:: Delirium ::

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:: Saturday, September 13, 2003 ::

Inspired by constant listening to "Every Heart" by BoA and Pei Yi's awesome YohxAnna fics.

***

Ikutsu namida o nagashitara
Every Heart sunao ni nareru darou
Dare ni omoi o tsutaetara
Every Heart kokoro mitasareru no darou
Nagai nagai yoru ni obieteita
Tooi hoshi ni inotteta

Meguru meguru toki no naka de
Bokutachi wa ai o sagashite iru
Tsuyoku tsuyoku naritai kara
Kyou mo takai sora miagete iru

Every Heart
Sung by BoA


Bridge

They sit together, side by side, on the porch. She leans against the post, facing the sky. Her sharp profile blurs indiscriminately with the darkness so that he can only see her dark eyes, two minute sparks in the twilight, as distant and as cold as the stars that swing above them. As usual, they sit apart, their only shared boundary the edge of the floor over which their legs dangle.

He notes wistfully, not for the first time, her hand lies only a few feet away. He likes her hands; they are, perhaps, one of her best features. Slender and supple, corded with strength – tenacity in slips of pale, smooth skin. He only need reach out and grasp that hand in his to know it. But the distance between them, though slight, seems a great chasm.

He measures the gap, counting the near-invisible lines where each floorboard meets. Six, he intones. An easy distance. He feels the floor beneath his fingers, substantial and real. If he dares cross – unfold his arm, stretch out his hand – he could touch her; it is a simple movement, a mere instant fusion of will and flesh. But he, who walks the bridge between death and life, understands the deceptive comfort of wood, of earth, of flesh and bone. It does not hold. Nothing lies in that cool waxy space between them; no words, no communion. Only an abstruse promise and a fragile dream – connections as thin and ephemeral as smoke.



:: B. 2:32 PM [+] ::
...
:: Wednesday, August 13, 2003 ::
I am in love with CLAMP's newest crack-induced work, Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle. It is seriously too much fun -- fun in the sense that it's starring my all-time favorite male character of CCS, Syaoran! Ah, I'm wilting from the cuteness of it all.

On another note, I'm working on beta-reading all those fics you dears have sent me. I know that there are more that I'm supposed to beta-read, but I can't recall. If I promised one of you that I would beta-read your fic, do tell. I'll have it out as soon as I can. Right now, I've just finished "Fate" by Pei Yi ('twas gorgeous as usual) and am going through "Akogare" again (damn, I die everytime I read it).

As for my own fic writing, I haven't been doing much. I'm actually trying to catch up on all the anime I've missed. So many good things to watch! *_____* I'm trying to finish "Dirge without Music" -- hopefully, I'll be done with it sometime this week. If anyone is interested in beta-reading that, do let me know. And does anyone know about the Sugar Quill's new submission policy? The admins on Sugar Quill have limited the types of fics that they're accepting, but I don't know whether "Dirge" fits any of the categories. If any of you can explain, that would be great.


:: B. 3:07 PM [+] ::
...
:: Monday, June 30, 2003 ::
Lovely picture by Sophie! (I like the background, especially! Really evokes the cover art of the book! And the structure of the face is especially nice! And thanks for the pimpin'! *squish* It makes me feel loved. ^_^

Okay, back to work. And no more blogging or writing in the LJ or anything. (Yeah, right.)


:: B. 10:12 PM [+] ::
...
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave,
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

Dirge without Music
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Dirge without Music

Three weeks had passed since Harry left Hogwarts and returned to the Dursleys. As soon as Uncle Vernon drove the car up the drive, Harry gathered his belongings and retreated into his room. During those weeks, only six words passed between Harry and his uncle, on the night Harry arrived at Privet Drive, number 4: “Don’t forget your ruddy owl!”

Since then, Harry kept to himself. While he was at Hogwarts, he had vacillated between wanting to be alone and wanting company. But at the Dursleys, Harry infinitely preferred being by himself. The Dursleys seemed to prefer it, too. They often scuttled out of his way, eyes round with fright, whenever he stalked past them, grimly silent. If Harry could have seen the expression on his face, he would not have blamed them. There was a stern, hard look on his thin countenance – a harsh and unrepentant fury about his mouth and brow. But the eyes behind his round glasses were dull and empty. Had the Dursleys felt any fondness for Harry, his expression would have pained them. As it was, the Dursleys felt nothing but fear and kept well away from him.

Throughout those three weeks, Harry spoke to no one. Ron and Hermione sent him letters; every day, an owl would swoop into his room and deposit a fat envelope on his knee. He would stare briefly at Hermione’s clear, neat handwriting and Ron’s blotted scrawls before stacking them, their seals unbroken, into two separate piles. Then he placed the piles into a deep drawer of his desk and never looked at them again. He didn’t write back.

Instead, Harry roamed out of doors under the punishing glare of the summer sun, haunting the sun-baked streets near the house. The neighbors, like the Dursleys, repulsed by and a little afraid of his haggard appearance, avoided him. He wandered for hours alone, up and down the empty roads, his worn trainers flopping against the hot pavement, until the balmy blue-green twilight fell upon Little Whinging. Then he tramped home, the Dursleys darting away from him as fast as they could (though given his bulk, this was especially difficult for Dudley) as he made his way upstairs.

But Harry spent most of the days in his bedroom, seated by the window, looking out into the withering garden or watching the clouds drift across the sky. The Dursleys never locked his room; they didn’t have to. Harry only left to go to the bathroom. Aunt Petunia pushed trays of food through the cat flap Uncle Vernon had installed years ago, but Harry seldom ate. Food seemed tasteless to him. He drank water instead.

So the weeks passed, mornings and afternoons blurring together into a smooth, continuous stream, time marked only by the shift of the shadows across his bedroom walls and the monotonous ticking of the clock on his nightstand. Harry was grateful for the sliding sameness of those days. Their very blankness was comforting, peaceful; he seemed to float along as impassively as the hours that glided noiselessly by him. But when the sun sank and the shadows fell then dwindled, dread came over him. He hated the close of day . . . for the nights were the worst.

While the house slept around him, Harry would lie in bed and listen to the rumbling snores of the Dursleys, the faint, steady tick of the clock and his own shallow breathing. He would stare at the ceiling, his eyes burning with a fierce and uncompromising fury as if daring his grief to break open. Come on, he muttered through gritted teeth, come on. But his grief never surfaced, only settled more heavily and solidly in his heart. And then morning would dawn, blanching his room in a weak wash of light, and he would rise, grinning in bitter triumph. Another battle won, he thought.

Sometimes, his body exhausted beyond endurance, he would fall into a fitful doze. It was then that Harry would see him. He would stand before Harry, his hands carelessly stuffed into his pockets, his dark eyes glinting with mischief. Sirius would speak to him, his mouth moving, though no words came out. But Harry knew what he was saying. Come on, mate, Sirius said, don’t stand there gawping. Let’s go. Then Sirius would turn, beckoning with a wave of his hand, and begin walking away. And Harry would eagerly rise to follow. Wait, Sirius! Harry called, as his godfather strode before him. Wait for me! Harry would tumble out of bed, falling to the floor, tangled in his bedclothes. And as he woke, jolted to reality by the impact, he found that the ghostly hand was merely the flutter of his curtains in the warm breeze of the night.

On other nights, Harry heard his barking laugh. And sometimes, Harry saw him looking down, a tender, fatherly expression beaming out of his face, as he playfully mussed Harry’s hair. And as real as these visions seemed to him, they always ended with Harry awake, heart leaping with hope as his eyes strained in the darkness, searching for him . . . and finding nothing.

Yet he welcomed those dreams. It was so much better to embrace these visions, illusory as they were. Anything was better than that terrifying blankness, the emptiness of his life without Sirius. Better, Harry thought, to cling to those dreams, false as they were, than to accept that terrible finality.

For almost every night, Harry saw his godfather’s horror-struck face, the mingled look of fear and surprise in his eyes, as he fell through the arch, the thin, ragged curtains reaching out like phantom arms to pull him into death. And Harry would wake, gasping, cold sweat trickling down his forehead, his heart hammering with the same dread and terror he felt that night. And his loss and grief would break over him again, as raw and as fresh and as immediate as the night his godfather died.

It seemed strange to Harry, sitting at his window day after day, to hear the distant laughter of children playing in the park, to see the neighbors scramble about on their daily business. A feeling of unreality had settled over him, an astonished disbelief to see the houses, the cars, and the people endure below him, so substantial and unchanged. This world beyond Hogwarts felt unreal. It held that same dreamlike quality, that same imprecise distance and timelessness, which seemed itself a transformation. Yet it was this very constancy that jarred him. Had the world always been like this? Harry wondered.

But he knew, deep down, that it was not the world that had changed; it was he who had changed.

And Harry wondered if he could change back to the old Harry, retrieve the old certainties and truths, somehow travel back to that time and that place . . . and find Sirius again.

One evening, as Harry watched the night fade slowly from the eastern horizon, he spotted a tiny, blurred shape above the housetops. As Harry waited, the shape grew larger and more distinct as it moved closer. Soon, the shape resolved into a large gray owl. In another moment, the owl barreled through the window, dropping a large flat parcel at Harry’s feet. Harry shrugged and turned away. With an exasperated flutter of its wings, the owl settled on his knee and began to nip his finger.

“Go away,” Harry commanded, pushing it away. “Go away.” But the owl continued to beat its wings and nip, until Harry at last bent down and picked up the parcel. Making sure Harry held the parcel the owl took wing and soared into the night.

Harry turned it over. The parcel dangled loosely from his hands as he scanned it with indifferent eyes. Suddenly he frowned, perplexity puckering his brow. The handwriting was unfamiliar. He studied the parcel, struggling to match a face to the writing. Finally, unable to puzzle it out, Harry tore the parcel open. A letter and another flat parcel fluttered into his lap.

Dear Harry,

I was doing a bit of a cleaning and came across these pictures. I took them at Christmas when we were at Sirius’s house. I thought you’d like them.

Take care of yourself, Harry.

Tonks


Pictures, Harry echoed, as he opened the smaller parcel. A sheaf of photos cascaded into his hands. For a moment, Harry stared at them, bewildered. Then he glanced down and drew in a sharp breath. In his hands were dozens and dozens of pictures . . . of Sirius. Slumping against the mantelpiece, as he listened to Kingsley. Wrestling with an unwieldy length of holly as he tried to hang it on the wall. Singing gustily, his handsome head thrown back, as Mrs. Weasley led them all in a Christmas carol. Leaning on Remus, a slightly glassy look in his eyes as he gleefully raised a glass of fire whiskey in a toast. Smiling indulgently as Harry looked up at him, waving his arms animatedly, discussing a Quiddith match. Hooking an arm around Harry’s shoulders, both of them beaming.

His grief broke then. Hugging the pictures to his chest, he cried and cried, great, wracking sobs that shook his thin frame with a fearful violence, threatening to shatter him. Harry cried until he choked and gagged, and nothing more was inside him.


***

Last major snippet/re-posting for a while, I think. Only a month left before the damn bar.



:: B. 9:02 AM [+] ::
...
:: Sunday, June 29, 2003 ::
Thank you, Pei Yi, Chelle and Sophie for your comments (though, I think you're much too kind, Pei Yi XD). I really, really, really appreciated them. *squish* I was quite worried that the story wouldn't fit the tone or feel of the book -- yes, this is where my tendencies as a canon 'ho come out (though it only comes out at certain times) -- so it's nice to know that it fits. I'm actually contemplating about sending this to the Sugar Quill once they start receiving fanfics again in July, so any and all comments on this, bad or good, would be loved and analyzed to death.

And I'd like to poke you, Pei Yi, for some Shaman King fics. They really are excellent. I think I'd appreciate them a lot more if I actually knew what the series was about; nonetheless, they are gorgeous just in prose and mood alone.


Ah, damn, I gotta go. Lots and lots of bar studying to do. Received my results on the MBE and I was depressed as hell yesterday. So, gotta hit the books. If you see me online, kick me or beat me or something. I really shouldn't be surfing the 'Net.


:: B. 5:32 PM [+] ::
...
:: Wednesday, June 25, 2003 ::
A snippet from my very first HP work, "Dirge Without Music." Massive spoilers. Dedicated to you, Sa-chan, for your lovely snippet and to all the Sirius fans out there.

***

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave,
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

Edna St. Vincent Millay


Dirge without Music


While he was at Hogwarts, he had vacillated between wanting to be alone and wanting company. But at the Dursleys, Harry infinitely preferred being by himself. The Dursleys seemed to prefer it, too. They often scuttled out of his way, eyes round with fright, whenever he stalked past them, grimly silent. If Harry could have seen the expression on his face, he would not have blamed them. There was a stern, hard look on his thin face -- fierce and unrepentant. But the eyes behind his round glasses were dull, empty. Had the Dursleys felt any fondness for Harry, his expression would have pained them. As it was, the Dursleys felt nothing but fear and kept well away from Harry.

Throughout those three weeks, Harry spoke to no one. Ron and Hermione sent him letters; every day, an owl would swoop into his room and deposit a fat envelope on his knee. He would stare briefly at Hermione’s clear, neat handwriting and Ron’s blotted scrawls before stacking them, their seals unbroken, into two separate piles. Then he placed the piles into a deep drawer of his desk and never looked at them again. He didn’t write back.

Some days, he would haunt the sun-baked streets near the house. The neighbors, like the Dursleys, repulsed by and a little afraid of his haggard appearance, avoided him. He wandered for hours alone, up and down the empty roads, his worn trainers flopping against the hot pavement, until the sun sunk down behind the trees and the blue-green twilight fell upon Little Whinging. Then he tramped home, the Dursleys darting away from him as fast as they could (though given his bulk, this was especially difficult for Dudley) as he made his way upstairs.

But Harry spent most of the days in his bedroom, seated by the window, looking out into the withering garden or watching the clouds drifts across the summer sky. The Dursleys never locked his room; they didn’t have to. Harry only left to go to the bathroom. Aunt Petunia pushed trays of food through the cat flap Uncle Vernon had installed years ago, but Harry seldom ate. Food seemed tasteless to him. He drank water instead.

So the weeks passed, mornings and afternoons blurring together into a smooth, continuous stream, time marked only by the shift of the shadows across his bedroom walls and the monotonous ticking of the clock on his nightstand. And Harry was grateful for the sliding sameness of those days. Their very blankness was comforting, peaceful; he seemed to float along as empty and as impassive as the hours that slid quietly by. But when the sun sank and the shadows fell then dwindled, dread came over him. He hated the close of day . . . for the nights were the worst.

While the house slept around him, Harry would lie in bed and listen to the faint, steady tick of the clock and his own shallow breathing. He would stare at the ceiling, his eyes burning with a fierce and uncompromising fury as if daring his grief to break open. Come on, he muttered through gritted teeth, come on. But his grief never surfaced, only settled more heavily and solidly in his heart. And then morning would dawn, blanching his room in a weak wash of light, and he would rise, grinning in bitter triumph. Another battle won, he thought.

Sometimes, his body exhausted beyond endurance, he would fall into a fitful doze. And it was then that he would see him. He would stand before Harry, his hands carelessly stuffed into his pockets, his dark eyes glinting with mischief. Sirius would speak to him, his mouth moving, though no words came out. But Harry knew what he was saying. Come on, mate, Sirius said, don’t stand there gawping. Let’s go. Then Sirius would turn and begin walking away. And Harry would eagerly rise, blindly following the beckoning wave of his godfather’s hand. Wait, Sirius! Harry called, as his godfather strode before him. Wait for me! Harry would tumble out of bed, falling to the floor, tangled in his bedclothes. And as he woke, jolted to reality by the impact, he found that the ghostly hand was merely the flutter of his curtains in the warm breeze of the night.

On other nights, Harry could see hear his barking laugh. And sometimes, Harry saw him looking down, a tender, fatherly expression beaming out of his face, as he playfully mussed Harry’s hair. And as real as these visions seemed to him, they always ended with Harry awake, heart leaping with hope as his eyes strained in the darkness, searching for him . . . and finding nothing.

Yet he welcomed those dreams. It was so much better to embrace these visions, illusory as they were. Anything was better than that terrifying blankness, the emptiness of his life without Sirius. Better, Harry thought, to cling to those dreams, false as they were, than to accept the finality of his death.

For almost every night, Harry saw his godfather’s horror-struck face, the mingled look of fear and surprise in his eyes, as he fell through the arch, the thin, ragged curtains reaching out like phantom arms to pull him into death. And Harry would wake, gasping, cold sweat trickling down his forehead, his heart hammering with the same dread and terror he felt that night. And his loss and grief would break over him again, as raw and as immediate and as fresh, as the night his godfather died.


:: B. 7:59 PM [+] ::
...
:: Sunday, June 22, 2003 ::
I beg, order, whine, extol, charge you all to read this snippet. It's absolutely fantastic. I don't think I've ever been this excited before over an HP fanfiction -- and this is only half a page long. If you don't, you don't know what you're missing. Siriusly.



:: B. 12:03 PM [+] ::
...
:: Thursday, June 05, 2003 ::
Eriol x Tomoyo fics that I happened to like.

Anime: Cardcaptor Sakura
Genre: Romance
Category: Eriol x Tomoyo

1. Turn [Tin]

2. Faux Naif [Tin]

3. Akogare [Sakura]

4. Icebreakers [Meghan Kelly]

5. A Young Man's Fancy [Jae]

6. Stitches in Time [Meghan Kelly]

7. Kanaete [Sakura]

8. Creak of Dawn [Wen]

9. Haikei [Circee]

10. In the Midnight Gleaning [Chelle]

11. Pythia [Silverlight]

12. A Cappella [Kit]

13. Scenes from an Afternoon [Sakura]

Anime: Cardcaptor Sakura
Genre: Lemon/lime
Category: Eriol x Tomoyo

1. Lie to Me [Meghan Kelly]

2. Make-Believe [Fushigi Kismet]




:: B. 5:50 PM [+] ::
...

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