Delirium

2003-09-13T14:32:00.000-07:00

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.

2003-08-13T15:07:00.000-07:00

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.

2003-06-30T22:12:00.000-07:00

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.)

2003-06-30T09:02:00.000-07:00

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.

2003-06-29T17:32:00.000-07:00

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.

2003-06-25T19:59:00.000-07:00

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.

2003-06-22T12:03:00.000-07:00

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.

2003-06-05T17:50:00.000-07:00

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]

2003-05-14T18:53:00.000-07:00

Looking over old blog posts (yes, another way of killing time and avoiding studying), I just realized something: I'm a damned liar. Or a really forgetful person. Or a person who breaks promises easily. Or perhaps a mix of all three.

I vowed that I would not post fic snippets.

Again, I'm forced to realize why New Year's Resolutions are useless to me, despite my unquenchable optimism.

2003-05-11T16:57:00.000-07:00

It's that time of year again when I put off studying for finals and write instead! I haven't really been writing a lot, though -- my guilty conscience always starts screaming at me to get off my laptop and start studying, dammit! So, fic writing has actually just been a lot of tweaking.

Upon Waking [X/1999]

He stood high above the city, a dim and lonely shade against the white light of the morning sky. Through the network of red and white metal, he glimpsed the sky curving above him and the city rolling out beneath him, unreal and remote. The world seemed inverted from that dizzying height; if he plunged into the stillness below him, he would rush past clouds of steel and glass, and land, not on earth, but on the rim of the sky.

How far down is it? he wondered. How far down before I reach that edge?

His arm unfolded in a slow mechanical arc, his fingers extended like the broken spokes of a wheel, disconnected and stiff. Between the gaps of his fingers, the city, the sun, and the sky glimmered blurred and white.

He gazed intently down into the hazy radiance shimmering beneath him, gauging the breadth and depth of that span between his fingers. The sinews of his hands created a grid, slender longitudes of flesh, encompassing within their narrow limits sections of sky and earth. And though bounded on either side by the lines of his hands, he realized that there was no end to that space. His hands could not contain it. The light, that space was boundless, immeasurable. And he felt comfort in the vastness, the endlessness of it.

Peace must be something like that, he thought. An emptiness, a space without regret. He reached out further, straining to the expanse that opened out below him. He felt himself dipping forward, his torso at a graceful angle to the metal girder on which he stood.

But he did not plunge into the stillness as he expected. As he hovered there, he felt an uneasiness, a disquietude immediate and separate from his grief. He frowned, feeling vaguely annoyed.

I don’t understand, he murmured to himself. He dropped his arm and straightened up, peering down past his bloodstained shoes and beyond the metal girders. It shouldn’t be this difficult. It’s so close. I only need to take one step out.

He leaned forward once more, the wings of his black coat flapping restlessly behind him. The toes of his shoes pointed out beyond the border of scarlet metal. The wind whipped his hair. He spread his arms out wide and inclined an inch more until his heels scraped the very edge of the girder and the weight of his coat was the only anchor holding him there. But he hesitated again, pulled back from the sky.

What is holding me back? he angrily wondered. Is it cowardice? He gritted his teeth, narrowed his eyes. That can’t be it. I don’t fear it. I want it. His hand unconsciously drifted to a spot above his heart. This is my one wish.

He steeled himself once more, closing his eyes and flinging his arms behind him. His coat fluttered out like the wings of a great bird preparing to take flight. He tilted his head back, his face toward the heavens, and listened, waiting. In the darkness behind his lids, he felt the metal girder thinning into space, sensed the violent rush of the wind and the snap of his coat gradually weakening into silence. The only breath that stirred the air came from his mouth and that, too, slowly ceased. Then he heard, faintly at first, but drumming nearer and louder now, the beat of his heart. And even that slowed and faded away, until it seemed as if he, somehow, had ceased to exist altogether, his body dissolving into that dusk.

Just as he had wished.

But thought and sensation, those last pulses of his mortality, lingered still. So he waited patiently for these to dwindle and subside into nothingness. And in that lull, he felt an odd sinking, a brief, wrenching heaviness—that last resistance before flying. He smiled, his hands fanned out in welcome.

Suddenly, he sensed a presence, a strange but familiar pang: a warm, gentle weight somewhere on his body—a hand across his heart.

Kamui?

His eyes snapped open. At once, he took in the sky, the dim city, and the metal girths of Tokyo Tower, felt the whip of the wind and heard the ceaseless flap of his coat. He staggered back onto the girder, hope firing his eyes. “Kamui? Kotori?” he shouted to the sky. “Kamui! Kotori!” But only his voice returned to him, unmixed with the echoes he longed to hear. “Kamui! Kotori!” He continued to cry out until finally, unstrung, he crashed to his knees.

“Why . . .” he whispered brokenly. “Why am I the only one left? Why didn’t I die with you?”

I wanted to protect you . . . and this world.

“I killed you . . . I killed Kotori . . . Why am I still alive? I shouldn’t be here. Not without you, not after what I’ve done . . . I should have been the one to die . . .”

***

I always thought that Fuuma would go through some kind of guilt-ridden, torturous relevation. Given how conscientious and kind-hearted Fuuma was, I doubt that he'd simply walk away, whistling, from all that he's done. I mean, c'mon, the guy killed his sister and his best friend (or love interest, you decide)!

Fuuma: *sulking* You just wanted to see me angst, didn't you?
Me: Can you blame me? You're so damn pretty when you angst. Plus, Kamui was the only one who got to angst a lot in the series. I just figured it was your turn.

***

Clumsy [Fruits Basket]

They walked down the Sunday road together, side by side. She was softly humming to herself, gently swinging her hat in time to the music. He listened in silence, seemingly lost in the tuneful lilt of her song, his violet eyes bent to the pavement.

But he wasn’t listening to her at all.

You do love her, don’t you, Yuki? You love her a lot, right?

That kid, he fumed. He pictured the bright face of his cousin tilted inquisitively up as he stared down at him, dumbfounded. Where did Momiji get such an idea? He jerked the canvas shopping bag in irritation, imagining the bag slamming into that smiling countenance. But, Yuki instantly noted, ruefully, the bag was empty. The slap of canvas cloth would hardly sting.

“Yuki-kun?”

“Yes?” He started, perceiving Tohru looking up at him with worried brown eyes.

“Are you all right?” she queried.

Yuki reddened. “Oh, no, I’m fine.”

“But,” Tohru persisted, “you look upset. I thought I heard you say something just a moment ago.” She cocked her head to one side, puzzled. “And then you swung your bag like this—” She demonstrated, flailing her own empty canvas bag wildly about. “Are you really all right, Yuki-kun? Is something wrong?”

“No, I’m fine,” Yuki repeated, reassuringly. “I—I was just swatting away a bug.”

Tohru nodded understandingly. “I see. There are a lot of bugs out here today, yes?” She scanned the surrounding woods, biting her lip. “I shouldn’t have suggested that we take a shortcut through the park. I’m sorry, Yuki-kun.”

“Oh, no!” he protested. “I’m really glad that we came through the park.” He smiled warmly. “I always like walking with you, Honda-san.”

She blushed.

Yuki, you need to tell her. She’s really a sweet and gentle person, but she’s not very perceptive.

They continued along the path. She resumed her song. Now and again, the streamers of her hat would brush against his hand. At each casual brush of the silk against his skin, he felt a slight tingling.

***

There's more, but it's not coherent enough to post. (Though, come to think of it, when has that stopped me before?) Anyway, yes, Sa-chan, that's pretty much all I have. But I assure you, it's pretty much pure WAFF. Aren't you proud of me? I think Yuki may be rather out of character, though. If you see this, please tell me.

Other thoughts . . .

I never addressed your comments on "Hanashi", Sa-chan and Eve, so I'll do it now. I understand that the shift in perspectives is a little confusing. But I purposely kept it that way because, well, frankly, I like the confusion. I like the shift between the two different time periods, the shift between memory and present action. And I think there's a connection between the two, a kind of action-reaction dynamic going on. And I don't like italicizing too much for some reason. So basically, I'm going to be a brat about it and refuse your good advice. So yes, the only justification I can offer you is: I like it.

Man, I'm so behind on fic commenting. As soon as I get some decent time, I'm going to hunker down, read those fics and comment thoroughly.

And I think I'm going to revise "Twilight" to be in the first-person perspective. Part of me is excited, the other part of me is whining and shuddering at the thought of heavy editing. (Remember, I'm the girl who loves her descriptions excessively. Especially when said descriptions took her a year and half to pound out.)

And I think I have a rather crazy idea for a manga or fic or what have you. I read an article in "Marie Claire" on the host bars in Japan. (Yes, I confess that I like to read those types of magazines.) After reading it, I was thinking: What if a rather ruthless pretty-boy host falls in love with a mysterious, evanescent girl? What if he first tries to seduce her, playing an elaborate game, and then truly falls in love with her? And what if she tries to play a game with him as well and doesn't fall in love with him? Kind of like the host getting his own medicine? Not an original plot, I know, but I thought it'd be fun to write/draw out, anyway. So, ladies, what do you think?

2003-05-03T16:54:00.000-07:00

Just re-read Krista Perry's "The Snow Raven" for the fifteenth time. In my humble opinion, the best "Rurouni Kenshin" fanfic in existence. Damn, I wish I could write like her. Made me think I should revise "Twilight" -- write it from Kenshin's point of view.

So, do you all think I should? Advice? Comments?

2003-05-03T14:16:00.000-07:00

New fic ideas -- courtsey of procrastination:

1. Affinity [Tentative title][Inuyasha]: Inuyasha reflecting on his affinity to and love for Kikyou. (The line that popped into my head and got me thinking/writing it: "Her eyes haunt him." Not a great line, but hey, at least it finally motivated me to write "Inuyasha" fic.)

2. Mea Culpa [Tentative title][Angel Sanctuary]: Setsuna and Sara on the night of their consummation. (Yes, I've succumbed; I didn't want to write any fic for this series, but somehow, I lost my moral resolve.)

And Imouto, I wouldn't exactly cheer for "Lethe" or "Clumsy" yet. I just re-read over "Lethe" and realized that I'm actually not 70% finished, but only 60% finished. >< I counted eight more scenes that I have to write in. And as for "Clumsy", I think I need to watch "Fruits Basket" or read really WAFFy fics to get the creative juices flowing on that.

And thanks, Chelle. *hugs* I guess writing fic progress is accomplishing something. Though the time I spent on writing out the list could have been spent on writing on the listed fics . . . ^_^;

Tin, dear, I read through "Angelus" and have some thoughts on it. Hopefully, I'll send an e-mail soon. If not, maybe I'll post a comment. Though I really don't like posting publicly my "in-depth" thoughts on a fic.

Serena, I did read the KyouxTohru snippet. *___* I'll reserve my comments for the completed work. Suffice to say, I'm excited.

Meemee, thanks for the encouragement. *squash* I definitely needed it.

2003-04-28T15:00:00.000-07:00

Fic status as of Monday, April 28, 2003:

1. Metamorphoses [X/1999][SorataxArashi]: 70% completed

2. Upon Waking [X/1999][Fuuma; end of series]: 60% completed

3. Clumsy [Fruits Basket][YukixTohru]: 10% completed

4. Fulfillment [Clover][Suu; end of volume 4]: 20% completed

5. Psyche: Ch. I [CCS][EriolxTomoyo]: 5% completed

6. Suppi's Revenge [CCS]: 0% completed

7. Etude of a Dream: Prologue [Cowboy Bebop][Spike; prequel to series]: 40% completed

8. Martian Requiem [Cowboy Bebop][Jet; end of series]: 40% completed

9. The River Lethe: Ch. 1 [CCS][Eriol; childhood]: 80% completed

10. Hands [Angelic Layer][KotarouxMisaki]: 0% completed

11. Secret Love [CCS][EriolxTomoyo]: 0% completed

Man, I've done so little writing. And sadly, I've done just a little more reading than that.

More fic recs soon . . . when I feel like procrastinating.

2003-04-15T09:53:00.000-07:00

More fic recs (as I can't seem to do anything else). Can't seem to find that many Yukito/Touya fics, so if anyone has any recs, do tell. Much thanks to Jenn at
Leave it to Pero for some of the fic recs:

Anime/Genre: Cardcaptor Sakura
Category: Yukito/Touya

1. Kimi no tame dake ni by Syaoran no Miko

2. And Then by Sakura

3. Here and Now by Jessi Albano

4. Shadows of the Moon by Leareth

5. The One True Thing by Aishuu Shadowweaver

7. Teach the Torches by Lyn

2003-03-28T12:31:00.000-08:00

Serena, I think I may have a fic rec for you -- something to inspire your own Touya-Tomoyo fic. Here it is. I think Chelle might have mentioned it before . . . (By the way, Chelle, thanks so much for your comments on "Hanashi" -- you're too sweet! *squish*)

And the plug! *____________* Tin, did I ever tell you how much I lub you? *squishglompsquish* I feel really honored by your fic rec, really. I don't deserve it. (Still, I have to admit, it's good press. XD)

2003-03-26T13:36:00.000-08:00

So I lied. I finally finished "Hanashi" and posted it. I was looking over it, procrastinating as usual, and found that there really wasn't much else to do. Filled in the few remaining gaps. Not entirely sure if it's postable quality, so let me know if you see any mistakes. You can see it here.

And

2003-03-24T17:34:00.000-08:00

Rurouni Kenshin fic recs:

1. The Snow Raven [Krista Perry]

2. Constant Is the Sun [Akai Kitsune]

3. That Which Lingers [Madamhydra]

4. Echoes [Aino-kaasan]

5. Ripples [Aino-kaasan]

6. Whispers [Aino-kaasan]

7. Fuurin no Omoide [Akai Kitsune]

8. Crimson Iris [Akai Kitsune]

9. The Sword that Protects [Linay]

10. Impressions [Madamhydra]

11. Spark [Ashfae]

12. Fire [Ashfae]

13. Glow [Ashfae]

14. Drawn [Tin]

15. Farewell to Innocence [Tin]

It's been a while since I've read RK fic, so if anyone has any suggestions, let me know!

2003-03-23T16:24:00.000-08:00

Sa-chan, I finally figured out how I'm going to deliver you that ExT lemon I promised you a long time ago -- prequel to "Gi-puhn Ma-uhm." This prequel is tentatively titled, "Bi-mil Sa-rang" ("Secret Love"). If you remember, "Gi-puhn Ma-uhm" hints at Eriol and Tomoy doing the nasty, so this fic will deal with that night in the park in specific detail.

2003-03-20T21:30:00.000-08:00

I've been taking a sabbatical from writing; a fast of sorts. I feel that I really need to learn more about different styles of writing, different themes, different topics, etc., so I've been surfing the 'Net or looking up friends fic recommendations. I've also decided that I need to critique more writing; the editing process, they say, helps to sharpen your own eyes when assessing your work. So far, I've managed to finish Rael's "Summer Haze" (and I strongly urge you all to read it -- it's stunning) and I'm starting work on Wen's "Gravity" (which, from what I've read so far, is gorgeous). (By the bye, dear, I'll have it finished sometime this weekend -- or so I hope.)

So what have I learned so far? Well, I think I realized that my writing, unlike the writing I've been reading, is very distant, detached. I don't have the immediacy that those writings have. Instead of drawing the reader in, I think I push the reader away, force the reader to read outside the writing itself. My writing, I think, is very clinical. It seems to lack the grace and the humanity (if I can term it as such) of other writings. I could name dozens of examples of writing that have a presence, an urgency, a warmth, if you will, but I confess I'm rather lazy. (You can look to the list I posted earlier, though, to get an idea.) Writers like Wen, Sakura, and Rael (to name a few) have these qualities, which is why, I think, they are such good writers. They don't alienate the reader, they invite the reader in, have the reader step into the shoes of their characters, experience and empathize with their characters -- there is a kind of synch, a rhythm of sorts. They understand the pulse of their characters and their readers and time them accordingly so that they beat in unison. (Damn, that sounded unbelievably campy and confused, but I can't really describe what I mean.) I think I'd like to learn how to do that. No, I want to learn to write in that way. So I suppose I need to study more.

For some reason, I feel as if I'm on a mission.

2003-03-15T17:54:00.000-08:00

Fics in anime/manga/genres that I generally haven't seen/read and/or written. But they are so good, I can't pass them up.

1. Sleep to Dream [Kamikaze Kaitou Jeanne] [Meghan Kelly]

2. Pianissimo [Big O] [Fushigi Kismet]

3. Unsaid [Shaman King] [Pei Yi]

3. Forever Is in You [Clover] [Natalie Baan]

4. Sounds of Afternoon Go Games [Hikaru no Go] [Tari Gwaemir]

5. Maidens in the Mirror [Fushugi Yuugi] [Sabina]

6. Ghost [Hikaru no Go] [Mitchelle Thatcher]

7. Two Hearts Not Captured [Digimon] [Eve]

8. Breathing Deeply [Fushugi Yuugi] [Natalie Baan]

9. Crossing Over [Spirited Away] [Natalie Baan]

10. The Forfeit [Hellsing] [Lise]

11. Inchoate [Slam Dunk] [Shi Lin]

12. Requiescat In Pace [Yami no Matsuei] [Shi Lin]

13. Silent Night [Clover] [Kristin Olson]

14. Overture: 1812 [Weiss Kruez] [Alexandra Lucas]

15. The Taste of Cigarettes, the Taste of Tea [Clover] [Kristin Olson]

16. Blue Nights [Flame of Recca] [Tin]

17. Violet [Petshop of Horrors] [Tin]

That's all for now. (By the way, much thanks and lots of glomps to Tin, for the excellent fic recs. I think that if Tin made a fic rec list, it'd be the bible of fic rec lists. Or, I'd view it as a sacred text, anyway.) Will find more later for the miscellaneous fic recs section. Next up: More CCS fic recs, X fic recs, Cowboy Bebop fic recs, Inuyasha fic recs, Evangelion fic recs. (Should there be more?)

2003-03-07T10:53:00.000-08:00

Okay, my revised list of beta-reading:

1) Pei Yi (will look over soon, I promise!)

2) Sakura

3) Wen

4) Ekai

5) Meemee

So, ladies, send 'em over! ^________^

And have I ever told you that I loooooooooove you? A Yuki-Tohru lemon for me?! *_* I love the snippet. *squish*

More I say. Soon. XD

2003-03-03T11:02:00.000-08:00

Okay, so this is who I have on my beta-reading list so far:

1) Pei Yi

2) Wen

3) Ekai

4) Sakura

I have Pei Yi's fic, "Summer Haze" (and I will definitely look over it soon), but I don't have the others. If you dears would be so kind as to send your fics to me via e-mail, that would be wonderful.

2003-02-20T23:28:00.000-08:00

Uh, I decided to make a group of my own. Not out of vanity, though. Just a place for me to store my fic junk. If you're interested, take a look.

2003-02-20T21:41:00.000-08:00

Okay, I don't really have time to make fic recs, but I want to have fics recommended to me. Is that unfair? (Don't answer that.) Seriously, thanks Tin, for the fic recs. I read a couple of them and, as usual, I am floored. Makes me think my exposure to fanfiction has been really limited. At any rate, may I prod you for some more? I really need some good fics to read -- I've already read and re-read all my favorites fanfics. I do have a rather long but delectable and delightful looking list of fics that I need to read, though. Well, maybe not complete stories, but lots of snippets.

Speaking of snippets, I will comment on them soon. Before the spring rush comes on.

Oh, and I'm pimping myself as a beta-reader. It's high time I get out and dust off my iron scepter of my grammatical dictatorship. Y'know, flex those editing muscles -- something that I haven't done in a long, long time. I've just been reading stories and lovin' 'em, but that don't make for very helpful commentary. And I'm being very hypocritical saying that I want commentary but not dispensing any. I've been very selfish. (Again, just eating up and relishing stories.) So tremble and beware -- but only if you want me as your beta-reading 'ho.

So, who wants my services, now that I'm on fic hiatus?

2003-02-11T18:26:00.000-08:00

Okay, as part of my "abstinence from ficcing" declaration, I am now going to find other ways of wasting time. Namely, not only will I begin to scour the 'Net for new fics, but I will also compile a list of my favorite fanfiction in various anime/manga categories. I'll even break this categories further into subsections (e.g., romance, comedy, etc.) I have a mania for lists (though I don't think I can compare to some people), but I don't think I'll be terribly specific--I won't rate these works in terms of my most favorite one or the best in quality. Also, this list is based on what I've managed to read so far in my narrow fanfiction reader/writer experience, so if any of you have suggestions or recommendations, bring 'em on! I'll try to read them! (After all, I did vow to read more fic to improve my own fic, right?) So, over the next few weeks, I'll be composing a list of my favorite "Cardcaptor Sakura" fanfiction. (No surprise there, right?) As comedy seems to be the easiest kind (there are few comedic fanfictions), that's where I'll begin . . .

Anime/Manga: Cardcaptor Sakura
Category: Comedy

1. The Closet's That-A-Way [Tin]

2. A Day in the Life of Spinel Sun [Silverlight]

3. The Tomoyo Fan Club [Jae]

4. Sakura, Eriol, and the Cake Mania [Sakura]

5. A Day in the Life of a Glucose Intolerant Plushie [Sakura]

6. Morals, Mange and Misadventures in Male Bonding [Circee]

7. Dial "T" for Touya [CardCaptor Schlueter]

8. Amazing Magical Girl Ruby Moon [CardCaptor Schlueter]

9. The Yamasutra [Tin]

10. Icebreakers [Meghan Kelly]

11. A Cappella [Kit Spooner]

More later . . . my brain needs a rest.

2003-02-11T17:43:00.000-08:00

This should get rid of even the faintest doubt you may have of our not being related:

YUKIRU

What fruity mix fanfiction pairing are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Like I said, I'm a Kyou fan, but that doesn't necessarily preclude me from lusting after Yuki.

2003-02-09T18:47:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer before I begin: This is not a call for compliments, reassurances, soothings, etc. Just my own open and cluttered thoughts.

Yeesh, I think I need to stop writing for a while. (Yes, I've said this before, but I'm really thinking of seriously taking this idea up.) I've come to this brilliant and spectacular conclusion after I've read a few comments on "Suppi's Revenge" and "The River Lethe"; heck, I think I've been getting the signs as far back as "Ribbon". I think that I'm writing much too hastily nowadays; I'm not reading over my works very carefully, nor have I thought out the plot very thoroughly. I think, quite frankly, that I'm overly eager to post my work to the public; though whether it's because the comment whore in me is prostituting for praise or because I want to check one more fic off my ever-growing list is open to (internal) debate. Pre-emptively, I hope that no one who has commented on my works of late feels that I'm complaining of their comments. This is not a reproach to anyone, of course. Everyone has been wonderfully honest in assessing my latest snippets and for that I'm truly grateful. I have always asked for--and will continue to ask for--constructive criticism.

But I don't know whether it's because I am a bad writer, or I've become a bad writer. Perhaps I've always been a bad writer and was blind to it for a (long) while or I've become very sloppy in execution. I'm unsure. The last two fics that I posted seem to point either way. For instance, "Suppi's Revenge" is a fic that makes me feel unsatisfied. I have to confess that I wasn't terribly thrilled about writing the last two chapters of the fic. Quite honestly, when I initially wrote the fic, I wasn't planning on getting Nakuru out of "bishie" mode. But I felt compelled to write out another two chapters as it seemed incomplete (to leave Nakuru in that state seemed rather cruel). But looking back (though it's only been over the course of a couple of weeks), I think I made a mistake in obeying that compulsion. I may even take those two chapters down. At any rate, because of my apathy, I produced two chapters, which, in all honesty, are awful. As Sa-chan quite rightly pointed out, I failed to tie the plot back to the supposed main character of the fic. This is definitely a problem in execution and is likely indicative of the former evil I mentioned before.

"River Lethe" is another story (no pun intended, of course). I think that, too, is suffering from my lack of direction. I've been trying to infuse more tension and more pathos into various scenes, but apparently with little success. It ends up being, as Meemee helpfully pointed out, repetitive.

What I really need to do is read more. More fic, more literature, more history, more of everything. Not only to gain direction and inspiration, but skills. I'm going to try to stick to this resolution; hopefully, an "inspirational" fit (and I apply the term loosely here) won't strike anytime soon. But even if it does, I'll write, but not post.

2003-02-02T22:17:00.000-08:00

Just watched "Escaflowne: The Movie." Must say that I wasn't terribly impressed by it. P'raps because I kept comparing the movie to the TV series? I remember reading reviews on the movie; fans of the movie kept warning viewers to eradicate the series from their minds, to view the movie with "fresh" eyes--in short, to ignore the TV series. But how can I when all the characters of the movie have the same names as the characters in the TV series (and the VAs are the same as well)? When the movie still utilizes some of the plot devices of the TV series (e.g., The connection between Van and Hitomi to control Escaflowne)? How can I not compare one of my favorite anime series to the movie, I ask you?

Ah well, there is still balm in Gilead--Van was still wonderful.

2003-01-29T23:28:00.000-08:00

Snippets--another Touya in big brother mode fic.

Hanashi

They have a ritual, every night. On the dot, at seven o’clock, she waits for him at the study door. He doesn’t need to listen for the patter of her feet across the floor to sense her approach; he knows that she is already there. He lets her stand for a minute or two, as he lazily flips through his books, shuffles through papers, picks up and then drops pencils and pens until he hears her impatient call through the door, “Oniichan!”

He then emerges from the room, looking harassed, and glares at her, as he demands, “What?”

She lifts up her small arms with a pleading look and says simply, “A story.”

He peers down at her from his lofty height, tilting his head to one side, as if seriously considering her request. Sometimes he hesitates, “I don’t know, kaijuu, I’m really busy . . ..” Sometimes he answers, “I can’t tonight.” And sometimes he doesn’t say anything at all. But in the end, it is always the same. At her downcast expression, he relents and grudgingly sighs, “All right. Let’s go.”

And she smiles brightly, holding out her hand, and he takes it into his own to lead her down the hallway.

***

“Look,” he tells her, pointing out into the darkness. “There in the street.”

She stops abruptly.

“Do you see it?”

She shakes her head, more as a refusal than an answer.

“There! Look!” he exclaims again, tugging at her hand, urging her to look.

She shakes her head once more, this time shutting her eyes.

“There! There!” he cries. In his excitement, he pulls her after him down the deserted street.

She resists, trying to drag him away in the opposite direction. But he is too strong and so she follows him, unwillingly.

“Do you see it?” he repeats. “There, by the lamppost.”

And despite her fear, she slowly raises her head and looks in the direction he points out. She doesn’t see it, but she senses it, an eerie chill along her spine.

“A ghost . . .” she whispers.

“Yes.” He moves closer to the lamppost, fascinated.

She shivers and tries again to draw him away. “Oniichan, I’m scared. I don’t want to go there.”

“Don’t worry,” he replies absently, “I’ll protect you.”

“But, Oniichan . . .” She huddles closer to him, squeezing his hand more tightly. “What if it’s too strong?”

“It’s not going to hurt us,” he answers confidently, still walking toward the light.

“Oniichan,” she protests again.

“Don’t worry,” he repeats, pressing her hand reassuringly. “I’ll take care of you.”

“Oniichan—”

He halts and looks down at her, a serious expression on his face. “Sakura, I know you’re scared, but we have to go to it. It wants to talk to us.”

“It wants to talk to us?” she echoes weakly.

“Yes.”

Despite her fear, she asks, curiously, “What does it want to say?”

“I don’t know. That’s what we’re going to find out.” He walks up to it, still holding her hand. He stops beneath the lamppost. He faces it, frank and unafraid. But she hides behind him, peering through the gap between his arm and torso.

“You want to say something to me?” he asks.

The ghost nods timidly.

“What do you want to say?”

***

When they reach her room, he lifts her into her bed and tucks the blankets closely around her. She snuggles down into the covers until only her green eyes—round with excitement—peek out over the edge. He can’t help but grin a little at her eager expression (she is so cute) but he quickly hides it, feigning a yawn.

“Are you sleepy, Oniichan?” she queries a little worriedly.

“No,” he answers shortly. But her concern secretly pleases him.

“I’m glad,” she says, smiling, relieved.

“So,” he says, settling himself comfortably on the edge of her bed. “What story do you want me to tell you tonight?”

“My favorite one,” she promptly answers.

“Okay.” So he takes a moment to collect his thoughts before he begins.

2003-01-28T22:49:00.000-08:00

At long last, I'm posting the last part, the finale, of "Suppi's Revenge." It's cliched, it's weird and hopefully *crossing fingers fervently* it's funny. Do tell me what you think.

2003-01-26T23:47:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, it's very helpful to post fic snippets on your blog, because then you see all the holes, errors, etc. that you failed to see earlier.

And that, chickens, is my bit o' wisdom for the day.

Of course, I'm jokin' about the wisdom.

2003-01-25T15:24:00.000-08:00

Okay, here is the fourth part of "Suppi's Revenge." I finally finished it, but I'm going to tweak part five tonight and post it later today or tomorrow.

2003-01-24T18:22:00.000-08:00

Funny you should mention it, Sa-chan, because I've been working on it today! Coincidence? Maybe. But I think it's more because of telepathy or something . . . Okay, it's coincidence.

Anyway, I've done some tweaking (as Sa-chan has observed, I tweak a scene over and over). Here are some snippets of "Lethe":

It was autumn, but he wore the skimpy, red shorts and thin shirt of summer—a painfully bright and desolate patch of color in the somber countryside. He stood beneath the dripping trees, staring across the sodden fields. The rolling emerald meadow contrasted with the leaden bowl of sky, assaulting the eye with its discordant vista. An occasional raven wheeled in the air but there was no other presence.

Mists had gathered in the hollow, obscuring the crown of the hill from view. But he knew that the fog hid a mansion—a great, ancient building bristling with turrets and battlements. A mansion that would have been found between the pages of a child’s fairytale book, a glossy, impossible illustration penned by an artist’s imaginative hand. A picture familiar to a bookish child. But the child in the wood did not read such books and he already knew this place—and this knowledge disturbed him. So he waited at the foot of the hill, waited with an unchildlike patience, and ignored the smooth and rich purr of that unknown voice in his ear.

Why are you waiting? the voice inquired gently.

The boy shivered a little, though not from the chill damp.

Do you need a formal invitation? the voice teased playfully. A letter of introduction?

The child moved back a step, shaking his head.

There’s no need for that, child. What are you waiting for? Come.

He shook his head again and retreated back another step.

Come, the voice beckoned again. Come up.

The child resisted once more, clamping his small hands over his ears. But the voice continued, as softly and as terribly as before.

Come up, the voice repeated. Come up.

The boy fell to his knees, clenching his small teeth and tightening his hands over his ears. But the voice sounded still nearer, unhindered.

Why do you continue to resist, child? The voice sounded amused, indulgent. It’s useless. And here the voice shifted; a subtle deepening in its timbre. It held a note of a threat. You cannot.

The child whimpered—a small, desperate sound.

Now, now, don’t cry, the voice remonstrated a little sternly. Crying won’t do any good.

The boy bit his lip to stop the scream that suddenly rose in his throat.

Now, be a good child, the voice went on, gentle and welcoming once more, and do as I bid you.

Again the boy shook his head, huddling helplessly on the ground.

Why not?

The child began to rock back and forth, still shaking his head.

Why not?

The child bent over double, his hands still stopping his ears, still trying to muffle the sound of that awful voice.

Cat got your tongue? I asked you a question, now answer. Why not?

I don’t want to, the boy answered finally in a small voice.

You don’t want to, the voice echoed, amused. Why ever not? Aren’t you curious?

No.

Then what do you want? the voice asked patiently.

I want to go home.

Ah, but you are home, the voice replied. Don’t you know? Don’t you remember?

No.

You do remember. But you don’t want to.

No.

Child, you’re being stubborn. You do know.

I don’t, the child insisted.

No, you do. Now come.

I don’t want to. I want—

None of that impertinence, the voice warned. Come.

And the boy did.

***
He slid the screen aside and looked out. The peonies were blooming in the garden. The air was thick and golden with their scent. If he stretched out his hand, the wind would flow between his fingers in sticky, honeyed streams. The hand upon the screen twitched briefly. Just like honey, he thought, staring out into the yard. He tentatively reached out, but instantly jerked his hand back with the abruptness of one who touched an iron, unexpectedly hot. He closed the window but the perfumed air still filtered through, running over him in thick rivulets.

It was hot that afternoon. He tugged at the collar of his shirt, fiddling with the ornate frog clasp at his throat. He lifted his arm to wipe the sweat from his brow. A strange odor wafted up with the soft whisper of violet silk as the sleeve slithered down his arm. It was sharp and pungent, dissolving the syrupy fragrance of the peonies in the garden. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes. It smelled familiar, he thought. Like chrysanthemum tea, English tobacco . . .

And magic.

***

You have amazing powers, sir, the young man said. The man placed his teacup on the stand with an emphatic clink.

He waved the compliment away with a slender hand.

Really, sir, your auguries are incredible, the man persisted, leaning forward in his eagerness. You have such accuracy!

He shook his head, gently. No, not really, he replied.

Sir, you are too modest, the man said, smiling.

He was silent.

The man paused a moment, lost in thought. Other seers and mediums must use incantations, cards, or other physical means to channel the spirit world, the man continued pensively. But you, sir, you’re able to foretell the future without the aid of these devices.

He raised his teacup to his lips and sipped.

It’s amazing, really, the young man said excitedly.

He took up the silver tongs and selected a teacake from the shining stand.

How do you do it, sir?

He lifted his eyebrows at him in polite perplexity.

The young man leaned over, a confidential and inviting gesture, as if such a movement would allay the fear the man imagined he felt.

He bit delicately into a teacake, still ignoring the eager face of the young man opposite.

How do you do this, sir? How is it that you are able to prophesy without the use of external, physical means? the man pressed, his voice urgent.

For a long while, he gazed upon the man. His handsome eyes were distantly cold and immediately calculating. The man met his gaze unabashedly. But as the minutes went on, he noticed that the easy familiar assurance of the man faltering. Like all those before this man who had stared too long and pressed him too eagerly and began to know too much.

The man shifted uncomfortably and looked away, embarrassed. I’m sorry, the young man began, I shouldn’t have—

He politely sipped his tea, directing his eyes to the plate of biscuits at his elbow to relieve the youth’s embarrassment. As he watched the youth struggle with his teaspoon, an inexplicable whim suddenly seized him. Abruptly setting his cup aside, he faced the youth and answered, No, it simply happens.

At the sound of his voice, the young man started, dropped his spoon. He stared dumbfounded. Then collecting himself, he asked him with a slight indrawn breath, Is it true?

He gave the youth the tiniest nod.

Just like that? the man asked slowly, incredulously. It simply happens?

Yes.

You mean . . . that these visions come to you . . . at any time? Not at your bidding?

Yes.

The man paused again. Then you see these events, sleeping and waking? the man said slowly.

Yes.

The man regarded him once more. He could feel his young eyes search his face. But he knew that the man would find nothing. At last the man looked away, shifting his gaze to the summer lawn beyond the windowpane.

Another long silence stretched between them. In that space, he could hear the remote caroling of birds and the faint rush of the wind in the grove. He waited. He knew what the man would say next. They always made the same remark, expressed in the same uneven tone of wonderment. He counted the seconds, ticking off time by lightly tapping his fingers against the wire frame of his spectacles as he looked out of the window.

So that is it, the man at last quietly said to himself.

He glanced at the young man seated opposite, a mildly curious expression curving his brows. What is? he asked.

The man stared at him, startled, at his question. He fidgeted for a moment, nervously twisting a silver teaspoon between his fingers. I had always wondered . . . about your face, the man murmured, directing his eyes to the window once more.

My face? he echoed, perplexed.

Why you look the way you do . . .

He bent his keen eyes to the young face opposite.

That sad, quiet loneliness . . .

And it was he who looked on, surprised.

***

Here is the character for hope, his father instructed, guiding his small hand in his own large one. The brush glided up and down the white paper. With a final stroke, the character was complete.

Hope, he repeated, briefly touching one gleaming line with his finger. The whorls of his fingertip were black with ink.

Yes, hope, his father said. Now, you try it.

He nodded. He dipped his brush into the well of ink at the bottom of the ink stone and carefully scraped away the excess at the stone’s edge. He slowly followed the faint pencil lines his father had sketched upon the paper. Up, down, side, down, up, side.

Hope.

His father smiled. Very good, his father said. Now do it three more times.

He wrote the character one more time before he wet his brush with ink again. Hope, hope, hope, he chanted softly as his hand moved about the paper.

When he finished, he set his brush aside. He stared at the characters for a moment, a thoughtful expression tugging at his brows.

Father, he said, idly tracing the character in the air with his finger.

Yes?

What is hope?

It is what we wish for. It is what we want the most.

Can we hope a lot? Can we make a lot of wishes? The frown on his brow deepened. We can’t do that when we blow out the candles on the birthday cake or see a falling star. We can only make one wish then.

No, his father answered, we can never hope too much. We can never wish too many times. Hope is strong that way; we can never have enough.

***

Leave me, he said quietly.

The two figures stood still, however, continuing to regard him with their unearthly eyes.

Leave me, he repeated. Leave.

The tall youth murmured a protest.

Leave me.

The beast padded up to him, nudging his hand with his tawny head.

Leave me.

Again the youth spoke.

You don’t understand, he said. You can’t understand.

The beast protested, his voice low and rumbling.

I cannot light the darkness, he moaned. I cannot banish the shadows.

The youth objected again.

There is nothing you can do, he groaned. He moved away from them.

The beast growled in response.

I tell you it is not enough! he exclaimed passionately.

The youth tried to speak but he cut him off. It’s no use! Are you not listening? he shouted. I say again that you can do nothing!

The beast remonstrated.

Will you not leave me? he cried. His hand shot out in a cutting, imperious gesture. Leave!

The youth spoke again.

You do not understand, he told them, despairingly. You cannot understand. He leaned against the wall, defeated.

The beast contradicted him.

No, he insisted, his voice weary. You may have been with me for years upon years, but you cannot comprehend the weight that I bear. You do not know.

The youth protested.

Ah, you have seen it, you say? His voice was mocking. You have witnessed it? But you still have not felt it. You know nothing. He turned away.

The beast spoke again.

It is useless. I am tired, and I am weary.

The youth stepped toward him, hands outspread beseechingly.

You can do nothing. That is why I am telling you to leave.

The beast argued.

No! he bellowed. Just leave me! Leave me!

The beast padded toward him. The youth walked up to him. But he shrank from them, one hand clutching the velvet curtain in angry desperation, the other raised to ward them off. I tell you it is too late! Why do you keep insisting upon it! I tell you, I tell, it is too late!

They came closer to him, their expressions grave and worried.

Stay away! Leave me!

The beast nuzzled against him. The youth tried to embrace him. But he pushed them away, moaning, his face still turned to the wall. No, keep away. It’s useless. There is nothing you can do. He covered his face with his hands. Nothing, he whispered. It’s too late.

***

Here's a snippet of "Suppi's Revenge." I'd give more, but then the whole plot's blown!

“It’s the big day, Master,” Spinel said.

“Yes, Spinel. Four hours and counting before ‘Operation: Transform Nakuru’ begins.”

“Do you think it will work?” Spinel asked doubtfully for the tenth time.

“I’m positive, Spinel.”

Spinel, looking at his master standing calm and ready, armed with a duffle bag, sighed. “I hope it does, Master. I really hope it does.”

“Don’t worry, Spinel, “ Eriol replied, smiling. “We’ll have Nakuru back to his former self this afternoon.”

“Well,” Spinel said, still worried, “good luck!”

“Right!” Eriol nodded and clenched his upraised fist. “I’ll do my best!”

2003-01-22T09:57:00.000-08:00

Fic update (or why I can't seem to commit myself to read Sec. Reg.):

Upon Waking [X]: Angsting Fuuma at the end of the TV series

Metamorphoses [X]: Sorata and Arashi . . . uh, having fun?

Suppi's Revenge [CCS]: Eriol to the rescue

Clumsy [Fruits Basket]: Yukiru makes Tohru swoon

As you can tell, a lot of these summaries are somewhat off base (e.g., "Clumsy"), but I thought I'd jazz 'em up a little; it gets too boring to give serious, near-exact approximations of drafts.

There's more, but I can't think of 'em right now. Comments on various fic snippets later.

2002-12-17T16:39:00.000-08:00

As it seems to be all the rage . . .

1. The first story I EVER posted/read was: (if you don't remember, describe story)

First Fanfiction Ever Read: "Hearts of Ice" by Krista Perry (though I'm not too sure if this was the first one I read . . .)

First Fanfiction Ever Posted: "Fruition"--the only Ranma 1/2 fiction I ever wrote and the oldest fanfiction I ever retained/wrote. Back in 1998 or 1999, I think. And I'm still stuck on Chapter 4 of that darn work. (But I will finish it . . . eventually.)

2. The fandom for that was... (if you're too ashamed to admit it, lie!)

First Fic Read: Ranma 1/2
First Fic Posted: Ranma 1/2

3. And this was actually back in...

First Fic Read: 1998 or 1999 (I started late in fanfiction reading.)
First Fic Posted: 1998 or 1999

4. My favorite genre to write is:

Angst (as if you didn't know) and romance (though this is pretty rare--due to my obsession with writing in the genre mentioned before)

5. My favorite genre to read is:

Angst and romance (can you detect a strong bias yet?). But like Sa-chan, I read anything that catches my fancy. Or, again, like Sa-chan, I read anything that has my favorite pairing in it. And, unlike Sa-chan, as I am not masochistic, I refuse to read bad fanfiction, even if it does employ my favorite pairings. (I'm already suffering too much because of law school--I only have a limited threshold of pain, after all.)

6. My TOP FIVE or VERY favorite fan-author(s) is/are:

Need to think about this s'more . . .

7. My favorite published-author(s) is/are:

Ralph Ellison, Nella Larsen, Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte, Louisa May Alcott, William Faulkner, F. Scott Fitzgerald, T.S. Eliot, William Butler Yeats, Michel Foucault (and there's more but I can't think of them at the moment)

8. I can often be found haunting...

Fic blogs, ff.net, the law school library and computer labs, the manga section at any major bookstore

9. My current passion(s) is/are:

Fruits Basket (thanks to Sa-chan, 'natch.): Yuki/Tohru, Kyou (by his wee self)

Cowboy Bebop: Spike (because there's not enough Spike-in-his-solo-days fics)

Angelic Layer: Kotarou/Misaki (because the anime f*cked it up)

Ayashi no Ceres: Yuuhi/Aya (because Yuuhi got gypped and Touya is a no-personality pretty-boy)

CCS: Tomoyo/Eriol (because I still got the love)

10. A fandom I kind of miss, and still have a few unexorcised ghosts for is:

CCS, Ranma 1/2, Rurouni Kenshin (another series I've written for but have not yet finished)

11. My strangest, most unexpected fandom turn was:

Harry Potter. I had stubbornly resisted reading that until all the peer pressure and rave reviews caused my resolve to collapse. Now I'm as fangirly as they come.

12. Something I wish I could write for, but never did/never will was:

Blade of the Immortal (to write a fic for it would be sacrosanct, I think)

13. I'm happily (or unhappily) anticipating being ambushed at some point by:

Harry/Hermione (yes, tremble and beware my friends), Kagome/Inuyasha, Eriol (actually, the darn swot is always ambushing me)

14. A secret fandom urge I've never confessed is:

Sailor Moon. But that, fortunately, was a long time ago. Will never have a secret fandom urge for that again.

15. I am most proud of (reading/writing/being involved with) this particular fandom aspect:

Most proud of writing: "The River Lethe" (though it's not even finished yet) and "Elegy for a Cowboy" (because it took me a damn long time to write)

Most proud of reading: "The Final Gathering" by Tin (the second draft before it was sadly erased) and "Fujitaka" (yet in its embryonic stages, but still am proud to say that I read the drafts)

Most proud of being involved with: CCS--lots of friends and good writers were found here

2002-11-24T16:25:00.000-08:00

As you know, dear friends, it's that time of year again; the time when finals loom near and that irresistible force, procrastination, kicks in to protest against fate. And that protest has produced yet another "Fruits Basket" work: "One Moment."

Here's snippet to whet your appetite (or so I try). The complete form is posted here. As usual, it's still rough, so constructive criticism would be lovingly received. Dedicated to all you Kyou fans.

***

One Moment

I love these moments with you. When it's just you and me, walking side by side. We could just be going to the market or coming back from the post office or doing any other ordinary, uneventful errand. We've done hundreds of errands like this before. But walking in the sun like this, or walking in the rain with you, to that ordinary place with our ordinary errand, it's special. It doesn't matter that we've done it so many times before. It's always been special to me.

You've always been special to me.

I've never told you this, though. And even if I wanted to tell you, I wouldn't know how. I don't have the words.

The sun shines on you so brightly today. Your hair is brown, but in the light of the afternoon sun your hair becomes golden, like honey. You look beautiful in the sunlight. You look beautiful in the rain, too, even though I hate the rain.

But then, you look beautiful all the time. You are beautiful, even though you'd never believe it. If I said this to you, you would only blush and laugh and say, I'm not beautiful at all.

You're wrong, though. You only think this because you've never seen the way you smile, the way you read a book, the way you stand there before me, holding a canvas bag full of groceries. I've seen this, though. You have a quiet beauty, like a small flower that blooms secret, unseen. I understand this beauty. It's the most precious and the most rare.

2002-11-05T10:32:00.000-08:00

Snippets from latest work: A Fuuma-centric fic, taking place after the end of the anime series . . .

Upon Waking

He stood high above the city, a dim and lonely shade against the white light of the morning sky. The city stretched out beneath him, at first sharp and clear, but melting away at the rim of the horizon in a haze of pearl. He knew that the sun, the sky, and the earth hurtled toward that edge and collided together, exploding into that vague, boundless radiance.

Strange, he thought, how violence could produce such calm.

He wanted, not for the first time during those pale dawn hours, to fling himself into that space. For he knew that that limitless expanse promised forgetful release from his inexplicable sorrow. But a thought, inchoate but strong, held him there. His hope. So he continued to gaze out, his hand pressed against his heart, and wondered.

He did not know why he stood there or how he even scaled the metal girths of Tokyo Tower to reach that impossible height. He only remembered sitting in a room beside his sister’s bed, as she lay like one lifeless. And as he sat, sorrowing, he remembered his friend entering the room. His face, he remembered thinking, seemed strangely and fiercely resolute. He remembered wondering over it.

But those were his last thoughts; for the darkness consumed him then.

Other news:

I've drawn yet another Yuki pic. I've also finished most of the pages of my Sakura shrine; am now in the process of hunting for images and fanworks to display. If you're interested, you know who to contact.

It's really very surprising how suddenly productive I become in ficcing and drawing when finals loom nearer . . .

2002-10-29T16:01:00.000-08:00

Another to-do list:

Fulfillment [Clover][Suu; end of series]

Upon Waking [X/1999][Fuuma; end of anime]

Hands [Angelic Layer][Kotarou x Misaki]

Words I Couldn't Say [Fruits Basket][Kyou]

Hanashi [CCS][Touya, Sakura, and a bedtime story]

Metamophoses [X/1999][Arashi x Sorata; possible lemon]

The River Lethe [CCS][Eriol; childhood]

Psyche [CCS][Eriol x Tomoyo]

Etude of a Dream [Cowboy Bebop][Spike; pre-Bebop days]

Martian Requiem [Cowboy Bebop][Jet; end of series]

Untitled fic [X/1999][Karen]

2002-10-25T21:45:00.000-07:00

Well, I've done it. I'm off the CCSFWML. You and I have always talked about leaving in tandem . . . and I didn't want to face the thought of not having my partner-in-crime with me on the list. Admittedly, I'm sad leaving it because I've met such wonderful people there and was able to meet a few of my personal fanfiction idols. It's the passing of an age, my friends.

Luckily for me, though, I won't be starving for good Cardcaptor Sakura fanfiction as most of the best writers on the ML are also in my immediate blogging circle. XD Am I cool or what?

2002-10-25T17:36:00.000-07:00

Y'know, it's really difficult to draw Yuki--especially his hair. I've drawn one Yuki picture and it took me a little while longer than usual to draw because of those damned tresses. Because his hair is so pretty and delicate and flowing, you must use your pencil delicately; gentle, light strokes, strategically-placed strands, etc., etc. Now I'm drawing one with Yuki's hair waving in the breeze and it's even harder to do . . .

Yuki: No, no, woman, you have my hair all wrong. That side is much too long. And you've drawn too many strands! And--
Me: Look, you damn mouse, you're feckin' hard to draw, okay?!
Yuki: No, you're just incompetent. You're not doing justice to the full, princely beauty of my hair. *fetchingly tosses hair back*
Me: Next time, I'm drawing Kyou. ><
Yuki: That stupid cat? Please. There are much better looking subjects to--
Kyou: Whaddaya mean! You damn mouse! *lunges at Yuki*
Me: Help.

Anyway, I hope to get it done soon and find a place where I can scan it in for you.

Additional art news: I've managed to come up with a character design of Hermione. But Ron is a difficult bugger to draw. (Yes, Eva, dear, this is why it's been taking me so long to get that Ron picture out to you.)

All right, gotta get back to drawing. (And yes, I'm avoiding all law-school related work! XD)

2002-10-21T00:22:00.000-07:00

Thank you, Ekai, for the comment on the last post. But as I forewarned, I took one look at the last post and exclaimed, "What a sorry, whiny, slop of a post!" And, to my relief (and the relief of all my other dear friends), I deleted the entry.

That's the last time I drink that much coffee when I'm stressed.

2002-10-19T22:20:00.000-07:00

Fic whine, coming through.

Y'know, one of these fine days, I'm going to write a romantic work without a speck of angst. Really, I'm serious, here. I tried (vainly) to make "Ribbon" a pretty, happy, romantic work. But oh, no, my feckin' morbid imagination had to inject some angst into it! >< What gives? I tried and tried to write a "fluffy" work (though I don't know if I like the word, "fluffy"--seems to connote meaningless, empty drip), but dammit, if something in my wee noggin just doesn't take over and screw up my plot and characterization. I wanted a sweet, secret moment between Yuki and Tohru and what did I do? I wrote about a sad, lonely Yuki, sorrowing over his curse and his seemingly hopeless love with Tohru.

Dammit, sometimes I just hate my stupid imagination.

I don't think I have a single work that isn't devoid of sadness. Hell, I know I don't have one happy work. Maybe I have really negative views on life and love, which somehow manifest themselves in my works. Yeah, that's probably it.

Maybe I should take something to cheer me up? Something illegal and bad for me, perhaps?

Anyway, I'm strongly tempted to re-write "Ribbon"--take out the angst and the stupidly sad story and make it more happy in tone.

2002-10-16T18:37:00.000-07:00

I think it's rather bad, but I was dying to post a completed work.

Sa-chan, I think you need to get the butter ready.

Anyway, here it is: Ribbon.

Again, it's rather bad, so constructive criticism would be most welcome.

2002-10-15T15:19:00.000-07:00

After re-reading this, I think it's high-time for a heavy-handed revision.

Sometimes I wonder what kind of crack I'm smoking at the time I write a particular work . . .

2002-09-24T20:41:00.000-07:00

I never said I was finished . . . Some snippets:

Ribbon [Fruits Basket]

He set the dog-eared book down upon the table.

“That was your favorite book when you were a child,” Shigure remarked as he walked into the room.

He turned to face Shigure. “Yes. I remember.”

Shigure picked up the book and carelessly leafed through it. “I remember reading that book to you almost every night,” he said as he idly scanned the pages.

He reached over and jerked the book out of Shigure’s hands. He tucked the book under his arm and began to walk toward the door.

“You sure were a strange kid, Yuki-kun,” Shigure commented, extracting a magazine from the pile on the table.

He halted at the threshold, his hand on the lintel of the door.

“So quiet and serious,” Shigure continued as he thumbed through the glossy pages. “Such a lonely little thing.” He tossed the magazine aside and selected another. “But,” he added, “you always smiled whenever I read this story to you.”

He didn’t answer.

Shigure peered over the top of the magazine to look at him, grinning in fond remembrance. “You were so cute when you smiled,” he sighed gustily.

He frowned a little.

“But you haven’t changed, Yuki-kun,” Shigure said, suddenly serious. “You don’t smile much.” He paused and the familiar mischievous glint appeared in his eyes. “Unless you’re around Tohru-kun,” he added slyly.

“Do you remember what you told me once, Shigure-san?” he asked abruptly, not hearing Shigure’s comment at all.

Shigure stopped, puzzled. “What?”

“You told me that I’m not really like him.”

Shigure knit his brows, thinking. At last he answered, “Yes, I remember saying that. What of it?”

“And you said that the curse of the Sohma clan was simply a transformation.”

“It is,” Shigure asserted.

“But I said that I was still like him, in many ways.”

***

Fulfillment [Clover]

The park unfolded across the hills, black and immense against the pale green sky. It unfurled slowly, occasionally swelling into fantastical peaks and plunging into queer valleys. The park seemed impossible, grotesque, like a nightmare, fragile and inchoate, on the rim of waking.

And through this landscape walked a child, a dream herself, graceful and ephemeral and slight, with her sensitive, tremulous mouth and luminous, sorrowful eyes. And she was the most fragile and terrible dream of all.

She stepped lightly, her bare feet seeming to glide along the pavement. She was humming softly to herself, a melody, plaintive and lovely. The monstrous forms of the whirligigs crouched silent, listening.

The child looked up, as if in understanding, and raised her voice so that it echoed, gently, clearly, across the deserted park. They were listening, she knew, as she had listened so long ago to that same song, sung by that disembodied voice over the phone. She knew that they understood as she had understood, insensate and unmoving as they were.

For it was a song of happiness.

***

The ferris wheel hung in the twilit sky, broken and derelict, like a bauble carelessly handled and flung aside. Its seats swung empty in the air and its gay-colored lights glimmered blankly in the faint radiance of the young moon. The girl paused, laying one loving hand upon the rusted hulk. The ferris wheel began to revolve, slowly, its lights sparking to life, its tinny music jangling. She smiled slightly as she listened to bright, garish melody.

This, she thought, is joy.

She listened for another moment before she drew away. The ferris wheel abruptly stopped, dark and still once more.

***

Ta-da!

Now I have to go back to work . . .

2002-09-24T20:35:00.000-07:00

A quick to-do list:

Fulfillment [Clover][Suu; end of series]

Hands [Angelic Layer][Kotarou/Misaki]

Hanashi [CCS][Touya/Sakura; big brother storytelling]

Ribbon [Fruits Basket][Tohru/Yuki]

Metamorphoses [X][Sorata/Arashi; potential lemon]

The River Lethe [CCS][Eriol; childhood]

Psyche [CCS][Eriol/Tomoyo]

Etude of a Dream [Cowboy Bebop][Spike; pre-Bebop days]

Martian Requiem [Cowboy Bebop][Jet; end of series]

A re-do list:

Elegy for a Cowboy [Cowboy Bebop][Faye; end of series]

Gi-puhn Ma-uhm [CCS][Tomoyo/Eriol]

On-hold list:

The Waste Land [NGE][Shinji; post-series]

Fruition [Ranma 1/2][Ranma/Akane; somewhat alternative universe]

Twilight [Rurouni Kenshin][Revenge Arc; retold w/twist]

I think I might be rivaling Tin in the number of fics that I have to work on . . .

2002-09-13T11:44:00.000-07:00

I agree with Tin; a quick post from long ago, glossing over the impending policy at ff.net. It's a bad "argument," however (I beg the excuse that it was a hasty post). Tin is definitely correct in saying that ff.net has the right to promulgate any policy that it wishes; most of us writers are using its site for free. And it was silly of my to argue that it restricts free speech; ff.net isn't really a public forum (though perhaps you may still be able to argue this), so such an argument is moot.

Tin brings up an interesting point, though: What about those authors who are paying for ff.net services and have NC-17 stories posted on their page? They are paying for those services . . . I predict that ff.net will have to change its policy to say that it provides services to paying members but reserves the right to restrict the material those members post. (Or has ff.net already said that?)

Ff.net has been warning writers for a while that it will be imposing restrictions on story ratings. Not to sound smug, here, but I figured it was only a matter of time before it pulled off all the NC-17 stories.

2002-09-08T17:10:00.000-07:00

A snippet of my Cowboy Bebop fic, "Etude of a Dream." This work takes place prior to Spike's bounty hunting days; it aims to explore Spike's relationships with Vicious and Julia--the catalysts that created and broke apart these relationships. So far, I have four chapters planned out: the first chapter focuses on Spike alone, the second concentrates on Spike and Vicious, the third examines Spike and Julia, and the fourth looks at Spike, Vicious, and Julia. Not much has been done--I've been, of course, busy, and strangely too tired to crank anything out.

Anyway, here it is:

Chapter I: Fantasia: Brio

The music drifted over him in long, languorous currents, rich, ephemeral and drowsy, redolent of sultry August evenings and hot, sugared rum. He listened, leaning back against the wall with lazy and careless grace, his eyes fixed on the stage opposite. Through the haze of cigarette smoke, he discerned the swaying forms of the musicians.

The music was good, the drinks awful. He tossed the whisky down, nonetheless; the sweating bodies and the swirling smoke made the room close and stifling. He tipped his glass up, slightly. A waitress hurried over from the bar and took the glass. She soon returned with it, replenished. He nodded his thanks as he withdrew a cigarette and a lighter from his pocket. As he touched the end with the flame, he heard a rattle at the door.

***

“So they've found out,” the man said at last.

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“Yesterday morning.”

“I guess I can’t fool the old bastards, eh, Spike?”

“No,” Spike said matter-of-factly.

“So, this is it, then?”

“I’m afraid it is,” Spike replied gently. He leveled his gun at the man.

“Too bad,” the man said, shrugging, as he fished out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

“Yeah.”

The man shook out a cigarette, lighted it, and took a drag. Spike waited. At last, the man spoke again.

“I guess it was stupid of me, wasn’t it? To think I could leave the syndicate.”

Spike didn’t answer.

“Do you know why I did it? Why I tried to leave?”

“No.”

The man took another drag. “In all my years with the syndicate, I’ve killed hundreds of men. The old men would give an order and I would execute it without a second thought. I never felt guilty, I never felt sad. I was a machine.” The man blew a ring of smoke into the air. “But all that while, I felt something in my chest, a pain of some sort. It was as if I couldn’t breathe. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs. I felt as if I were drowning. At first, I thought it was this—” He gestured to the glowing cigarette between his fingers. “But that wasn’t it.”

Spike stood still, his gun poised, ready.

The man took one final puff before he dropped the cigarette to the ground. He looked down as he slowly ground it out with his shoe. The man stared at the ashes. Spike stood, waiting, his gun still raised. Finally, he looked up.

“I just wanted to breathe freely again."

***

More on the fic front:

I'm still, slowly, working on "Metamorphoses." This work is taking me longer than "Gi-puhn Ma-uhm." I can't figure out why, though. (Perhaps because it's a lemon?)

Also, still slowly working on "Martian Requiem." I've noticed there's actually quite a few fics that look at the aftermath of episode 26 from Jet's point of view. I read most of them and so far, I've thought that this one was the best. Anyway, even though I have a few scenes written out, there's still a lot more to work on.

Working on the first chapter of "Psyche" as well. In fact, here's a snippet for your perusal:

Chapter I: Caterpillar

It was teatime.

Eriol set the tray down. With mathematical precision, he arranged the cups, the saucers, the plates, the teapot, the silverware, the cream pitcher, and the sugar bowl in their accustomed places. Finally, he positioned a vase of flowers (it was March, so it was daffodils) in the center of the table. He sat down in his chair (the one facing the east window) and unfolded the newspaper.

At five minutes past, Eriol laid his paper aside. He measured two spoonfuls of tea (chamomile was her favorite) and poured hot water from the silver kettle into the teapot. One minute later, the chime sounded three o’clock. Another minute passed and he heard the scrape and rattle of the key in the lock. He heard the muffled thump of her satchel on the hallway floor and the faint rustle of her dress as she pulled off her shoes. In another minute, he heard the familiar shuffle of her slipped feet as she made her way to the parlor.

He looked up as she entered the room.

“How was your day?” he asked, lifting up the teapot.

“Fine,” she answered as she eased into her chair.

“Any trouble with the children today?”

“None at all.”

He poured the tea. He stirred in the cream and sugar before silently handing her cup. She took up a plate and chose two triangles of cucumber sandwich, a scone, and a slice of pound cake (the usual fare). She sipped her tea before selecting a nearby book, and began to read.

He retreated behind his newspaper.

It was teatime, as usual.

***

// October 10, 2007

Dear Sakura-san,

Thank you for your last letter. Spinel, Nakuru, and I enjoyed it immensely; it was very entertaining. I’m still in disbelief, however, over Cerberus’s last exploit. I know that Cerberus can eat a lot of food and eat it quickly, but I still can’t imagine Cerberus eating five cakes in two minutes. Poor Tsukishiro-san must have been very disappointed. But I suppose Cerberus got—if you’ll excuse the pun—his just desserts later that night. Five boxes of laxatives! That’s amazing! Granted, Cerberus has a cast-iron stomach, but I suppose gobbling that many cakes in that short time proved too much for him.

We’re all very glad to know that you’re well. Spinel, Nakuru, and I are doing very well, too. Spinel has just finished reading “War and Peace.” He’s really very proud of the accomplishment, as he’s been trying to finish that book for more than a year now. Each time he’s picked it up, he couldn’t get past the fifteenth chapter. He swore this year that he would finish the book and he did. Nakuru plans on baking Spinel a cake by way of congratulating him.

As for Nakuru, he is his usual cheerful self. He was a bit off-color for a little while due to a lack of fishnet stockings at his favorite boutique; the poor creature was quite beside himself, really. Fortunately, he found a shop that sold the stockings in abundance. Nakuru has been wondering whether Kinomoto Touya-san has received his package yet? If it’s not too much trouble, will you notify Nakuru when Kinomoto Touya-san receives the package? Nakuru really would like to know that the package arrived in Japan safely. I don’t know what the package contains—Nakuru won’t tell me what he sent—but Nakuru insists that, “It’s something really delicious.”

I do plan on visiting Japan soon. I must confess that I’m quite longing to go; your urging has only strengthened my resolve. Now that I’ve finished my studies at Oxford, I intend to have a nice long holiday. I will probably wait until spring to come visit; I want to be in Japan when the cherry trees are in flower.

Good health to you and your family.

Sincerely,

Hiiragizawa Eriol //

With a small sigh, he laid his pen down and began to scan the letter.

Spinel came into the room, settling himself on his master’s shoulder. “I came to tell you that lunch was ready, but I see that you’re busy.”

“Rather,” Eriol replied. He placed the letter on the blotter and capped the inkbottle.

“It’s strange how old-fashioned you are—archaic, really—in writing your letters,” Spinel commented as Eriol delved into a drawer of the oak secretary. “Fountain pens, sealing wax, blotters . . . you use all the paraphernalia of Clow’s era in composing epistles. Old habits die hard, I suppose.”

***

Also slogging through, "The River Lethe." Taking a lot of time as my brain can't seem to come up with the needed extra scenes.

The characters began to blur. He looked up from his writing to find that night had settled upon the hills. With a careless lift of his hand, the lamps flared.

He turned back to the parchment spread before him. He gazed down at the words, which tumbled down the page in black waterfalls of ink. The fine elegant script implied a poem—perhaps an ode to Huang Shan in the tradition of Li Bai—but it was merely a treatise on the nature of dreams and portents. He intended to send the document to a colleague in China, a scholar interested in Western divination.

He quickly scanned the lines, adding a word here and there. Finally satisfied, he wet his brush with ink again and recommenced writing. When the characters thickly crowded the page, he stopped to read. His eyes traveled down the sheet, adding words once more. He wrote on and on, the strokes of his brush settling into mechanical regularity.

Metaphors.

Signs.

Symbols.

Loneliness.

He stopped, his brush suspended in mid-air.

Loneliness, he repeated to himself.

He stared at the words, his lips silently forming the phrase over and over.

Loneliness.

Slowly, he laid the brush aside.

***

The line lengthened, flesh-colored and uncertain, across the page, curving round before it finally resolved into a large, uneven circle. Two small half-moons erupted from either side of the circle, one slightly higher than the other. A rough tangle of black exploded atop the circle. Two large brown dots appeared ringed by two gray lines. A long black hook and a wide red curve finished the portrait.

Father, he wrote carefully. He held the picture up with the air of an art connoisseur. He smiled to himself, pleased with his handiwork, and selected another crayon.

The faint and warm smell of wax rose from between his fingers. He felt the wax beneath his hand, slippery and warm. It felt pleasant, comfortable. He rubbed his hand against the slick surface before taking up his crayon once more.

Another flesh-colored oval. A curtain of black tumbled about it. Two large violet dots evolved, fringed with black lashes. A small rosy mouth bloomed beneath a hook, slight and delicate.

Mother, he scribbled in violet crayon. He paused for a moment, touching the portrait in delight, anticipating her surprise at seeing her face there on the paper.

He began again. Soon, a familiar face formed on the page beside his mother and he smiled in recognition.

In large tipsy letters beneath the last smiling face he wrote: Eriol.

***

Yue.

The winged youth rose, regarding his master with unearthly eyes.

The judge, he said softly to himself. The creature stood before him, his beautiful face illumined with a strange and fantastic light.

The moon, he added, whispering.

And so the youth was, a personification of the bright orb congealed in the darkness and glass behind the velvet drapes.

He will banish the shadows and illuminate the darkness, he thought. He sat back, smiling slightly, pleased with his handiwork.

The beast to his right nudged his hand. He stroked the golden mane briefly before withdrawing his hand. But he could still feel the heat pulsing against his skin like the sun on a warm summer afternoon.

Cerberus, he murmured. The beast purred in response.

The sun, he said quietly. And he smiled again.

Suddenly he rose, still smiling, and stretched out his hands as if to say welcome. Fantastic streams of light rippled over him, a radiance like water under the molten glance of the summer sun and a gleam like snow under the cool moon. In those mingled lights of gold and blue, he looked benign and beautiful.

“Come,” he said. The creatures nodded and obediently followed him through the door.

I need not fear the darkness now, he thought as he looked at the creatures walking next to him. For I have the sun and the moon beside me.

And for a time, their light was enough.

***

And, lastly, working on "Ribbon" for my dear Imouto. Taking a while as my physical energy can't seem to match my creative energy. Here's a snippet:

“Honda-san,” he called out.

The girl paused, turning to look at him. “Yes?”

“Your . . . hair ribbon,” he said quietly, pointing at the loose pink loop near her ear.

“Oh!” She hurriedly set her satchel down. “I’ll fix it.” She quickly pulled at the loop. At once, her hair leapt out in long, tangled streamers, freed from its silk binding. She tried to gather the brown strands into her hand and under the ribbon, but the March wind whipped her hair this way and that.

Her hair was a flashing stream of honey and gold in the spring sun.

“The wind is so strong today,” she commented, as she tried to tame her wild locks. A strand lashed out across her open mouth, causing her to sputter.

He watched as her hands frantically parted the currents, struggling to grasp the wayward locks. But the glossy strands slipped through her hands like water.

***

Sad to say, that's the most "complete" section I have. ><

Long, boring, pointless post of snippets, but I don't wanna study! ><

2002-09-06T11:09:00.000-07:00

Still working on "Ribbon." I need lots and lots and lots of WAFF as fuel to inspire me. So, lessee what WAFF I have available . . .

Akogare by Imouto-chan

Kanaete by Imouto-chan

The Three Intimacies by Natalie Baan

Referring to Stars by Tin

A Cappella by Kit

More later . . .

2002-08-29T10:36:00.000-07:00

Okay, one last post, I promise. (A vertible buzz of hyperactivity in the ficcing department, no?) I've been working on "Suppi's Revenge" on and off. It's been rather difficult as I haven't really been in the mood to write this; I have to be in a certain frame of mind (a state usually achieved with lethal amounts of sugar and caffine) to write, but it's been hard to achieve this (obviously, my glucose tolerance is dangerously high).

***

Chapter IV: Transform, Nakuru!

“Master.” Spinel flitted over to the large desk at which Eriol sat. “I’m worried about Nakuru.”

“Worried?” Eriol echoed, looking at Spinel over the envelopes fanned out in his hand. At the perturbed expression on the tiny guardian’s face, Eriol immediately laid his mail aside. “Whatever for?” he asked in concern.

“It’s been four months that Nakuru has been wearing men’s clothing.”

Eriol stared blankly at his creation. “So?”

“Don’t you think it a bit strange? Nakuru, who always had a tantrum if Bebe didn’t have fishnet stockings?”

“It’s only a phase, Spinel,” Eriol replied reassuringly as he took up the post once more. He began to open the envelopes. “You said so yourself.”

“I don’t know if it can be properly deemed a phase anymore.”

“Come, come now Spinel, I think you’re taking this much too seriously,” Eriol said, as he deftly slit open the last missive. “It’s just one of Nakuru’s freaks. He’ll get over it in time.”

“But Master, I—”

“Now, Spinel,” Eriol said, as he began to scan the papers, “I did create you and Nakuru after all, and I think—”

Eriol stopped. His eyes grew as wide as saucers. The blood drained from his face. Spinel looked over his Master’s shoulder and winced. The credit card bill had arrived. Spinel wisely averted his eyes to the painting on the far wall. Seeing Master upset wasn’t a pretty sight.

“Spinel, I do believe you’re right,” Eriol said at last when he regained composure. “It’s time that I step in and do something.”

***

“You must be joking, Eriol-kun,” Sakura gasped.

“No, I’m quite serious, Sakura-san.”

Eriol, Tomoyo and Sakura sat huddled in a secluded corner of the Café Piffle Princess. The dark, serious looks and secretive manner of the trio suggested a dark, clandestine meeting of some unlawful, unholy work.

“I don’t believe it,” Sakura said faintly. “I don’t believe it.”

“I’m afraid Eriol-kun is quite serious, Sakura-chan,” Tomoyo replied gently.

Sakura looked at Eriol. Tomoyo-chan was right. There was a grimly determined expression on his face that Sakura had never seen before.

“B-but Eriol-kun, this is—this is insane!” Sakura exclaimed weakly.

“Insane, yes, but recall who we’re dealing with here.”

“But I really don’t think the others will agree, Eriol-kun,” Sakura insisted. “They’ll think it’s crazy.”

“Isn’t there any other way?” Tomoyo asked.

Eriol sighed and tiredly rubbed his eyes. “Not that I know of. I’ve tried and tried to think of another way but I can’t find any other solution but this. Considering what Nakuru is like . . .”

“But Eriol-kun, are you sure this will work?” Tomoyo queried, her eyebrow arched skeptically.

“I’m positive. Nakuru is not anything but competitive. He’ll fall for it hook, line and sinker.”

2002-08-29T10:26:00.000-07:00

I just wanted to mention that I began to work on the Yuki/Tohru fic yesterday night. As I consequence, I'm tired, incoherent, and spacey. (Need coffee, lots of coffee.) I have about 2 pages done, though there are lots and lots of incomplete passages. Because it's Labor Day weekend, I think I'll be able to work on it s'more and hopefully finish. I'm proud to say that this is my most romantic fic to date; all inspiration for this work, which I've titled, "Ribbon," comes from the beautiful, romantic works of Imouto-chan. (You rule!)

Some news: I decided to keep "In Blue Fields" as it is, with a few minor changes. I can't think of any way of working in new scenes. So I can cross that off my list of fics to overhaul.

Okay, I have yet another post. Why am I posting so many snippets, you may ask? Well, it's because I refused to do my reading for today's classes. (Ha, ha, take that, school!)

I had resolved against posting this because it's still really incomplete, but I couldn't help it. Some irresistible force was compelling me at gunpoint to post this snippet. (I.e., procrastination and tiredness.) I haven't posted the beginning--just the part near the end of the beginning. (Did that make sense?) So, here's s'more on "Metamorphoses."

***

His kiss would warm her, she knew. But if she went to him, if she placed her mouth against his, she—she didn’t know. Only vaguely, distantly thought:

Turn to him and know despair. Turn to him and be damned to grief.

But her eyes were already turned to him and she could not pull them away. Her mind felt strangely dim with a peculiar lassitude, that same somnolent dullness that came of a blazing summer day. But the heat came not from that noontime star but from the youth sitting across the bed whose face floated out to her in the uncertain twilight, blazing with that same indefinite white intensity. And the white-hot gaze of his eyes and the white glare of his face and the burning white bed bewildered her.

She swayed slightly, gripping the sheets with white-knuckled fists. For a moment, she closed her eyes as if she could somehow right herself, shut out his image and his heat. But he was there in the darkness behind her lids, exploding across that dark horizon in stars of light. His heat seemed to close about her, reaching with hot fingers into those spaces, secret and dim, which seemed to contract and expand beneath their touch. At once a bursting and a closing, like a flower springing open to the sun and wilting in its rays.

She opened her eyes with an effort, willing the lids to lift themselves. Through the cloud of desire that filmed her eyes, she dimly saw that the white distance between them had somehow lessened; for in that brief struggle between longing and fear, she had continued to inch toward him in that absolute and inexorable trajectory until she was nearly at his side. Only one degree more, one slight motion, and she would be in his arms.

But once in his arms, she would burn.

2002-08-29T08:26:00.000-07:00

An idea I had before I came up with "Psyche." A snippet I'll probably never work on, sad to say . . .

Hiiragizawa Eriol lounged against the wall, listening to the women singing onstage. He formed a handsome picture of unstudied elegance, his dark hair falling into his eyes, his silver-gray tie slightly loosened, his jacket unbuttoned. Sundry female eyes regarded him admiringly; glances, coquettish or predatory, cast like roses at the feet of a triumphant champion. Mute homage to a hero who had conquered, not by a sword, but with a dashing mien.

But the man neither noticed the appreciative stares of the women or the envious glares of the men nearby. He stood, oblivious to all save one happy couple seated at the long table opposite. The bridal pair.

He was truly happy for them. It was the fairytale ending to the lovely romance that had unfolded before him so many years ago. The princess and her prince. And Eriol, diminished though his powers were, knew that they would live happily ever after. Yes, of this he was certain.

But the fairytale says nothing of the fairies, he thought, or the friends or the magicians who had aided the princess and the prince. Eriol glanced at the tall girl who stood at the far wall. What will happen to them? Do they live happily ever after as well? And as he continued to stare at the girl across the room, he doubted it.

2002-08-27T18:07:00.000-07:00

Finally found out how to fix the problem of length in the first chapter of "Psyche"--change it to a prologue. Am I a genius or what? (Don't answer that, otherwise I'll probably cry from hurt feelings.)

I also have a Yuki/Tohru fic in the works. Been thinking about it for a while, actually. Sad to relate, I actually haven't watched the anime. But I spoiled myself rotten on reading translations of the manga (though I haven't gotten very far--just enough to know that I adore Yuki and Kyou and feel for their plight). So, Imouto-chan, as soon as things settle down, expect a Yuki/Tohru fic soon.

More later, loveys.

2002-08-10T12:33:00.000-07:00

Lots and lots of fic thoughts have been buzzing in my brain that are now finally finding release because of my incurable inclination to put off the inevitable (i.e. studying for Professional Responsibility final). The following thoughts are a little chaotic and likely make no sense at all (again due to studying for final), but please bear with me.

Of late, I'm beginning to think that there is no such thing as "constructive criticism." Back in the day when I first started writing (and that, loveys, was a long time ago--I think 'round 1998), there were many people who were willing to read your work and hunker down and give actual, pithy, helpful criticism of it. By "actual" and "pithy," I mean these people--most of whom were fellow authors--went through your work, line by line, paragraph by paragraph, assessing the plot structure, fixing grammar, examining characterization, etc. These people were actually willing to give just more than the typical, "I love your work! It was so [insert favorite adjective here]." This phenomenon, I see, is dying slowly, or perhaps is already extinct.

I think most people--and this is my own humble opinion and I could be (and likely am) completely wrong--are reluctant to give such criticism because they do not feel that they should not dictate to a person on how to write their story. Such criticism may hinder that person's writing style and writing "vision." An author has a particular objective and a particular way of giving vent to and accomplishing that objective. To proffer criticism on characterization and plot would only impede that author's goal. (Of course, the reader/critic's own preferences, such as whether that reader is a firm believer in "canon," are also involved in that initial reluctance.) Thus the reader/critic seems to stay behind the oft-used, trite "criticisms" of "Good job" or "Nice work" or "I like your writing style" because it is safe and neutral. They do not want to initiate an affray, they do not want to offend the writer. But if we readers say nothing about it, how will that writer improve? Do not most writers (or at least those I know of) desire to improve their writing? Aside from the joy of sharing their work with others, I think most writers long to refine their works. Writers want to produce the best work possible, to separate the chaff from the wheat, so to speak. Such a process is a difficult task for a writer because that writer is so involved in her work; it is impossible to separate oneself from her work because there is too much involvement, too much committment. Thus a writer depends on others to read that work and to give an honest assessment of it. But lately, such assessments are rare. Few reader/critics write criticism aside from the above-mentioned (and that's not even criticism, really, it's simply praise).

Of course, praise is indeed sweet, but then one begins to question such praise as being sincere (or at least I do). Praise begins to look a little hollow, a little trite, a little false, when that is all one hears. For me, as long as the criticism isn't too uncivil, I relish it. Fresh eyes, a novel perspective, and a new set of preferences and experiences, are put into play in the process of criticism. And though I may disagree with some of it, it forces me to re-evaluate my work, to "borrow" that reader/critic's eyes and to divorce myself from my writing and honestly improve upon it. It hurts a little to give up or alter a favorite passage, but then oftentimes it results in a much better writing product. And of course, there is always the option of ignoring it.

Or, in the alternative, perhaps reader/critics are becoming lazy. When I wrote criticism, it took me a long time to analyze an author's work, line by line. I no longer have the luxury of critiquing every fic that I happen to read and love. It's a lot easier to give it cursory summaries, a brief one-liner or a short paragraph on its merits.

Of course, I'm not ruling out the possibility that the reader/critic truly enjoys your work and have nothing more to say on the matter. Oftentimes, I'm like that; usually, there are no glaring, erroneous matters within the fic, with the exception of a few grammatical mistakes, so all there is left for me to do is gush, extol, and envy.

I may sound pompous, but I don't mean to be: I simply speak as a reader/critic and writer. It just strikes me that lately, no one seems to be giving criticism--at least the "true" analytical kind--and that, to me, defeats the one of the many purposes of a fanfiction ML. A fanfiction ML is not only to share one's work, but to receive comments on it, bad or good. And in subjecting your work to reader/critics, you can, hopefully, improve upon it.

I am now getting off my soapbox. (But trust me, my friends, I'll be back on it again soon.)

2002-08-08T00:27:00.000-07:00

I'm in a rehauling mood lately. (If you don't want to be bored with my serious fic thoughts, I advise you to vacate this web premises quickly.) I've decided to rework, "Elegy for a Cowboy." I find that the point of view in that piece is really muddled, largely due to the fact that the flashback quotes I've used are too variegated; I need to stick to one character perspective--or more accurately, memories. Further, logically speaking, there is no way that Faye would know the exchanges between Spike and Julia. I've also decided to add a few scenes; one reader on FF.net had said that "Elegy" rehashed a lot of scenes. Admittedly, I wanted to do this, but after some more thought, I decided to add in some more scenes to strengthen Faye's perspective--to make it more her own, if you know what I mean.

I've also reconsidered re-working "Gi-puhn Ma-uhm"; to this day, I'm still unsatisfied with it. Perhaps it's because of my "experiment" in the point of views. I didn't make any definite "boundaries" between Eriol's and Tomoyo's point of views; I just simply let one start and the other end "naturally." I tried (very pathetically) to pan like a camera (a camera handled by an amateur, I think), switching from one character to another or, perhaps more accurately, take a wide-angle shot of both. In short, it was yet another of my sorry attempts at stream-of-consciousness writing. I'm not sure that this method works very well. But I loathe to cut out some lines (remember, friends, that I get very attached to certain lines). Still rethinking this, so if anyone has any suggestions, I will eagerly listen (and most likely execute said suggestions).

I'm still thinking about doing something with "Blue Fields" too. I feel that it just drops a reader into the middle of something and the way I've written makes it hard (I think) to come "to grips" with it. (See? I wasn't kidding about the major fic overhaul.)

I think I've reached an impasse of sorts with "The River Lethe." It's already really long, but I keep feeling that I'm not doing Clow justice. And one of the major goals of "Lethe" is to expose some of Clow's character--his motivations, thoughts, feelings, etc. Still reworking and adding scenes. And I'm also rethinking of reworking the approach; "Lethe" is yet again one another of those experiments in perspective. In "Lethe," I'm trying to blur the line between reality and memory/dream. There's no absolute cutting off point for the reality and the memories/dreams of Eriol's life. I thought that this approach would add to the sense of surreality and confusion and tension of "Lethe." But I'm probably really dreadfully wrong. I dunno.

Also thinking of adding s'more to "Psyche." I think Sakura-chan's right in saying that it's too short. I admit, in my own humble opinion, that it flows reasonably well, which is why I'm reluctant to add in new scenes. But it's much too short and this will make it difficult for later chapters--I foresee that it will encumber the flow of the later chapters. Again, still trying to think of a way of adding on without disturbing the flow.

Lately, I've been really thinking of reworking my "style." (I actually don't really know what my style is, but whatever it is, I don't like it.) So, because of this, I'm reading the fiction of various authors. Namely, I've been reading Natalie Baan--she's the "newest" author (i.e. "newest" in the sense that I've never read any of her works before) on my fanfiction reading list. I've also been dissecting Tin's works again--and there is much to dissect. I feel like Grasshopper trying to learn the ways of the great Masters (or at least, those whom I consider masters of fanfiction).

Among the great Masters list, I've also read Erin's and Sakura's works again. I just re-read Erin's "Bete Noire" and I'm again struck by the maturity and the depth of it. In fact, I'm really impressed and not a little envious, Erin, dear. It's such a gorgeous piece. And, as Jae Young had said, it's also a very complex piece. (I'm green with envy!)

I also re-read Imouto-chan's Akogare." Again, I'm torn between admiration and awe and jealousy. Dammit, I wish I had her way with emotions and words. I've read "Akogare" and "Kanaete" dozens and dozens of times, but the emotions of the characters always seem fresh; I never lose the sense of romantic wistfulness and poignancy in those works, no matter how many times I read it. Imouto-chan seems to have such a strong empathy, a deep understanding of her characters. And the fact that she writes so naturally and so beautifully about them . . . Dammit, I wish I could write like her. This is why I think "Akogare" and "Kanaete" rate as "classics" (am I allowed to use that vaunted and sacred term for fanfiction?) of Cardcaptor Sakura fanfiction. They will always have this vibrant, abiding sense of romance, despite the passage of time. (That sounded really trite, but I'm completely serious here.)

All the writings mentioned above, however, are rather more of the sober/romantic/dark fiction fare. I need to read Jae Young's "A Young Man's Fancy" to get my comedic juices flowing again. I've been trying to work on "Suppi's Revenge" but I feel mentally constipated. Need inspiration, y'know.

Yes, I've been thinking a lot about fanfiction and, scarily enough, I still have a lot more thoughts.

2002-08-01T23:37:00.000-07:00

I just watched all 24 episodes of "X." One of the most depressing anime that I've ever seen. I don't cry very easily (I pride myself on being "manly"), and though I didn't outright weep or bawl, I did become teary-eyed. At first, "X" was rather light-hearted (and mind I use that term loosely), but then it grew progressively darker as the storyline advanced. I won't spoil you, but there were a few loose ends--a few characters whose stories weren't resolved (e.g. Kanoe) and the story felt much too rushed, and not enough character development (and there is so much room and wealth for that in the "X" universe). And I'm shocked, really shocked, over the ending. Not at all like the movie (which was what I happened to have seen first). And even though there were rather weak plot points and the music wasn't that great (with the exception of one song), the animation was quite good (at least in my own humble opinion). And I absolutely adore the ending theme. So sad and romantic! Rather reminds me of Jo Sung Mo. Anyway, I once again must stress how depressed I am after watching this series. It's been at least five hours since I saw the last episode, but I still feel a melancholy pang.

2002-07-17T16:37:00.000-07:00

You know, it's really been a long while since I've been excited about a particular anime series. I think my last fanatical craze was "Cardcaptor Sakura." By fanatical craze, I mean the crazed, furious, I-didn't-go-to-bed-until-five-o'clock-in-the-morning-because-I-went-and-surfed-the-'Net-for-hours (looking for information on the series, reading and writing "Cardcaptor Sakura" fanfiction, etc.) craze. Like a few friends that I know, my fanaticism for "Cardcaptor Sakura" is beginning to fade. Of course, I still fully intend to finish "The River Lethe" and "Psyche." And I'll definitely tweak a few of my old works.

But now I have a new CLAMP love: "Angelic Layer." It's absolutely adorable. I adore Icchan and Tamayo. I haven't laughed so hard over an anime series in a while. (I think the last one was "Rurouni Kenshin.") And I think I'm in love with Kotarou . . . or am I in love with Oujiro? And Misaki--I could just squash her, she's so cute! Sadly, despite my burning need to read and write and watch "Angelic Layer" (I've watched 20 episodes so far and am dying to watch the remaining six), there isn't enough information for me to devour. But I'm still going to write an "Angelic Layer" piece. Hurray for me! (Now I finally understand Erin's "Batsu Game"--which, by-the-bye, was hilarious!)

And I plan on finishing that "Metamorphoses" (need some smut inspiration--anyone know of any good smut works, aside from Tin's "Blue Nights" and Suppi-chan's "Lie to Me"?) and maybe even finish chapter 4 of "The Waste Land"--I'm beginning to feel my enthusiasm for "Evangelion" coming back. And I just worked on "Psyche" for a little bit and "The River Lethe." I had been beginning to think that I was going to stop writing--I was pretty uninspired to write and not a little tired--but after watching "Angelic Layer," I'm feeling the old fire.

Now, just to find the time . . .

2002-07-11T19:40:00.000-07:00

Slowly, painfully learning on how to use Photoshop. It takes an age to finish a picture--and despite the huge amounts of time I've spent on my picture, I still have a ways to go. I seriously give props to the online CG artists. It really takes a lot of skill and patience to color a drawing on Photoshop.

So, what does this mean for those of you to whom I promised artwork? Well, my dear people, it means that I'll probably finish my drawing for you in about eight years.

2002-06-19T10:52:00.000-07:00

Dang, it's been a month since I last wrote on this blog. I haven't done any substantial writing; I did tweak, "The River Lethe" a little bit, however. I realized that I'm not doing justice to Clow, really--again, I've come to the stunning conclusion that I need more Clow scenes. In fact, I might just rearrange the whole chapter--heck, I might just rearrange the whole story itself. Mind, I've only been flirting with the idea, though; I haven't made any elaborate editing plans, yet.

As for "Metamorphoses," I haven't been working on that either. Need to be in the mood. And after reading Tin's blog, I feel that I too am guilty of the X fanfiction "Pairing of the Day" syndrome; the "elaborate, frivolous, rabu-centric codas and bridges and filler sections in between key expressive plot lines" that are common in X fanfics. I do agree with Tin on these points, but I feel guilty--hypocritical, rather--about it as "Metamorphoses" falls within the same plot device/plotline.

I think maybe many of my fics--no, in fact, nearly all of them are those "elaborate, frivolous, rabu-centric" filler works that just take up web room and a lot of my time. Perhaps I'm afraid to think beyond the established lines of "canon" (or perhaps "fanon"), to--to use a hackneyed phrase--think outside the box. I think perhaps that I need to explore outside those boundaries.

I have a lot more fic thoughts--on commenting/beta-reading in particular--but those will keep.

2002-05-17T15:56:00.000-07:00

Imouto-chan, don't worry about us rabid, demanding "Kanaete" fans. As Circee says, just take your time. And remember, you're writing for yourself. So if writing "Kanaete" or anything else CCS-related frustrates you, don't do it. Writing (again, as Circee said) is supposed to be joyful.

Well, my dears, I still have one final and a paper to go. I'm not scared, no, no. XD

Again, wrote s'more on "Metamorphoses." I'm actually debating about changing the title to "Apotheosis," though. If any of you think "Apotheosis" sounds better, do tell.

This time, I'm including some incomplete scenes. The "snips" represent places that I have yet to work on. Oh, and there's some lemony or limey content (depends on your level of purity), so you've been forewarned. XD (Actually, the earlier entry had a lot more naughtiness, but I decided to edit them out as I don't know what tender, innocent eyes may be reading this blog.

***

She broke away from him, breathless. He leaned back against the white pillows, his arms outstretched in a loose arc, and waited.

She stared at him from across the white expanse, her hand pressed against her lips still warm from his kiss. Her fingers moved delicately along the rosy flesh, tracing the curves of her mouth as if uncertain of its shape, that soft, familiar reality which now burned with his strange and unreal fire. He waited, watching her, his arms reaching out, not imperiously, not avariciously, but in simple, tender longing.

Yet she shrank from him, even though she felt desire burn through her.

For there was a terror in his welcoming embrace.

He seemed to sense her fear and smiled a little, reassuringly as if to say that he understood. But she continued to linger at the foot of the bed, her hand still at her mouth. Her lips had grown cold. And she was suddenly, painfully, aware of his body, his heat snaking sinuously across the space between them. She drew in a startled breath and moved slightly, an infinitesimal shift of her shoulders.

At her movement, she saw his mouth curve higher, smiling a little more surely, and it was then she realized that that slight motion had inclined her closer to him. And she was again sharply aware of the nearness of his body, the heat that smoldered closer and hotter, now, and her cold mouth.

His kiss would warm her, she knew. But if she went to him, if she placed her mouth against his, she—she didn’t know. Only vaguely, distantly thought:

Turn to him and know despair. Turn to him and be damned to grief.

But her eyes were already turned to him and she could not pull them away. Her mind felt strangely dim with a peculiar lassitude, that same somnolent dullness that came of a blazing summer day. But the heat came not from that noontime star but from the youth sitting across the bed whose face floated out to her in the uncertain twilight, blazing with that same indefinite, white intensity. And the white-hot gaze of his eyes and the white glare of his face and the burning white bed bewildered her.

***

He held her for a moment, before sinking down upon the bed. He looked up at her, his eyes dark with an irresistible and nameless appeal. And she felt her body slowly dip toward him in response, drawn to the heat of his mouth and hands, as surely as the heliotrope follows the dreamy and measured descent of the sun.

He arched up to meet her lips with his. Her mouth seemed to melt against his. His lips were shaping hers, slowly, tenderly, trailing the same path her fingers had earlier marked.

[snip]

He reached out, his hot hands twisting into the cool folds of her blouse. The tips of his fingers burned though the fabric. The blouse melted away, fluttering to the floor in a sweep of ash-colored cotton. She shivered a little at the chill air and instinctively folded her arms about her. He gently pulled her arms free, kissing her upturned palms.

[snip]

She was burning, she knew. She was too close, too near to him. But it was too late. She was doomed to love, to yearn, to burn for his bright face, his hot touch, his searing kiss.

***

So, what do you think of it? Too flat? Too racy? (Though I doubt that it's the latter.)

2002-04-26T17:21:00.000-07:00

Like Jae Young, I am evil. I have finals, but I still ficced. ><

Wrote a little more on "Metamorphoses"--you'll see only a few very slight alterations (you may not even be able to see where) and a minor addition.

***

She broke away from him, breathless. He leaned back against the white pillows, his arms outstretched in a loose arc, and waited.

She stared at him from across the white expanse, her hand pressed against her lips still warm from his kiss. Her fingers moved delicately along the rosy flesh, tracing the curves of her mouth as if uncertain of its shape, that soft, familiar reality which now burned with his strange and unreal fire. He waited, watching her, his arms reaching out, not imperiously, not avariciously, but in simple, tender longing.

Yet she shrank from him, even though she felt desire burn through her.

For there was a terror in his welcoming embrace.

He seemed to sense her fear and smiled a little, reassuringly as if to say that he understood. But she continued to linger at the foot of the bed, her hand still at her mouth. Her lips had grown cold. And she was suddenly, painfully, aware of his body, his heat snaking sinuously across the space between them. She drew in a startled breath and moved slightly, an infinitesimal shift of her shoulders.

At her movement, she saw his mouth curve higher, smiling a little more surely, and it was then she realized that that slight motion had inclined her closer to him. And she was again sharply aware of the nearness of his body, the heat that smoldered closer and hotter, now, and her cold mouth.

His kiss would warm her, she knew. But if she went to him, if she placed her cold mouth against his, she—she didn’t know. She only vaguely knew that if she sank into his arms, she would cease to be.

***

I have more but there are enormous gaps between that and--

Eriol: *capering joyfully about and leering* The smut! The smut!
Me: Shut up, Hiiragizawa.
Eriol: *still dancing about* The smut! The smut!
Me: ><

Well, as the perverted prat, Hiiragizawa, said, from the looks of it, it seems the story will get lemony. Not what I intended, though. Once I've finished with it, if anyone could help me water it down from concentrate to juice I'd be eternally grateful.

2002-04-14T16:49:00.000-07:00

More illicit writing. The closer I come to finals, the more creative I feel. Damn. >_<

Anyway, here is a little more on "Psyche." In this snippet, Eriol gets his groove on with Kaho. (Don't worry, nothing explicit. ^_^) I don't like it any more than any other ExT fan, but it's a necessary evil--at least for now.

Eriol: Wait a second. "Nothing explicit"?! No snogging? No foreplay? What in bloody hell were you thinking?!
Me: This is supposed to be a pure, romantic, tender work. Think "Akogare" or "Kanaete."
Eriol: Not if I have anything to say about it. I demand smut! Smut, smut, smut!
Me: Bugger off!
Eriol: *jumping onto Belle's back* Not until I get at least one smut scene.
Me: XO

Anyway, this one's for you, Imouto!

***

Eriol made his way through the crowded thoroughfares, the canvas bag swinging freely from his hand, the diary hidden in his capacious coat pocket. He hurried on for several blocks before finally stopping at his favorite café. He seated himself at a small table in a secluded corner of the sunlit patio, the book in the crook of his arm and a cup of cappuccino in his hand.

He opened the book, eagerly. He paused, wondering why he felt such excitement over this small book. But the notion vanished as quickly as it came when he glanced at the top of the page.

The first entry, he thought. The writing, though neat, seemed childish. He flipped through the pages, noting that the script grew more confident, more graceful as the years progressed.

She’s been writing in this diary for nearly ten years, he marveled, his eyes sweeping across the numbers that marched in perfect form atop the sheets. Half a lifetime if one stops to think about it. His mouth suddenly dimpled with a wry grin. Ah, but I’d forgotten, he thought, it’s only half a lifetime for some. To others, ten years is but a minute. But for her . . .. And he touched the closely written sheets with an almost reverent hand. Again he was surprised by the thrill of feeling that passed over him. It’s strange, really, he reflected, how this diary affects me. I don’t even know who the writer is. I can't explain it, but somehow . . .. He returned to the first entry and began to read.

August 10, 1997

The cicadas are singing. I hear them in the garden. Cicadas always seem to sing loudest at night. But tonight they are singing so noisily I can’t sleep.

But, no, that’s not true. It’s not really because of the cicadas. I can’t sleep because I’m nervous and scared. The first day of school is tomorrow and I won’t know anybody in class. Mother says that I will make new friends but I’m not sure.

It’s hard to speak to strangers. To speak to them, you must know their language. What they like, what they dislike, what they know, what they don’t know—these are the first words that opens their hearts to you. Through these words, you find their sadness and their happiness. But in return, you must teach them your language, you must open your heart. You must show them what things give you sadness and happiness.

But I’m afraid. So I don't speak to them at all.

The page was fading from view. He looked up, startled to see that the afternoon had spun itself from the distaff of the day and sunset was winding out across the horizon. He rose, stuffing the diary back into his pocket. He slipped a banknote beneath the saucer of his untouched coffee, now stone cold, and hefted the bag onto his shoulder.

She’s probably waiting at home, worried, he thought as he hastened across the street. I hope she isn’t too upset.

***

“Where were you?” she asked him as he came hurrying up the walk. “I called your cell-phone, but you didn’t pick up.”

“I was at the bookstore,” he explained, kissing her on the cheek.

“Oh.” She tucked her arm into his as they entered the house. “So did you find anything interesting?”

“Oh, yes, some really fascinating books on Korean ceramic ware of the Koryo Dynasty.” He pulled up a faded gray tome from his bag.

“I didn’t know you were interested in Korean pottery,” she said, taking the book from him.

“Oh, very. Ancient Korean ceramics are famous. Their work was prized throughout Asia. So much so that during the Hideyoshi invasions of the 1590s, the Japanese abducted Korean potters and brought them back to Japan. The contributions of the Korean potters to the development of Japanese ceramic ware—”

She cut off his impromptu lecture by hastily inquiring, “Did you buy anything else?”

“What?” He blinked. “Oh, yes, yes I did. I bought a few books on Japanese woodblock printing too,” he replied, setting his bag upon a small mahogany commode. “And this,” he added as an afterthought. He held up the small blue book.

She stared at the plain cover for a moment before opening the book. “A diary?” Her brow arched in surprise as she flirted through the pages.

“Er, yes,” he faltered, clumsily hanging up his coat.

“It’s in Japanese,” she remarked. “And the handwriting seems to be that of a girl.”

“Yes,” he responded, a little awkwardly.

“Why did you buy it?” she questioned, returning the book to him. She was clearly indifferent to the little volume.

“It seemed interesting,” he answered sheepishly.

“Interesting?” Her brow lifted higher. Suddenly she grinned, her amber eyes glinting mischievously. “Ah, but I forgot that this is Hiiragizawa. He finds amusement in phone books.”

“Not at all!” he exclaimed in mock indignation. “There is nothing amusing in phone books. Phone books are very serious and scholarly works.”

She laughed, sidling up to him. She kissed him, her lips brushing teasingly against his mouth. He tried to embrace her but she drew away, smiling, and walked up the stairs. He needed no other invitation. He placed the book on a table and followed her into the dark bedroom beyond.

***

It seems a little disjointed in places, so if anyone can point out the bumps, I'll be eternally grateful. (The diary entry, in particular, is bugging me. Does the writer come off as a whining, pathetic thing?)

2002-04-13T14:43:00.000-07:00

Tired as hell. It's been a nightmarish week. And of course, these hellish events occur a few weeks before finals. Murphy's Law. ><

Anyway, my chickens, even though I vowed not to blog, I need some catharsis right now. Desperately. So I wrote some more on "Metamorphoses." Y'know, it's very difficult to write a lime/lemon work. ;_; (I still haven't decided whether it merits a lime or a lemon rating . . .) I've only managed to come up with a very small, small amount. It's quite pathetic. But I still want to share. ^_^ Anyway, here it is:

She broke away from him, breathless. He leaned back against the white pillows, his arms outstretched in a loose arc, and waited.

She stared at him across the white expanse, her hand pressed against her lips still warm from his kiss. Her fingers moved delicately along the rosy flesh, tracing the curves of her mouth as if uncertain of its shape, that soft, familiar reality which now burned with his strange and unreal fire. He waited, watching her, his arms reaching out, not imperiously, not avariciously, but in simple, tender longing.

Yet she shrank from him, even though she felt desire burn through her.

For there was a terror in his welcoming embrace.

He seemed to sense her fear and smiled a little, reassuringly as if to say that he understood. But she continued to linger at the foot of the bed, her hand still at her mouth. Her lips felt cold. And she was suddenly, painfully, aware of his body, his heat snaking sinuously across the space between them. She drew in a startled breath and moved slightly, an infinitesimal shift of her shoulders.

At her movement, she saw his mouth curve higher, smiling a little more surely, and it was then she realized, uneasily, that that slight motion had inclined her closer to him. And again she was sharply aware of the nearness of his body, the heat that smoldered closer and hotter, now, and her cold mouth.

***

He held her close for a moment, before sinking down upon the bed. He looked up at her, his eyes dark with an irresistible and nameless appeal. And she felt her body slowly dip toward him in response, drawn to the heat of his mouth and hands, as surely as the heliotrope follows the dreamy and measured descent of the sun.

He arched up to meet her lips with his.

2002-04-06T12:42:00.000-08:00

Snippet of "Martian Requiem," a Jet-centric vignette in conjunction with "Elegy for a Cowboy." Part of a "Cowboy Bebop" trilogy (?). Again, like "Elegy" lots of flashbacks. Unlike "Elegy," however, this will be interspersed with a lot of present scenes--in other words, more of Jet's thoughts and actions as he's mulling over memories.

I feel better about "Requiem" than I do about "Elegy." Although I worked really hard on "Elegy" and I'm very fond of "Elegy" and I decided to keep "Elegy" the way it is, I'm still dissatisfied. >_< Don't know how "Requiem" will fare in comparison, though.

What was she like?

An everyday sort of woman. Mysterious. Beautiful. Dangerous. The kind you can’t let go of. An everyday sort.

I see.

An angel that looked like a devil. Or a devil that looked like an angel.

And so he followed her into hell, he added silently, smiling grimly.

***

He found him lying facedown on the stairs. The last rays of the sun lingered on the long prone form like a divine benediction for a fallen solider. There was a smile on the still countenance—the soft, contented smile of a man past all suffering, all desire, all delusions. A man who had at last found what he was missing.

He continued to kneel, staring down at the peaceful countenance of the youth before him. He brushed away the dark red stains from the youth’s temple. The movement was strangely soft and tenderly paternal.

“Eh, Spike, you always were a lot of trouble,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. Then he gently lifted the limp figure in his arms, and bore his prodigal son out of the ruins.

***

They faced each other across the alleyway, guns poised. The criminal stood between them, his eyes darting fearfully from one grim face to the other.

What the hell do you think you’re doing? he demanded.

Trying to get my bounty, his rival replied coolly.

Like hell you are! That’s my bounty!

Look, buddy, I don’t know what you’re thinking—

Look out! He ducked and then began shooting past his opponent at the criminal who had opened fire. A bullet caught the criminal in the leg and he tumbled to the pavement. When he turned, he saw his rival sprawled out on the ground, his gun raised, a pool of blood around him. A bullet had pierced his side.

Hey, kid! You all right? He leaned down over the youth, feeling strangely anxious.

You know, the youth muttered, his teeth gritted in pain, that it was my bullet that took Boyle out. So I get the bounty, right? The youth grinned.

Hey! He drew back, his eyes wide with disbelief and amusement.

The youth chuckled a little.

Man, kid, you really got some—

But he stopped for the youth had slipped into unconsciousness.

***

He hurried along the pre-dawn streets. The sky menaced rain. He walked clumsily over a pile of debris, narrowly sidestepping a lamppost. His leg throbbed in protest. He gritted his teeth and shifted the burden on his shoulders.

The cemetery, he wondered, where is it? He looked to the right, then to the left. Through a narrow telescope of alley, he spied a tall gray spire piercing the morning mists.

About a mile away, he murmured to himself, turning west down the alley.

He walked on in silence, the youth seemingly asleep to the curious eyes of an occasional passer-by. The youth was drunk, perhaps, and his comrade was taking him home to sleep off his intoxication. But the man knew better. And he smiled, a thin, brittle smirk, at their ignorance while wishing it were true.

The youth’s head lolled drunkenly from side to side as the man hobbled onward to the cemetery.

***

You’re crazy! I’m telling you, Spike, it’s too dangerous.

The youth continued his preparations, oblivious to his seething companion.

No bounty hunter who’s gone after O’Connor has made it back alive. They say he’s a maniac. Completely unpredictable.

I can handle him. Don’t worry.

Just let him go, Spike. It’s not worth the risk.

I’ll be okay, he replied calmly as he clicked a magazine into place.

No bounty is worth your life.

20 million woolongs! I think my life is worth at least that much. The youth grinned at him as he began loading another gun.

He strode to the table and slammed his fist down. The impact rattled the table and a box of shells spilled to the floor. Spike! You’re walking into a certain death! Stop being so damn cocky and think—

The youth began to whistle, softly, gaily, as he continued slipping shells into a revolver.

Haven’t you listened to anything I’ve just said, Spike? I told you to drop it!

The youth yawned and stood up, tucking the guns into his belt. See you later, he said. The youth began ambling toward the door.

You’re going to die if you go after O’Connor! he raged.

Suddenly the youth turned, a grin on his features. It’s all right, he said. I’ve already died once before. Then the youth strolled out of the room, his hands in his pockets, whistling.

2002-04-05T17:52:00.000-08:00

Damn, another series I want to watch and fic: Ayashi no Ceres. (Yes, I know it's old, but I've been rather "out" of the anime scene for a while. ^_^)

I've only read a few translations and looked over most of the webpages available on Anipike, but I'm already lovin' Yuuhi. I think I have a fondness (okay, obsession) for characters who have an unrequited love. (e.g. Nuriko and Hotohori from "Fushugi Yuugi," Miki from "Utena," etc.) I'm already thinking of a Yuuhi shrine and a one-shot fic on this poor, but awf'ly studly guy.

I'm pathetic, yes, I know.

By the way, I read your Digimon fic and loved it. I'm not a big Digimon fan, as I was telling Kit, but your fic and Kit's fic has changed my mind. I'm looking forward to the completed chapter(s). ^______^

And I really liked your fic snippet, too! Can't wait to see more. To be frank (and I probably sound barking mad), I actually like the Ginny/Draco pairing more than I like Ginny/Harry. (I've already ranted on why I dislike the latter pairing, so I won't bore you.) Anyway, I can't wait for you to finish it. (And I'll wait a year for it, too. ^_^)

Uh, by the way, Jae Young, dear, what's "butter pie"?

2002-04-04T13:12:00.000-08:00

Erin, do send "Over the Bridge" soon. ^_^ I dunno if I've ever told you this, but I admire your writing style. You write with such maturity and depth. It's very impressive.

As for those smut-bunnies, I say let 'em romp through your imagination! I'd like to see what sexy little frolics they produce . . . XD But I do know that as much as you'd like 'em to gambol, you're not up to playing with 'em. Honey, I've gone through it. I've been having a drought of sorts, writing-wise, too. But then I read Tin's and Kit's and Silverlight's and Jae's snippets/works and felt refreshed. Of course, the rain arrives just when I have a month left before finals. ><

And thankee for the comments on "Metamorphoses." *_* I have bits and pieces throughout--a phrase here, a sentence there. Nothing too substantial, though.

About editing . . . Although I like editing, I find it very difficult to edit my own works. No perspective, you see. And I somehow always attach myself to a certain phrase or description with the tenacity of a bull-dog. I just like 'em too much. Which is why it's takes me so long to write. I edit as I go, most of the time, because I can't do it later once I've finished writing. (Did that make sense?)

Do you ever find it strange when a certain work of yours is "popular"? (Though this is not to say that my fics have fans--hell, I don't have any fans, fic or real-life--or that my works have garnered hundreds and hundreds of reviews. I fantasize about it, though. XD) And this work is something you just did as a spur of the moment kind of thing? As if you wrote in a fog of pot or alcohol or a sugar-high or something. Basically, you wrote it in a short amount of time while you were in some substance-induced state. To the point: I find it really strange that people like "Ambiguity". I spent the least amount of time on that pitiful little work and it has the most reviews out of all my works. O_o I spent a freakin' year and a half on "Twilight". I spent a couple of months on "Gi-puhn Ma-uhm". I spent a total of five hours on "Ambiguity" and it gets the most "raves."

Curious . . .

2002-04-03T11:21:00.000-08:00

I've been inspired by all this writing going on. And I'm also procrastinating and rebelling like hell. XD

Here is a snippet of my first lime-scented (gasp!) work, "Metamorphoses."

She broke away from him, breathless. He leaned back against the white pillows, his arms outstretched in a loose arc, and waited.

She stared at him across the white expanse, her hand pressed against her lips still warm from his kiss. Her fingers moved delicately across the rosy flesh, tracing the curves of her mouth as if uncertain of its shape, that soft, familiar reality which still burned with his strange fire. He waited, watching her, his arms still reaching out, not imperiously, not avariciously, but in simple, tender longing.

Yet she shrank from him, even though she felt desire burn through her.

For there was a terror in his welcoming embrace.

2002-04-02T11:07:00.000-08:00

Wen, the girl on your blog is named "Felicia."

Gotta dash.

2002-04-01T20:12:00.000-08:00

Quick question before I go back to writing my paper: Does anyone take ff.net seriously when it decrees that all stories must be rated G on the pain of having the offending story removed?

Personally, I'm not sure whether ff.net will be able to successfully put the smack down on us writers. It'll be a difficult task, I imagine. Think of all the time it will take to sift through the thousands of stories that violate this rule. And--I could be wrong, of course--I think it rather limits freedom of speech; after all, ff.net is a public forum for all writers. Unless ff.net limits membership (by requiring fees to use their services), I don't know whether ff.net can enforce such a policy. But then again, it may be able to restrict the types of stories "published" on ff.net because it's expending its own resources to provide such a service; ff.net is the property of the owners, to use as they wish . . ..

Augh, this reminds me of a question on an exam I took, a hypothetical about pop-up ads on an Amazon.com webiste. ><

2002-03-27T13:54:00.000-08:00

Erin, I really liked the snippet you posted for "Over the Bridge". Unfortunately, I haven't read the whole work, so if you can and, most importantly, if you want, could you send me what you have so far? ^_^

And Tin! Wow, "Blind Monsters" was very intense. Once again, you've piqued my interest in another anime series. I can't really say anything about characterization as I haven't seen "Kare Kano", but I definitely like the plot. Do write more if you can. (By-the-bye, has the 2000th visitor to your site contacted you? Dang it, I wish it were me . . . ;_;)

And Jae Young, I read "Toothbrush Induced Angst"--very interesting. I'm not really a fan of slash pairings, but I liked your fic, nonetheless. (Good writing always seems to conquer my initial prejudices about a certain genre. All except "self-insertion" fics. I wouldn't touch that with a fifty-foot pole.) And although I've read "Fancy", I still haven't found time to comment. (Working on that fifty-page paper over break, you see.) But in a few words: I enjoyed it immensely. Very cute. Can't wait to see the next chapter!

Wen, the poem you wrote was lovely. I wish I could say more than that, but I'm not very good with poetry. I just know what I like. Anyway, I definitely adored what you had. You have such a way with words!

Kit, although I'm not a hard core "Digimon" fan, I still enjoyed "Bed of Nails". The way you characterize Miyako is great! Her frustrated attempts to snag Izzy are hilarious! Can't wait to read more. (And you do have more, right?)

All right, my chickens (yes, I've been reading "Little Men" . . . ), I'm off to work.

2002-03-20T12:33:00.000-08:00

List of works in progress:

Metamorphoses [X]: Sorata/Arashi one-shot

Etude of a Dream [Cowboy Bebop]: Spike's pre-Bebop, pre-bounty-hunter days

Martian Requiem [Cowboy Bebop]: Introspective Jet vignette [part of "Elegy"]

The River Lethe [CCS]: Eriol's early life before "Sakura Cards" story arc

Psyche and Eros [CCS]: Eriol and Tomoyo, two part series

Twilight [Rurouni Kenshin]: Re-telling of "Jinchuu" story arc--with a twist

More blogging later . . .

2002-03-15T23:10:00.000-08:00

I must clarify by what I mean "canon fuck". I actually like "canon fuck"--provided it is done credibly. (After all, I do love ExT fandom, right?) What do I mean by this? I mean that even if the plot or the characters roam outside the established boundaries, as long as there is a catalyst, an explanation, a motive, what have you, it's not "canon fuck"--at least not in the strict sense of the term.

If I sound vague, it's because my professors taught me how to dance around the issue. (Dance, senorita, dance!)

2002-03-14T00:33:00.000-08:00

Erin, I completely agree; from what I've seen so far, most "Cowboy Bebop" fanfiction completely fucks with canon. I almost attempted it with "Elegy", basing it on a fond, but delusional idea that Faye loved Spike. Fortunately, Silverlight made some sharp observations, which completely dusted my theories. But at least I'm no longer delusional. ^_^ And the series is brillant--one of my all-time favorite anime.

I do hope you write a Julia fic. ^_______^ There are no good Julia works (or at least I haven't found any). And this makes me sad. There is so much possibility in her character, but I haven't found any fics that do her justice.

And thank you so much for your kind comments on "Elegy". *hugs* I really have been debating over it; I felt as if I was stating the obvious but I still wanted to write/keep it. Thanks!

I do definitely read your fic blog. ^_^ I've just lazy in linking to it. ^_^ ; And by the way, I must return the compliment on "Bete Noire". I really liked that work; it's one of those rare, insightful takes on Eriol's early life. (And they are few and far between.) If you're interested in others, I definitely recommend reading Sakura-chan's "Eriol".

And thanks (again ^_^) for the "X" recommendation! I think I will just get the Japanese version and print all the translations. I'm terrible at Japanese. But I do want to see all the pretty pictures. ^_^

Because I love to be spoiled, I read translations to the latest installment of "X". I think my "X" fic will concentrate on Arashi and Sorata (whom I love, by-the-bye).

And Jae! At last! You've written on "Fancy"! ^_____^ I was very happy to see it in my mail box. At present, I don't have time to give in-depth comments (you know how that damned institution, law school, is >_<). I will comment on it over the weekend, however. (By the way, ain't Um Jung Hwa great? I must confess that I love Korean music; I used to hate it but I fell in love with it after spending a year studying in Korea.)

2002-03-10T14:37:00.000-08:00

Revised "Elegy for a Cowboy" and "In Blue Fields"--repeatedly. But I think I've worked out the kinks that Kit was so kind enough to note in "Blue Fields" (thanks, Kit!). I'm still unsure as to whether I should scrap "Elegy" entirely; rather unsatisfied with it still, but the thought of all those hours of effort (;_;) that went into it stops me. But the awful quality of that fic should quickly annihilate that thought . . . Ah, I'm fickle. Anyway, if anyone has thoughts on that and would like to share, please let me know. ^_^

I worked a little more on "Psyche". I just love the thrill I feel when I write out the romatic scenes. I don't think I've ever written a romantic scene yet, so I suppose that explains for the joy I'm experiencing. ^_^ I'm really having fun with this particular work.

Work on "The River Lethe" is slowly progressing, but I just realized that I need more Clow scenes! More angsting, melancholy, and insane Clow. And, given the structure of the fic so far, that means I have to create more carefree or paranoid Eriol scenes. >_<

And in the midst of all this illicit writing (I really should be working on my papers and outlines), I've added another fic to my already long and awful list of fics. After watching "X" the movie, I'm now obsessing over "X". I've been reading the manga translations (or attempting to) and trying to find the translated versions of "X"; apparently Viz has translated up to volume 7. I'm still (foolishly) hoping for a bilingual version. There are a number of manga series that I need to complete: Evangelion, Ranma 1/2. And there are number that I want to obtain: X, Vision of Escaflowne, Lone Wolf and Cub, Inuyasha, Fruits Basket. I think the only manga series that I have in its entirety is "Rurouni Kenshin"--and it's in Korean. I bought the series when I was in Korea (it was so cheap--only 2,500-3,000 each), thinking that I would translate them and thus improve my Korean. It's slow work as my Korean isn't the best. >_< Anyway, I'm desperately wanting to fic "X" now, but I need more information. Lots more information (and preferably copies of the TV series as well). I read over most of the "X" fanfiction works on ff.net last night, examining the various themes/ideas/plot devices used by authors. And now my poor little brain is plagued by ideas.

I'm also contemplating yet another "Cowboy Bebop" fic, this time with Spike as the main focus--specifically, his early life. I was trolling ff.net for "Cowboy Bebop" fanfiction and again, I was met with the seemingly typical FayexSpike plotlines. There are a few that explore SpikexJulia that are rather interesting. Will do s'more research on it.

I've thought about a few other things last night, namely, a conversation that Imouto and I had about the influence of Tin's and Meghan Kelly's work on EriolxTomoyo fandom, particularly ExT fanfiction (hell, I think they were singlehandedly responsible for this sub-genre). I've also been thinking about my "own stream-of-consciousness" style (i.e. my own crappy, pathetic attempts to craft a loose, subconscious point-of-view). These topics are a bit too time-consuming for the moment, so, hopefully, more these topics later.

2002-03-05T21:15:00.000-08:00

Snippet of latest ExT work, "Psyche". Posted this snippet to the ML already, but I thought I'd waste some more time. ^_^ It's still very rough. (And a big hug to Imouto-chan for putting up with this work.)

Now I knew I lost her—
Not that she was gone—
But Remoteness traveled
On her Face and Tongue.

Alien, though adjoining
As a Foreign Race—
Traversed she though pausing
Latitudeless Place.

Elements Unaltered—
Universe the same
But Love’s transmigration—
Somehow this had come—

Emily Dickinson, c. 1872

Psyche

Chapter I: Caterpillar

There was a quaint little bookstall in London that he liked to frequent. It was a small, ancient building tucked away in an isolated alley, a narrow, crooked street suggestive of mystery and intrigue. He often visited the shop on rainy days—the damp pavement, the smoking vents, the gray light of an overcast sky, seemed more appropriate to the street and heightened the dark charm of the building.

But it was bright that afternoon, the street overflowing with autumn sunshine, as he strode past the familiar storefronts. The sharp October breeze tugged at the ends of his woolen scarf and reddened his pale cheeks. He hunched deeper into his coat and hurried on, ignoring the inviting fragrance of coffee that wafted from the cafés lining the street.

At last he stopped before a squat square structure of gray stone. It was vaguely bucolic and disquietingly antiquated, even for antediluvian London. But this, he reflected as he turned the door handle, was precisely why it was so appealing.

The slight tinkle of a bell announced his arrival.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hiiragizawa,” a clerk greeted cheerfully, looking up from his ledgers, as the young man stepped across the threshold.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Blake,” he returned. “How have you been? Business brisk today?”

“Tolerably well, sir. It’s been rather slow lately, but we expect business to pick up soon. And how are you, sir?”

“Quite well, thanks,” he answered, pulling off his gloves and looking round. “Anything new, today, Mr. Blake?”

“We’ve just received a shipment of books from Asia, sir,” the clerk replied. “A fine collection of works on Korean ceramic art arrived early this morning. And a number of books on Japanese woodblock printing came too. They’ve just been shelved.”

“No books on the Buddhist sculptures of the T’ang dynasty?” he inquired hopefully.

“I’m afraid not, sir,” the clerk answered, shaking his head regretfully. “That’s not due for another month.”

“Well, no hurry. I’ll just take a look at what you’ve got today,” he said easily as he sauntered away.

Once he gained the shelter of the bookshelves, he unwound the scarf from his neck and unbuttoned his coat, sniffing the air delightedly. The pleasant scent of old leather and worn linen filled his nostrils. The perfume of distilled imagination, he thought whimsically. He pulled out a book, holding it close to his nose. The rare vintage of wisdom, mellowed with age and use. He slipped the book back into its space on the shelf.

He strolled up and down the dusky aisles, pausing every now and then to take up a volume that struck his fancy. In no time at all, he amassed a large number of works, enough to occupy one long shelf in the library at home. He walked on, his arms full of books, his eyes avidly sweeping the shelves for more.

He glimpsed a pale blue glow among the sober tomes heaped carelessly on a small table. He hastily deposited his burden upon a bare shelf and approached the table. He extracted the slender volume from the heap, examining it curiously.

It’s a beautiful thing, really, he reflected, turning the book over in his hand. The silver gilt leaves shone in the light. He opened the book, scanning its pages. Delicate, feminine scrawl littered the thick, creamy sheets.

October 25, 1998

When I walked in the garden today, I thought the morning was pretty. The air was cool and sharp. And the trees were colored, red, gold, orange, and brown. The sun shone through the tree leaves. The light came down, red and gold. And my heart felt glad, very glad, to see such pretty things. The sun, the trees, the blue sky—all these things made me happy.

This afternoon I saw something beautiful. It was more beautiful than the sky. It was brighter than the sun. It was warmer than the color of the trees. But when I saw it, my heart felt strange. I didn’t really feel glad. I was happy, but scared. And my heart ached, a funny pain that hasn’t gone away. But how can beauty hurt you? How can a smile make you both happy and sad?

It’s a diary, he said to himself. But there’s no name, he thought, as he collected his books. He continued to leaf through the pages as he walked to the front counter. He absently tipped the stack of books onto the countertop, oblivious to the mad scramble of the clerk who strove to prevent the books from toppling to the floor. He was deaf to the repeated chime of the antiquate cash register as the clerk rung up his purchases. He failed to notice the pointed coughs of the clerk and the impatient glares of the customers queuing behind him. It was not until he felt a polite, embarrassed pull at the top of his book that he glanced up.

“Er, Mr. Hiiragizawa?”

“Yes?”

“Would you like to purchase that book as well, sir?” the clerk inquired.

“Ah, yes, thank you.” Eriol hastily handed the book over to the clerk.

“£30, please.”

Eriol fumbled through his coat pocket. His fingers brushed against his keys, a few stray coins, a ticket stub. He searched his other pocket. He reached into the pocket inside his coat, all the while smiling apologetically to the clerk and the customers standing behind him.

“Sorry about this,” he mumbled as he began to rummage around in his trouser pockets.

“It’s quite all right, sir. Take your time,” the clerk replied amiably.

At last, he fished out his pocketbook and, withdrawing three crisp notes, offered the money to the clerk.

“Would you like me to place this with your other books, Mr. Hiiragizawa?” the clerk questioned, lifting up the small blue tome.

“No, thank you.” He hurriedly took the proffered journal and stowed it into his coat pocket before taking the bag. “Have a good afternoon, Mr. Blake.”

“Thank you. And a good afternoon to you, too, sir,” the clerk responded as Eriol opened the door.

He nodded and walked out into the chill air.

2002-03-01T12:33:00.000-08:00

Wen, I can't wait to read your FFX fics. I'm not familiar with that game/movie at all, so I'll have to do some research in order to fully appreciate your works. And I re-read "Soul Stretched Across the Sky" and "Creak of Dawn". I can't believe I forgot how beautiful those works were. Blame it on my old age. Anyway, I fell in love with those works all over again and I do hope you decide to do more ExT and SxS works. (And thanks for the comments on "In Blue Fields". You're really too kind.)

Well, I ficced again (yea, more procrastination!). I was suddenly inspired to work on "Twilight" after taking a very long break from it. After re-reading the draft, I'm considering whether to re-write the whole second chapter. Of course, I don't have the whole chapter written out, but I do have the beginning of the chapter written and so far, I dislike it. It's not as dramatic or as dark as I'd like it to be. Even though I base a lot of the work on the manga, I'm also trying to incorporate the OVA as well. I want "Twilight" to have the same intensity and darkness that the OVA had. I don't know if I can pull it off, but I'm going to try.

I'm also working on a new two-part ExT series respectively titled, "Psyche" and "Eros". I gave Imouto-chan a long-winded explanation, an outline and an awful draft a few days ago. This work has been greatly inspired by "Akogare", "Kanaete", "Haikei", and "Magic". It will be my first ExT romance fic (I don't think of "Ambiguity" or "Gi-puhn Ma-uhm" as romantic works) and I'm very excited. Wish me luck!

Oh, and Silverlight, I want to adopt a fic, but I haven't decided which one yet. All the ideas are too tempting; I'd adopt 'em all, but I already have quite a few of my own. I'll e-mail you as soon as I can.

The creative juices seem to really be flowing lately. Too bad I can't say the same about my paper project.

2002-02-24T01:53:00.000-08:00

I've been a very busy and naughty monkey. Instead of working on my outlines, I wrote instead. (Productivity but the most useless kind of productivity. >_<) I finally finished, "In Blue Fields". It's a little rushed and rather clumsy, so if any of you have some criticism, bring it on!

You know, I should have given up a few things for Lent--like fic writing and fic reading, for example. I have absolutely no self control. >_<

2002-02-23T10:32:00.000-08:00

Finally, Wen, you've created a fic blog! ^______^ I'm sure that everyone, not only me, is extremely happy to see this.

And I'm going to change the colors, St. Patrick's Day be damned. (Actually, that was just an excuse to explain the awful colors--it reminds me of those chocolate mints . . .) I don't know why, but I'm awful at matching Internet colors. Colors of clothing, bedspreads, etc. I'm all right. But web colors elude me. >_<

2002-02-22T00:49:00.000-08:00

Just in time for St. Patrick's Day. ^_^

2002-02-20T01:59:00.000-08:00

Imouto-chan: I LOVE the Eriol and Tomoyo picture. LOVE, LOVE, LOVE, LOVE it!!! I loooooovvvveee it! It's gorgeous! Have you thought about blowing it up to poster size? I can't believe how awesome that picture is! It's one of my favorites!

And the "Creak of Dawn" picture! LOOOOOOOOVVVVEEE it! (Aren't you glad that you're reading this instead of hearing me screech it?) It's wonderful! Another one of my favorite pictures. And again, I'm urging you to blow it up to poster size.

*ahem* Okay, I'm done raving.

Anyway, dear Imouto, if you have time, do send your copies of Wen's fics. I trolled the ML archives but I can't find them. (Yes, I'm old and decrepit.) I definitely want to re-read them.

I'd love to give you a completed chapter of "The River Lethe" but I can't seem to find inspiration. It's driving me nuts. I have the last scene of the first chapter done but there's still scenes left to re-write. About eight more scenes, actually. (This chapter nearly rivals "Twilight" in length. O_o;) And I even have some of chapter two worked on, which contains the scene where I'll need your mad Japanese skills. ^____^

And thank you for the plug on "Elegy for a Cowboy"--you're too sweet. *hugs* It's so nice to have a famous imouto who's willing to plug your works! XD

I do have more of "In Blue Fields" to those interested. I think I'll post it tonight on the ML. Perhaps it will induce Silverlight to come out of her fic hiatus . . .

I'm going to have to change the colors of this blog soon. It's reminiscent of Pepto Bismol. >_< (But then, they are the colors of a web page I'm creating . . .)

2002-02-11T12:38:00.000-08:00

Happy, happy day! I finally finished "Elegy for a Cowboy"! Dunno how I managed to finish it, but I did. It's now posted on ff.net, if anyone cares to read it.

Now to go on to other projects . . .

2002-02-06T14:02:00.000-08:00

I tried to revamp the color scheme--supposedly in honor of Valentine's Day.

Hmm, I think subconconscious negative views on the holiday are manifesting themselves in my blog. >_>

2002-02-06T10:21:00.000-08:00

After reading your post, I think it's time I air out my views on fanfiction writing. It seems to be all the rage and I'm a social and intellectual lemming, if anything else. Of course, my views will never be as clear, as intellectual or as eloquent as some, but I'll make a stab at it. But before I begin, I make a disclaimer that all content here is not only my opinion, but a contradictory, rather groundless, narrow, and biased opinion at that.

Hmm, where to start . . . Well, firstly, I will make a confession. Like most fanfiction writers (at least, those I know of, and they're not many), I started to read fanfiction first. Through reading, I began to gain a sense of what I liked, what I wanted to see written about, what I viewed as a good fanfiction work, etc., etc. I began to write in order to expand upon various scenarios and thoughts that other writings triggered in my mind. But I confess that I also became motivated to write my own works out of sheer vanity. I thought, "Gee, I think I can write as well as so-and-so can." (Note, gentle readers, that the operative word is "think", though perhaps a better word would be "deluded".) So for me, unlike Tin, fanfiction did not purely start out as a way to supply the void in certain fanfiction genres, categories, what have you. (I'm at a loss for the exact word, but I hope you understand what I'm getting at.) The vanity involved was not strictly for praise or to expound an idea (though, admittedly, they were both significant factors), but I also wanted to prove that I could crank out quality prose--and of course the word "quality" is relative. Here, I mean quality in my own arrogant, fatuous sense.

But I was never deluged with praise. I had always thought that although my prose was not of the best, it was decent. But the lack of adoring comments for my works and the superfluity of adoring comments for other works began to puzzle me, as well as disappoint me. I began to wonder if I was delusional, had awful taste, or was a terrible writer. Or perhaps a combination of all three. To put it in a dramatic and cliched way, I began to despair and to entertain thoughts of quitting.

But that's when I realized that views, opinions, tastes, etc. are all relative. Readers praise and adore a certain work because they believe that particular piece to be a quality work. They praise and comment because they like it. And these same readers do not hold the same tastes, preferences, etc. as you, the writer, does. If your work fails to gain acclaim, it's not really a reflection on you or your writing--you simply happen to have a writing style and taste (which I believe comes through in your writing) that not many people prefer. Does this imply that your writing is awful? That you should relinquish your pen, pencil, laptop, or other writing implements? No.

Because tastes and views are so subjective, because opinions and preferences are diverse, a work may either qualify as good or bad. For instance, I think Hemingway is an awful writer. I believe that whoever awarded him the Nobel prize for literature was on crack or received a very nice gift basket from a certain author. But numerous literary authorities cite Hemingway as a genius, an author who revolutionized modern prose. (Personally, I agree with Meridel Lesuer in that Hemingway's works were extremely limited in scope and perspective--all Hemingway wrote about was "fucking, fishing, and fighting.") The reader will always view the work in light of her opinions, tastes, knowledges, and experiences. The reader's understanding and appreciation of a work is always colored by her self. Which is why Roland Barthes argues that the reading of a work brings on the death of the author. Barthes argues that a reader is a "historically and socially constituted subject". The reader will always project her self onto the work. (Of course, this is a simplified understanding of Barthes's essay. Barthes's theory is much more complex and involved than what I wrote. For instance, one could argue, using Barthes's theory, that you, the writer, is irrelevant and the quality and very meaning of the text indeed depends on reader interpretation.)

So what to extract from my convoluted and clumsy argument? Simply because a work fails to garner appreciation in the form of "I love your work!" or "You're a great writer!" doesn't mean that your writing is awful. And a writer should not depend solely upon reader appreciation. Praise is subjective and capricious. And because of its subjective and capricious quality, a writer should not depend upon reader praise. If I wrote for the sake of praise, I would be a very sad monkey, indeed; I would have quit a long time ago. (Hell, I still have to beg for comments.) This, of course, is easier said than done. Which one of us is not a whore for comments, as one person so powerfully expressed? But as writers, let's try not to write to generate a following of drooling, mooning worshipers. Or at least, let's not make this our focus. I think many of us write because we love it. Yes, we have ulterior motives, such as whoring for praise (I hate the word "whore"--smacks of oppression and subjurgation of females--but I still use it), but I think most writers essentially write because they have ideas and want to explore and share them. Write because you love it, write because you enjoy it! Sustain yourself, not on praise, but on the joy that springs from the writing process.

And let's all rise up and say, "Hallelujah! Amen, Sister!" >_>

2002-01-30T21:52:00.000-08:00

AT LAST!!!

Once again, I've been struck by inspiration (and am ignoring my criminal procedure reading). I finally am motivated to write the fourth chapter of "Suppi's Revenge". I won't say anything at this point, but I will say that, given Eriol's quirky sense of humor, it's going to be really strange. Very strange. But hopefully, very funny as well. I don't know if it will bring Nakuru out of his current state, but *crosses fingers* here's to hoping!

2002-01-29T20:28:00.000-08:00

I have no idea why, but I was extremely inspired today. It's been a long time since I've been this motivated to write. I finally cemented the structure of the first chapter of "The River Lethe"; I fixed the niggling problem in the sequence of scenes. I would have finished the chapter tonight, but criminal procedure reading and research for my paper beckons. (More accurately, school work is like a brand of painful, burning guilt pressed on my conscience at this time. Why, oh why, couldn't I have had this explosion of inspiration during vacation? Or over the weekend?)

Anyway, here are a few more snippets to "The River Lethe".

The face in the glass stared at him, smirking knowingly, smugly.

Clow Reed.

No, I’m Eriol. Eriol Hiiragizawa.

Clow Reed. The grin grew wider.

No, I’m Eriol, he said firmly.

Clow Reed.

Eriol, the child insisted.

Clow Reed.

No. Eriol. I’m me. Not you.

No. You’re me. And the smirk stretched out, confidently, imperviously, conclusively.

The child flung down the mirror and the image exploded into a million glimmering stars of glass. He ground his foot down, crushing the pieces to powder beneath his heel.

But the countenance was still grinning at him, winking conspiratorially from beneath the broken frame.

***
He pressed his palm against the gleaming surface of the card. It pulsed beneath his hand, warm and alive. He flipped the card over and examined the graceful figure described on its face.

The Light.

If he spoke the words, the light would burst forth. It would shine as bright and as warm as the sun on a summer afternoon.

He needed light.

He read the name aloud, his finger tracing the embossed letters. A small star flashed above his waiting palm. The darkness, which had overwhelmed the apartment, receded into remote corners. Light sparked in the empty facets of the chandelier, glinted in the black windows, glistened along the curves of polished silver and porcelain ornaments, glowed on the creamy pages of open books. The whole room was ablaze.

But it was not enough. He needed more light.

The orb grew, dissolving every vestige of shadow in the room. He raised his hand to his eyes as if to shield them from the dazzling radiance.
Ah, but it was still not enough. There was still darkness. He spied himself in the long mirror opposite, his dark robes sweeping the floorboards. He could still see it. It was there, lurking, skulking, hidden away. In the long, indifferent hours, in the lonely space where the hands of time clutched and clawed, the dark would creep upon him. And he could do nothing but sit, paralyzed with fear and loathing, and wait for the shadows to retreat. But he would no longer wait, helpless. No, he would not.

His hand suddenly contracted and the sphere in his hand burst. Light spilled out from his fingers, trickled down his wrist, splattered against the walls. The whole room seemed to be burning. It was as if he had stepped into the heart of the sun itself. He could see nothing but a vast, blinding whiteness.

But it wasn’t enough. The darkness was still there, waiting to overtake him. It wasn’t enough. It couldn’t reach that darkness. For he needed the light of more than a thousand suns to brighten the lengthening shadows in his mind.

***
There’s a rabbit in the moon, his father informed him.

No, his mother interrupted, there’s a man in the moon. I know.

Convinced by his mother’s confident tone, he inquired, What does he look like?

No one really knows. People say different things. What do you think he looks like?

He closed his eyes for a minute, picturing the moon as it hung in his window, a great silvery bauble. The moon was beautiful on those nights. Shining, clear. But it was so far away, so cold. The light is bright but not warm.

He told his mother so.

She laughed. Then to you, the moon would be a stern, unfeeling person.

Yes. He paused, pursing his mouth in thought. But when I’m alone, the moon is friendly to me. I see the moon smiling at me sometimes. So, inside, I think the moon would be very kind. It just doesn’t show it a lot.

The sonorous laughter of his father joined the lilting laugh of his mother. Son, you have quite an imagination, he said, ruffling his hair affectionately.

2002-01-27T02:43:00.000-08:00

Listening to Jo Sung Mo always makes me want to write. And I always want to write sorrowful, dark pieces. That last time I listened to Jo Sung Mo, I wrote, "Gi-puhn Ma-uhm". I think another one of his ballads led to a substantial chunk of "The River Lethe" as well. But I'm much too tired to write right now. It's much too late. But I'm feeling inspired. Quite inspired. Damn. The flesh is weak though the spirit is willing . . .

2002-01-22T14:49:00.000-08:00

Silverlight, I wish I could refer you to some good "Cowboy Bebop" fanfiction, but I haven't found anything that has really sparked my interest--at least on ff.net. Anyway, from what I see so far, your outline looks good. I think a third-person POV would work; I find that a third-person POV works well for "weird" and "chaotic" pieces. But then, if the work is going to be 30 pages long, the task of effecting "weird" and "chaotic" may be difficult. I find that this kind of style is difficult to sustain through even a five page piece. At any rate, this seems like a good introspective piece--a very good vehicle for exploring Faye's views/relationship with Spike and disabusing all of us hopeless romantics of the notion of a Spike/Faye coupling. ^_^

I'll write more later . . .

2002-01-16T11:54:00.000-08:00

Silverlight, your "Vision of Escaflowne" does sound a wee bit convoluted, but I'll bet a thousand Galleons that it'll be good; in fact, the convoluted nature of the plot will add to its glory! I seriously am impressed by the plot so far and I'd love to take a gander at the outline. Far more complex than most "Vision of Escaflowne" fanfiction--at least, those works that I've read so far.

As for me, I'm still trying to think of a plausible reason for reuniting Van and Hitomi. I researched a bit on "Vision of Escaflowne" and I found that the director (or was it the producer?) had said that the reason why Hitomi left was because both she and Van are too young to be together; they still have to experience life and all its complications. Van and Hitomi need to learn to make their own decisions and to grow through the experiences stemming from those choices. They will reunite but only after they come to that decision. In other words, I suppose that they will eventually decide the point in their lives at which to meet.

So far, from what I remember of the remaining episodes of the "Vision of Escaflowne" t.v. series, both Van and Hitomi have the ability to summon Hitomi to Gaea from the Mystic Moon. And in light of the information given by the director of the "Vision of Escaflowne", Van and Hitomi will reunite once they have decided to do so. So, I think I will have Hitomi and Van meeting later on in life but whether that decision comes about through another crisis, internal or external, remains to be seen. Will another war on Gaea bring Hitomi back? Will Van or Hitomi be in great danger? Or will Hitomi simply come because she feels that she's already experienced much of life? I don't think I'll follow the first two ideas--those, from my understanding, have already been done by many fanfiction authors. Do you have any ideas?

And your assessment of "Cowboy Bebop" was damned impressive and very astute, really. Makes me ashamed of myself for so eagerly believing that Faye was in love with Spike. (I suppose I'm a hopeless romantic, eh?) Seriously, you've pretty much convinced me that my analysis of Faye's feelings towards Spike was utterly incorrect. And now that I've decided to adopt your assessment, it makes the writing of "Elegy for a Cowboy" a lot easier. You see, I was having a hard time writing a scene in which Faye realizes her love for Spike. I see now why it was so difficult. (I was too sentimental!) As you've pointed out, there was practically no substantial evidence for this love in the series (unless you're as delusional as I am and believed that you were seeing proof of her love all over the place). So I'm going to drop it and instead adopt the tack that you've created.

And thank you so much for the kind words! *hugs* I really needed the encouragement! Feeling quite invigorated, really. Hopefully, I'll find some time to write on "Elegy" tonight.

2002-01-15T01:26:00.000-08:00

I'm beginning to become very frustrated with my writing. Can't wring a ruddy sentence out of the wet rag of my brain.

I'm beginning to contemplate taking a fic hiatus--perhaps for a long time. Maybe I need to find some fresh sources of inspiration. Or perhaps I just need to quit while I'm ahead.

Don't mind my complaints. Mother Nature, biology, what have you, has taken possession of my body. Idle, hormone-induced threats, most likely.

Anyway, Imouto-chan, I really loved "Home". Of course, I can only think of two couples that may easily fit those passages. And one of those characters is definitely not that pedophilic teacher.

And Silverlight, I can't wait to read your "Vision of Escaflowne" fic. Maybe we should bounce ideas off each other? (And by the way, I want to get together to plot our "Harry-and-Cho-gettin'-it-on" fanclub.)

2002-01-14T00:04:00.000-08:00

After reading Imouto's "To Do" fic list, I'm rather inspired to write my own. Here's what I have so far:

1) Elegy for a Cowboy [Cowboy Bebop]

I'm quite frustrated with this. I've watched and re-watched the last two episodes and all other episodes having to deal with Faye. I've scribbled copious notes on the scenes, written down quotes verbatim, etc., etc. Everything is in place. But I can't for the life of me finish those two small sections that keep me from posting the work in its entirety.

2) Martian Requiem [Cowboy Bebop]

The second vignette of what promises to be a "Cowboy Bebop" trilogy. This one revolves around Jet and concerns the last two episodes of the series. I don't know if I have the energy or the time to work on a vignette from Spike's POV, however.

3) In Blue Fields [CCS]

A short Touya and Yukito fic. I was inspired to write this after I received a comment from a reader on "Loss", which was posted on ff.net. The reader had asked that I write another Touya fic with "a little more Yukito-ness". And I'm still trying to do this.

4) The River Lethe [CCS]

What I consider my most ambitious CCS project so far. I have three chapters outlined so far. I have five or six more scenes to write in. So far I think it stinks. Much too chaotic and disjointed. Desperately need beta reader for this.

5) Untitled Vision of Escaflowne

No outline created yet but a lot of ideas floating around in my brain. Like any other "Escaflowne" fan, I want to reunite Van and Hitomi. Just don't know exactly how yet. I need to re-watch the last four episodes so I can have a foundation for what promises to be a violently non-canon fic.

6) Untitled Sirius POV [Harry Potter]

I've been mulling over this fic for a while, now. Inspired by "Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban" and a line in "Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire": "Sirius looked at [Harry], eyes full of concern, eyes that had not yet lost the look that Azkaban had given them--that deadened, haunted look." Awesome line. So much potential! Now I just need to get started on writing the ruddy fic.

7) Twilight [Rurouni Kenshin]

It took me a year and a half, I think, to write the first chapter. I don't know if I'll ever get around to finishing the second. I have an outline all prepared; I have nine chapters planned out. It may take me years to finish this at the rate I'm going.

8) Suppi's Revenge [CCS]

I promised Imouto and Silverlight that I'd continue with it. I have an idea about how Eriol and Suppi could snap Nakuru out of his "manly" phase but I never am in the right mood to write it. Should I try putting on mood music to inspire me, like the Beegee's "Staying Alive" or Abba's "Dancing Queen"?

9) The Waste Land [Neon Genesis Evangelion]

I have a whole chapter finished a few years ago, but unfortunately, it's not planned to come up until much later. But I think I'm going to post it to ff.net anyway, as I don't know when I'm going to work on chapter four. I don't want to give this particular fic up; I have a particular fondness for it. I already have an outline--quite detailed for me, actually. And I have quite a few chapters started.

10) Fruition [Ranma 1/2]

I dunno, I'm considering dropping this. I haven't felt any real desire to work on this. I've lost my excitement over "Ranma 1/2"--it's been too long. But I hate the idea of dropping it. Will think about this more.

2002-01-13T23:24:00.000-08:00

Warning: This upcoming post will be dedicated to an explanation of "Cowboy Bebop" for my dear Imouto.

The last two episodes of "Cowboy Bebop" presents the reunion of Julia and Spike. And the end of the long rivalry between Spike and Vicious. Here are what I considered, in my own humble opinion, the most important highlights: Faye finally meets Julia. Spike leaves the "Bebop" to "find that something he had lost." But it slips away from Spike in the end. (I'd say more but I don't want to spoil you too much. ^_^) Spike returns to the ship to say a final farewell of sorts to Faye and Jet. Before Spike departs, however, Faye finally realizes and confesses her love for Spike. (Faye doesn't outright say she loves Spike but it is heavily implied.) Spike leaves, however, to confront Vicious.

Now, because "Elegy for a Cowboy" is terribly convoluted, I'm going to explain what I'm attempting to accomplish with this. (But I really do think I'm going about it terribly.)

"Elegy for a Cowboy" explores the parallels between Spike and Faye. There are a lot of similarities between them--Spike and Faye are both consumed by their pasts, even though they try to forget them. I switch between the past and present--Faye's memories and Spike's life, although Spike's life is mainly given from Faye's viewpoint. And throughout it all, I try to emphasize the temporality of life--the illusory and frail quality of life lived through and in a dream, which I felt was an important theme throughout the entire series.

This sounds incredibly pompous, but I don't mean to be. And I seriously doubt that I've even managed to achieve this. Do tell me if I sound like an insufferable prat or something. Or, more importantly, tell me if I'm not accomplishing this at all in what I've posted so far.

I dunno, I find my writing style becoming more chaotic, disjointed. I suppose I'm striving to create a "stream-of-consciousness" feel, but not in a Faulkner or Woolf sense. I'm trying to capture feelings and images as we do in real life--pictures, senses--but still in a more structured, coherent way. I rather think I'm writing like a video camera shifting here and there, panning across from scene to scene.

Sheesh, I'm sounding incredibly pompous. Someone stop me! ><

Anyway, here are a few more scenes from "The River Lethe". I still have a few more scenes to write, though. >< And school starts tomorrow! Where has my vacation gone? ><

With a small splash the boat alighted on the water.

Be careful, his mother warned from her perch on the bank. He nodded and slowly waded further into the stream. The boat bobbed merrily in the sunlit water, eager, impatient. He laughed.

Careful, his father cautioned.

Yes, he responded, walking deeper in. His legs set the waters atremble. Waves broke against the stern. The boat bucked back and forth. He moved further in. But the little craft, borne aloft by the flashing crests, glided away.

He hurried after it. The little vessel tumbled about in the waves created by his splashing legs. He reached out, his small hands stretched wide to retrieve the ship, which seemed to sail further and further away each time he drew near. At last, mad with impatience, he lunged after it. The water rose and he fell into the glinting waves. And as his fingers brushed against the hull, the boat scurried away down the stream.

***

A gentle scratch, a small tinny tick, and the soft static of a record upon the old spin-table winded outwards. Then, with a startled burst, music filled the room. His mother looked up from her embroidery to his father standing before her, his eyes twinkling with merriment as he gave her a gallant bow.

What in the world—

Madam, if you would do me the honor . . . He motioned to the shining floor.

I can’t possibly turn down such an irresistible offer, she laughed, setting her sewing down. He watched his father sweep her into his arms. They waltzed about the room, spinning past the chairs, the tables, their laughter nearly drowning out the music to which they danced.

What a fine dancer you are, sir, she cooed as they pirouetted about.

He sat, perched atop the back of the sofa, watching their movements with interested eyes. The light gilded the tall black head of his father, the slender white arms of his mother. The music spun on, winding out, lacing the room in shining joyful strands. The room was golden—golden with light, with music, with laughter. He wanted to feel the music, the laughter, the light—he wanted those golden strands to wrap about him, to feel that warmth against his skin.

He spied the cat lounging on the windowsill. Before the cat could dart away, he caught her up in his small arms. He began to sway in time to the music, mimicking the twirling, laughing couple dancing across the room. His socked feet slid and shuffled over the polished floor, the cat bouncing up and down in his arms. He giggled as he watched his father dip his mother over his arm. And he found himself tangled in laughter, in music, in love, wrapped in those warm, shining strands.

And so they danced, drawn together by the golden threads while the music spun on.

2002-01-11T12:04:00.000-08:00

I just re-watched, "Vision of Escaflowne". I'd forgotten what an awesome anime that was. I watched the whole series over vacation, with the exception of the last four episodes. (My brother didn't have the last four for some reason.) But I do remember how annoyed and disappointed I had been over the ending. So frustratingly inconclusive! But this has started the wee wheels of my noggin to turn and I'm resolved to write a "sequel" of sorts to "Escaflowne"--or at least try.

Damn, another fic to add to my growing collection of unfinished works.

2001-12-30T02:36:00.000-08:00

Getting rather peeved now. I'm desperately trying to finish "Elegy for a Cowboy" but my brain is refusing to cooperate. Very, very frustrating. I just want to post one new work! Just one! That's all I ask! Then I can move on to my other works! Like the Sirius-centric work that I've been pining to write! And the second chapter of "Twilight"! And, oh, the first chapter of "The River Lethe." Oh, and that Eriol and Tomoyo work that I promised Silverlight a while ago! And--oh, bother! There are simply too many fiction pieces that I need to work on--and the number of works that I need to start/finish is impossibly long. But every time I begin to write on "Elegy for a Cowboy" I find that there is another scene to write in, a scene to cut out, a scene to rework--

It's vacation, I still haven't finished my seminar paper, and I'm stressed about fiction writing!

Yes, indeed, I have my priorities straight!

2001-12-23T03:24:00.000-08:00

Snippets from my CCS work, "The River Lethe."

He sank back into the velvet cushions of the shabby armchair. The book lay open in his lap, the golden leaves rustling enticingly. They seemed to whisper a lovely phrase, a secret melody that only he could hear if he but chose. He laid his palm across the page, which seemed to tremble and thrill under his touch.

He only needed to say the word.

He bent over the book, listening to the faint song. It rose high and sweet—a lilting, laughing music. He ached to hear the tune more clearly, to understand the melody that thrilled his heart and hummed in his veins. But an unknown fear lurked within him, holding him back. To lend his breath, to give those lyrics form, he feared, would be the beginning of the end.

He only needed to say the word.

The spectacles slipped down his nose and came to rest precariously at its tip. He pushed them up with a practiced move of his hand. He peered down at the tome again with a questioning glance. And the music drifted up to him, gentle and beguiling, lulling the fear within him.

Say the word.

His lips parted but he stopped, unable to continue. The nameless dread held him back, sealed his lips, and froze the word that simmered in his breast.

Say the word.

He felt the pages stir restlessly beneath his hand. The tune wafted up to him once more, stronger, sweeter. He listened, breathless, as the song trilled up and down his spine. He shuddered—but whether it was one of ecstasy or terror, he could not tell.

The lyric soared to an unbearable pitch. It sounded through him with an agonizing urgency like a trumpet blast upon a battlefield. He rose, lifted up from his seat. His face bore a look of rapture. Tears slipped from his eyes unnoticed and a hectic flush stained his pale cheeks.

And the word rose, unbidden, to his lips, bubbling up like champagne uncorked from its bottle, with ticklish, inebriating effervescence:

Release.

One, two, three, four, he chanted as he skipped into an uneven square. He scooped up the stone and tossed it back onto the pavement. The stone skittered across the wobbly lines and finally came to rest a few feet away. Five, six, seven, eight, he intoned. He hopped down the blocks and stopped triumphantly at the last square. He picked up the stone and threw it across the pavement once more.

One, two, three, four, he sang. He plucked the stone up from the ground and hurled it. He hurried after it, following on one foot.

One, two, three and the wind rose higher.

Five, six, seven, eight, he hummed. He tilted a little, to the left. He raised his arms, flapping them a little to regain his balance.

Five, six, seven, eight and the wind died down to a breath.

One, two, three, four and the child jumped down the path once more.

One, two, three and the breeze swirled madly upwards as the child lifted his hands into the air.

Five, six, seven, eight and the child planted his foot on the last square.

Five, six, seven, eight and the wind—

Eriol!

The child paused in his play and looked up to see his mother on the verandah, arms akimbo. It’s teatime, she called. Come.

He flung the stone aside and ran towards the house.

He slid the screen aside and looked out. The peonies were blooming in the garden. The air was thick and golden with their scent. If he stretched out his hand, he would feel the wind flow past his fingers in sticky, honeyed streams. He closed the window but the perfumed air still filtered through, running over him in thick rivulets.

It was hot that afternoon. He tugged at the collar of his shirt, fiddling with the ornate frog clasp at his throat. He lifted his arm to wipe the sweat from his brow. A strange odor wafted up with the soft whisper of violet silk as it slithered down his arm. It was sharp and pungent, dissolving the syrupy fragrance of the peonies in the garden. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes. It smelled familiar, he thought. Like chrysanthemum tea, English tobacco. . .and magic.

***

Junks glided across the shadowy harbor. Shrill voices resounded in the night, stirring up the waters into greater waves and setting the sails trembling. He heard them—the querulous shouts of fisherman, the encouraging invitations of stall owners, the teasing laughter of girls, the anxious calls of strangers lost in the maze of the city. He heard them all from his window high above; he knew every voice that rung from the wharves, he saw every movement of the people there—even though he was not among them. Even though he lived far from the heart of the city.

He turned away from the open casement, back to the musty tomes strewn across his desk. They looked distasteful to him. He had a strange desire to hurl them out of the window, watch them flutter to the street, witness their eventual destruction by the tramping feet of passer-by. But he stayed the impulse. Instead, he selected a book, his movements controlled, deliberate, flipping through its yellowed pages, scanning the crabbed characters scrawled across the thin sheets. He reached the elaborate frontispiece. Beneath the flimsy parchment, a name caught his eye.

Clow Reed.

Too confusing? Incoherent? If you have comments, do e-mail at sme291@hotmail.com.

2001-12-20T10:34:00.000-08:00

Snippets from "Elegy for a Cowboy"

[Warning: Spoilers for the last two episodes of the series. Awful prose abounds.]

One eye looked to the past. One eye looked to the present.

She took a drag of her cigarette. The embers flared briefly for a moment as she inhaled deeply. A small orange eye glowing in the gray dusk of the apartment.

One eye forever fixed to a single point.

With a careless flick of her wrist, the eye blinked and a few flakes of ash drifted to the floor.

One vision. One image. One dream.

She exhaled. Smoke wafted from the small scarlet circle of her mouth in long, lazy eddies.

One illusion.

The woman slowly raised the cigarette to her lips, poised to take another drag. The bright cinder winked at her, conspiratorially, mischievously. She paused, the cigarette dangling precariously between her slender fingers. Annoyance and anguish flickered in her quiet green eyes.

Blinded.

With slow, deliberate motion, her fingers closed over the lighted end. A puff of ash erupted from her scorched fingertips.

For no eye looked to the future.

***

The plane glided easily over the sunset-dappled ocean. Merry childish chatter pealed through the air like a dozen tiny bells. The incessant tut-tut of a pinwheel ran through it, a faint, syncopating staccato. Her hand moved mechanically in time over the controls. The plane swung back and forth like a giant aerial metronome. But neither she nor the child noticed the erratic movement of the plane.

I thought I was seeing a ghost!

Her hands stopped, suspended above the controls like a maestro pausing before the next movement, petrified by a sudden, disquieting cough of memory.

I’m a ghost, she echoed to herself.

She recalled the bent figure sitting in the park that afternoon, where the sun slung down its molten rays and the world revolved about her in a gaudy kaleidoscope of blue, green, and white. She stood, facing that smiling old dame. But the clear green eyes that met the rheumy gray ones were not the same.

I don’t understand, she thought despairingly. I don’t understand what happened. How could it be that that grandmother and I were once friends? It doesn’t seem real. Is this a dream? Or a nightmare?

Her hands shook. She needed a cigarette. Now. Something to calm her nerves, occupy her—to give her a semblance of reality. Her fingers fumbled with the box. The cigarettes slithered out and rustled to the floor of the cockpit. Her hand crushed the empty carton.

“Damn,” she whispered. She threw the box at the window. It rattled hollowly against the glass before tumbling to the floor.

She was right. I’ve been dead to everyone.

A high childish voice, accompanied by the rhythmic plastic flap of a pinwheel, floated down to her. The burden of a child’s song: Ho, ho, hotaru koi, yama michi da! Ando no hikari o chotto mite!

Have I ever been alive? she wondered.

***
His eyes gazed at her, faraway, hazy. His face was tired, worn.

This is a dream, isn’t it?

“You said the past doesn’t matter but you’re the one who can’t let go of the past,” she spat.

He turned, pinning her against the wall with his eyes, barring her with his hand by her side. She felt his breath caress her cheek. She waited, tense, expectant.

“I lost my eye in an accident a long time ago.”

His eyes stared back at her, still remote, still hazy. One brown eye. One crimson eye. She stepped back, stunned, her back pressing into the cold, unyielding wall.

“One eye watches the past. . .and one watches the present.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded, confused, angry.

“Everything’s just a dream.”

A dream? Her breath caught in her throat. A vision appeared before her—the uneven lines scratched in the dirt, the scattered ruins, the ancient trees, the desolate hush of that lonely twilight as she lay staring at the stars.

Suddenly, he grinned. A wide bow that stretched from ear to ear. But the mirth did not reach his eyes. They were still distant, detached. Still fixed to an unknown, far-off point.

Yes. A nightmare.

“And then I woke up.”

She watched him amble away, his tall lanky frame slightly hunched over. He moved slowly as if his feet were wheels, rolling along with his peculiar leisurely gait. As if he were simply stepping out for a smoke. Strolling carelessly, relentlessly towards death.

“I. . .I got my memory back,” she said quietly, her head bowed. He paused. She looked up, her eyes stricken, desperate. “But everything’s gone! Everything I ever had is long gone, and I’m alone again. Where can I go now? The Bebop is the only place I can call home!”

She thought, for a moment, she had seen him move. A barely perceptible twitch of his hand. As if her words had struck some hidden chord. Of understanding? Of sympathy? No, it can’t be, I must be mistaken, she thought.

He resumed his walk to the bay. “Where are you going?” she cried out. She ran after him and stopped before him, blocking his path. “Are you just going there to die?”

“No,” he answered simply. “I really don’t want to die.” He flashed her a lopsided grin before he continued on. “I just want to see if I’ve ever been alive.”

***

A storm of gunfire, a hurried invitation, the squeal of tires on the pavement and she found herself flying along the highway in an open convertible. A hasty alliance formed in a brawl, sisterhood discovered in a violent confusion of men.
She leaned back, her body sinking into the hot leather of the seat. For a moment, she closed her eyes, luxuriating in the brilliant noon sun and the cool wind that whipped her hair into a dark frenzy. She automatically raised her hand to tame the wild strands that leapt about her face. But it was futile. Her hand dropped to rest on top of the door.

Her gaze panned across the desert landscape before alighting on the woman beside her. Her companion stared straight ahead, her hair a long, golden banner fluttering in the wind. A standard a man would willingly follow to his destruction. And the woman, a lovely Madonna, with her unworldly eyes, blue like the heavens that spanned above her speeding car. Her face, fragile and sorrowful, framed by that glorious halo. And her mouth, crimson and sinful, knew the dark kisses of men.

She looks like a rose in the rain, she thought, turning her eyes to the horizon once more. Beautiful but sad. And there’s something else about her—something strange but familiar. Her eyes—

The car screeched to a halt. The woman slipped out, resting against the bright red flank of the vehicle. She too eased out of the car and stood beside her companion. Her comrade reached into her purse, withdrawing a cigarette. A sharp scrape, a momentary flame and the cigarette glowed. The woman took a deep pull and said, as the smoke spiraled up, “You saved me, huh?”

Her ear unconsciously strained to catch the mournful music of that low voice. But she answered readily, “No problem. It’s what a bounty hunter does.”

The woman spoke again. “Bounty hunter?” Her words hesitated, caught in the swirling smoke of her cigarette. The blue eyes regarded her intently for a moment.

“Yeah. What are you, something like that? Why were they after you?”

A fleeting silence. The blue eyes turned away, staring off into the distance. Then: “Something like that.”

“You’re pretty good.” She grinned, her eyes twinkling, amused, mischievous. “You want to team up, you and me?”

The woman continued to gaze across the desert. “Do you know a lot of bounty hunters? I’m looking for one,” she inquired. The woman did not seem to hear the last remark.

She wheeled about to face her companion, startled. The serene expression had shifted slightly; a small smile curved the sinful red mouth. But it did not reach her eyes.

***

The woman looked at her. Her eyes were unearthly, as blue and as distant as the sky.

Her eyes look familiar, she thought again, a little bewildered. Dreamy and remote. As if she were looking at a distant point that no one else could see.

He stood before her, a lazy smile on lips. But his eyes were without mirth, dim, misted over with an invisible dream.

The woman smiled again. And she was once more overwhelmed by the heartbreaking loveliness of the woman before her.

Where have I seen those eyes before?

His eyes were unusual. They made her feel strange when she looked into them. Though his eyes were on her, he wasn’t really looking at her. His eyes were isolated, far-off. He was seeing something she couldn’t see.

The low dulcet music of the woman’s voice floated out to her. “It’s time we leave. Get in.”

He was always like that, she reflected as she nodded absently to her companion and complied. Looking at something far away. And it bothered me to see his eyes so damn distant. I felt as if I wasn’t even there. It was as if he were searching for something, beyond me, beyond the moment. What was he looking at? What was he looking for?

“What’s your name?”

The music of the woman’s voice pulled her out of her reverie once more. She looked at her companion a little dazedly. But she replied, her voice clear, unfaltering, “Faye. Faye Valentine. And yours?”

A brief pause. She looked at the sinful scarlet mouth forming the words, listened to the sweet husky melody of the woman’s voice, and wondered again at the unreal beauty of the woman beside her.

He looked past her though his eyes followed every movement.

The name lingered long in the air—three brief syllables, three poignant notes sounding with strange and startling clarity.

“Julia.”

His eyes looked here. Focused on the dream of the woman beside her.

The car slowed to a halt. She clambered out. The woman glanced at her companion before turning her eyes to the stretch of road before her. “Please tell Spike to meet me there. I’ll be waiting for him.” The woman lowered her sunglasses over her eyes. “I—”

But the woman’s parting words were lost to her, drowned out by those three notes that still reverberated in the air between them and the gunning of the engine.

***

Okay, this was more than a "few snippets." So I lied. Toss me into purgatory! >_>