recrudescence: (perfume)
posted by [personal profile] recrudescence at 03:59pm on 07/03/2008 under , ,
Should be writing one of the things I have deadlines for, but I'm fretting over it all instead. I feel like I have no real niche, as far as writing goes, like I'm a jack of all trades who does all of them with admirable half-assery and isn't particularly known for anything. On one hand, it's nice not to feel pigeonholed. On the other, it's annoying not to feel consistent. And then I get to over-thinking everything I type, which is about as far from productive as you can get.

So it's back to [ profile] prompt_a_day to clear my head. Written in two minutes:

Prompt 322: Hidden in my closet

Down in the dirt-floored wine cellar of a tiny old inn where Anja bruised her fists buffeting on the iron-bound oak door. You can still see the scratch marks, my grandmother used to tell me. I never believed her, but I would lean forward on the rug and wait to hear more—her voice always went slow and eerie when she told these stories. Anja was the prettiest thing she’d ever seen, she would say, and all the grown-ups fussed over her and she made the best marks in school and pulled my grandmother’s hair during recess. Her parents owned the inn and never used the cellar, so she goaded the girl inside and locked her there for days at a time until she’d forgotten she’d done it. Anja was never the same once they’d brought her back out. She gave me a picture, black and white, two girls in the 1930s, one blond and downcast, the other freckled and smiling brightly. I keep it in my closet and don’t ever take it out. I didn’t ever think for a second that it was true, that my grandmother was capable of locking little girls up and blithely turning it into a fairy tale afterward, like some reborn creation of Hansel and Gretel’s witch. And then Great-aunt Tziporah told me, years later, when my grandmother was a white-eyed wisp in a wheelchair and even eerier in her obliviousness, yes, it was all true.

ETA: I love the stuff that comes out of [ profile] get_house_laid. House and Cuddy get married and have deaf twins. And also sex. And it is all flagrantly non-sucky. Seriously.
recrudescence: (lakki)
posted by [personal profile] recrudescence at 05:44am on 30/11/2007 under , ,
288: It comes with all the bells and whistles!

She wants warmth and receptiveness, but only on call. Someone who won’t ask anything of her, who’ll be around when she chooses and recede when she’s ready. Sympathy makes things messy; simplicity is safe. Sex is easy to come by when you're twentysomething, thin, and pretty, but she always has to pile on challenges for herself. Can't be happy with what she's offered; if she doesn't keep herself on her toes, she'll end up flatfooted for good.

289: Small world

There’s a curve ahead, for her exit, and she’s not ready to put on the brakes, knows she has to in the interest of physics and self-preservation, but not yet, gonna keep driving like the roads several states away, silent and no sound but the prismatic crystalline echo of stars, hands rising like balloons to drift out the window and coolly cup the air there. Roads there stretch on like rivulets of molasses and ripple with hillocks like candy ribbon, the night smells sweet with hay and honeysuckle before she heads back into town, and here she’s more likely to hit a drunkard than a deer.

290: "Dance like nobody is watching."

Cameron closes her eyes when she drives sometimes, lets her head fall back against the headrest and tries to guess how long before she should open them again. About ten seconds, most times. She always runs yellow lights but feels a snag of fear catch at her heart if she misses a stop sign. Always turns down her music at stoplights, no matter what, assuming she’ll be judged. Can’t go too long with the radio on if her cell phone isn’t in view, as she tends to hear her ringtone in the background music, whatever it happens to be.

291: *thud*

She had a long day once, early on in Princeton, and took a wrong turn out of town going home from the hospital, got honked at trying to turn around, and let the tears spill as she drove herself home. She honks when she's in traffic now, bitches under her breath about it, only cares about getting through the traveling as fast as possible in order to reach the destination. That’s what matters; no time to ruminate on how beautiful the journey is, because it damn well isn’t. She’s grown jaded or she’s grown up.
recrudescence: (lakki)
posted by [personal profile] recrudescence at 12:38am on 26/11/2007 under
287: Our greatest mistake...

...was trying to bring side ponytails back in style. Chucks were a staple, that was a given. Slap bracelets were nostalgic and retro. But when scrunchies entered the equation, we lost our scene cred right there and it took several painstaking months of hair wax and straightening irons to get it back.
recrudescence: (lakki)
286: "Suddenly I knew what was bothering me..."

All the other girls were wandering around with their stomachs bare and their hipbones hanging out, while here I was with a tracksuit on. National news coverage at a local marathon apparently demanded everyone under thirty show up dressed to audition for an R Kelly video instead of to actually run.
recrudescence: (perfume)
posted by [personal profile] recrudescence at 05:21am on 24/11/2007 under
285: Sometimes you have to grope...

Because those couldn't be real. All those Philosophy 101 essay prompts were true. Tell a man that there are 400 billion stars and he'll believe you; tell him a bench has wet paint and he has to touch it just to be sure. Throw in another one about the tempting nature of apples and...

She slapped his hand and the bowl went tumbling across the floor, scattering plastic fruit everywhere.
recrudescence: (lakki)
posted by [personal profile] recrudescence at 12:35am on 23/11/2007 under
284: Revolutionary

There's a Madame Tussaud's opening up soon. It's amazing that something as enduring as waxwork still manages to maintain its popularity, lined up as it is alongside the iPhone and Wikipedia and the Wii.

Every industry learns how to work the room it's in. Back when the guillotine was the hottest talk show in town, waxworkers went stumbling through the streets to lay claim to the head, running off clutching it like Little Red Riding Hood's basket of goodies in order to make a mold while the features were fresh. Today, we have wax likenesses of Elvis and Angelina. Which is more gruesome?
recrudescence: (Default)
posted by [personal profile] recrudescence at 02:18am on 20/11/2007 under
I am honing my abysmal brevity skills. *nods staunchly* In order to entertain my insomnia and learn to stop second-guessing my writing, I've decided to join [ profile] prompt_a_day. The name pretty much says it all--the comm doles out a daily writing prompt, people respond in the comments. Being a shy little ivy vine, I'm clinging to the safety of my own LJ for now. This not-second-guessing thing is a process.

283: Things went too far

Things had gone too far. He came through the front door, stepped on a Virgin Mary cookie cutter, and narrowly avoided skidding face-first into the kitchen wall. Limbs windmilling like a blindfolded ice skater, he took in the scene. Countertops were smeared with margarine and scattered with marzipan crumbs. Something he could only assume was either Leopold's flan or a particularly stubborn mold was haphazardly inhabiting a mixing bowl precariously perched atop the toaster oven. Leopold himself, serendipitous as ever, was nowhere to be seen. This was so far past too far he was choking on the horizon, but somehow he managed one good vocalization. "What the fuck?"


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