperd ebony on some plane of his existance. He draws a breath; the life of significant soil.

He walks past.

Sat, 21 May 2005 22:52:03 GMT

Well, parts of it are anyway.

Fic- RW (rowen/ryo)

Thu, 01 Jul 2004 23:56:41 GMT

Fandom: Ronin Warriors
Characters: Ryo, Rowen
Warnings: Pg-13, mention of sexual activity, slash
Status: WIP, draft
Read:

They first time they did it, the big it, was awkward and uncomfortable. They waited a week before trying again. That time the motions were smoother and by the end of the summer the rhythm of their sexual encounters would have made any married couple proud.
But, none of that was important because Rowen was certain they were happy together.

The first place they ever made love was on the couch in Rowen's father's apartment. It was blue and the fabric was itchy and stiff against Rowen's back. There was an old movie on TV (something about Italian cowboys) and it just sort of happened.
Ryo's hair was loose and soft looking (and admittedly dirty), tucked behind the smooth curve of his ear. His shirt smelt a bit strangely or, maybe, that was the couch, at any rate- they hadn't planned it.

Rowen always thought the media portrayed the "first time" unrealistically. Still it had never occurred to him that he wouldn't have the bed of roses or the sea of candles or the beautiful blonde virgin who would someday bare his children.
But, none of that was important because Rowen was sure it couldn't have been anymore perfect.

When Ryo sank onto him, Rowen watched the sweat bead off the tip of his nose. Watched him bite his lip and smile shyly. Watched the pimple on his chin and the mole on his temple. Watched the way his body trembled unsure but, excited.
But, really, none of that was important because Rowen was certain he was beautiful.

Afterwards, Ryo swore it hadn't really hurt. Which was ridiculous because it had hurt Rowen some and wasn't it suppose to be the other way around? And, afterwards, they laid on the kitchen floor and found patterns in the cracks in the ceiling. And, afterwards, they held hands and didn't talk anymore about the big it.
But, none of that was important because Rowen was certain they were in love.

And they were.

AN: I should give this hobby up.

fic: HP (update)

Thu, 04 Mar 2004 03:24:54 GMT

An updated version of the Coil challenge from the other day.
Sigh, I should really submit this when its finished but, I probably won't. Oh, well.

i. Summer (Mexico- muggle)

Blasie and Draco exploring more then desert in muggle Mexico.

Summer and the heat was predatory in it's destruction of the country side. Everything was parched, hungary- bones bleaching in the sun. There is the pant of moist breath on the back of his neck, the pool collecting, drips down his spine. Turns to find eyes like oil glinting purple in the light--

I do not know much about gods

--The light, beating staccato rhythms off terracotta roof tops, rusting car parts. A natural tango of voices and voices and skin. This elemental sin; to burn off more then is burnt in--

Then only a problem confronting the builder of bridges.

--Burnt into the mind until its only the haze of purposefulness. There is something more dark under his fingertips, something without the syrup of word melting sugared holes into the form. No switch in architecture, no shift in circumscription. And no powers left to scold the hope of these as fact--

Of what men choose to forget.

ii. Winter (Hogwarts)

He walks past and,
Things are flowing together now. He can feel it gathering in the hallows of his hips, the crooks of his arms. To have this wall torn from his back, divinity; then what is the cruelty here? Where is the kindness? Well, if it isn’t broken then you can’t fix--

Its hints of earlier and other creation

--Can’t fix something that is still fluid, motile. Not unlike the coldness of this wall seeping through layers of wool, of generations of similar blankets. Ones that grow up around someone and weave heavy patterns into bodies and this--

The sea has many voices,
Many gods and many voices.

--this is what it is to remember. Transcending the idea of learning, of being witness to this scorn first hand. He knows, though it has vanished from the patriarchal consciousness, there are still pieces that fit into him. Its like this, you can shudder at the whip crack or you can bleed along with the form of the strike, the lines it creates---

And under the oppression of the silent fog

--It creates a need, yes but, what does he bring that cannot be found in more pneumatic conditions? What does he have? Wind ruffles the scarves they wear; One boy against the wall, and one,
he walks past.

A.N:
Blaise/Draco, R.
TS Eliot poem, 'The Dry Salvages'.
Confusing and not quite in order.
WIP.