| 12:32 pm - Introducing the Hemlock Grove Fan Fiction Community! |
 rpsff  hemlockgroveff is a new Community where you can post your Fan Fics featuring actors and characters from the new series Hemlock Grove. We accept and encourage all pairings and ratings and welcome your creative efforts!RPS and Character Fanart (graphics, manips, wallpapers, icons, banners, drawings or paintings) is welcome here too.Thanks for joining us at Hemlock Grove FF! current mood:  excited (comment on this) |
| Sunday, December 2nd, 2012 |
| 12:32 pm - Pervy Lit Desires Erotic Flash Fiction |
|
| Monday, October 29th, 2007 |
| 12:04 am - Noel |
 tobin Noel woke five minutes before his alarm clock. Sitting in the darkness, he let out his breath in a long sigh, knowing today was going to be an interesting one. Sitting up, he turned on his bedside lamp and looked around his room. The paper was still taped to the doorframe. A poor excuse for a lock, but at least it let him know if his parents had come into his room that night. Stumbling quietly to the bathroom, he noted that his parents’ door was closed; a good sign. Fifteen minutes later and he was dressed. Picking up his messenger bag, he descended the creaking stairs of the rundown duplex he shared with his parents. No time for breakfast. He wanted to be out before they even stirred. Their fight was a long, drawn out, alcohol and drug induced caterwaul that kept waking him throughout the night. Since neither one held a regular job, he knew they would start again that morning. Creeping into the living room, he saw his father sprawled out on the couch, a blanked bunched around his hips. Noel approached with a kind of wary tenderness. Reaching out, he pulled the blanket up his father’s chest. In an instant, his father lashed out with his fist, almost hitting Noel in the jaw. Prison reflexes, his dad called them. Turning over on the couch, he snored quietly and Noel continued on to the door. His mother would be up in the bedroom then, he supposed. Grabbing his hoodie on the way out, he quietly opened and closed the door, stepping out into the cold darkness of the early morning. He let out a long breath that he didn’t realize he was holding. Leaving home was always an adventure. Dropping his bag on the ground, he pulled on his sweatshirt, pulling the hood up. His long legs carried him two doors down, to the next duplex on his street. Half of the building was owned by an old man who would watch the street from his porch. The other half was empty and had been for as long Noel lived in the neighborhood. He cut down the side of the empty half, peering into the dark windows as he did so. Sometimes squatters slept inside, but this time it appeared it was empty. Noel relaxed a bit more, relieved. He didn’t think he could deal with squatters this morning. Pulling out a brick on the side of the house, he reached in and pulled out his stash. Just a bag of weed that he sold to some friends and school kids. Just enough to get him the money he needed to buy food, clothes and all the essentials that his parents could never provide. He never used the stuff himself, he just knew it was the fastest way to get some cash. He didn’t like hiding it, but he knew that if he ever brought it home, it would be gone in no time. Creeping along the side the building, he stole out of the darkness and hit the sidewalk at an easy jog. His bus was coming soon and he needed to be on it or he’d miss his honors biology class. Mr. Fenton wouldn’t be too happy to hear another excuse and Noel needed to pass the class if he was going to get out of the here. He reached the bus stop with time to spare. A hooded individual was hunkered down on the curb, hands in pockets and backpack sitting next to him. Noel dropped down beside him and took up a similar position. Like a pair of gargoyles they waited for the bus, not needing to talk, conserving their heat until they could get into the warmth of the bus. Noel looked up and watched the traffic slide by. His gaze fixed on a blue Hyundai Elantra as it rolled past as the driver turned to look at Noel; the two early morning people regarded one another, connected for a brief moment. (comment on this) |
| Monday, June 11th, 2007 |
| 9:59 am - new writing community |
|
| Wednesday, May 9th, 2007 |
| 12:24 pm - The Beginning |
 dreamervictoria My girlfriend broke up with me in September of that year and I was sick for a week. On the second day I crawled into the bathroom and lay on the floor. The linoleum cool on my hot cheeks. I slept there between heaves. I drank water from my cupped hands because I couldn't get back to the kitchen for a glass.At the end of the weekend I heard a pounding on the front door, through the floor, in my skull."Come in," I whispered to the bath mat.The neighbors had called the cops. The walls in my building vibrate with sound like wax paper, so they must have heard me gagging and gasping. I think I even cried. I lived in that neighborhood, you know, next to the rent-by-the-week motel, so they probably thought I'd OD'd on something.I rode to the hospital in an ambulance.-----------"I wish I could see you at home with softer hands and a harder face." A whisper in my ear.I opened my yes and turned my head to see a nurse's backside as she left the room. My throat hurt. (1 comment | comment on this) |
| Thursday, March 1st, 2007 |
| 3:35 pm |
 dreamervictoria She's crumbling in my arms and I can't hold her together. Her sobs suck the air out of my chest. My hand is curled around her fingers, curled around my shirt collar.She had walked in like a ghost, staring at the floor, chin unsteady, voice low. "I really need you to give me a good reason not to kill myself right now," she'd said, one tear escaping down her left cheek.Because I love you and you can't leave me. You saved my life and I need you. "Because it gets better. It always gets better."She had crumpled to the floor then, hidden her face in her hands and sobbed violently. It was a few seconds before I found the strength to control my legs and kneel down to hold her. She yielded easily, flooding into my arms like water filling a tub. "What happened?" I breathed into her hair."He doesn't love me." Her words were cut to pieces as she tried to inhale between sobs."Of course he does. How could anyone not love you?" I love you."I'm worthless.""That's not true."There's nothing left to say, and she's crumbling in my arms and I can't hold her together. Pieces of her come streaming down her face until it feels like there's nothing left in her, just a limp sack in my arms, whimpering and sniffling. Then not moving. I'm not moving.She sits up and wipes her nose, still not looking at me. "What's for dinner?" (comment on this) |
| Wednesday, February 21st, 2007 |
| 11:47 pm |
|
| Tuesday, February 20th, 2007 |
| 3:43 pm - First Post |
 irish_blush TItle: DeployedIt isn't until the second month that she realizes his smell has left her home. She frantically searches it out, tearing through her bedroom like a bloodhound on a trail. He's gone from her sheets, gone from her pillows and her clothes. She can't find a trace of him in the living room either; not on the couch where he loved to watch football on lazy Sunday afternoons. Not in the bathroom where he'd spend what seemed like hours on his hair before work in the morning. She looks around for something, anything of his that might bring his scent back to her but the whole damn apartment is nothing but her, her, her. She retreats back to the bedroom and cries into her scentless sheets, missing him all over again like it's the very first time. current mood:  pleased (comment on this) |
| 3:15 pm |
|
| Sunday, February 11th, 2007 |
| 10:56 pm - An Update to My Life... Via Analogy. |
 moelost The Russians had quite a walk ahead of them. Snow ridden landscape, a disorienting white out, with nothing more than a compass to lead them southwest or south or somewhere closer to the equator and eventually towards a war ridden Germany. And they walked in platoons and sang songs, completely out of key, to pass the time. But the cold worked its way through the boots and into the soles. It penetrated their socks and grabbed hold of the nerves. There was nothing but walking, and it was night or it was day and they were thirsty or hungry or heavy or on their last breath but there was always one more step or one more stride and, as long as you don't think of it as some sort of means to an end, you feel that you could go on forever. So there is walking. And you were just walking, following the repetitive footsteps of the one in front of you, wherever they may lead... and hoping, assuming, completely assured that someone, up there, someone, anyone, must know where they're going. (comment on this) |
| 4:24 pm - blood |
|
| Thursday, February 8th, 2007 |
| 5:35 pm |
 sportsawhitetie Hazel What have I done? What in the name of God have I done? Randall asked this of himself repeatedly; He never came up with an answer, but that didn’t stop him from trying. He was lying down in a field, staring at the slate-blue sky of morning. Tears welled in his eyes, staying pooled atop his pupils until he blinked. Then they would cascade down his cheeks, fall off of his jaw, and land in the grass. They fell slowly at first; his tears mournfully crawling across his skin, gravity pulling them from their safe spot among the bristles of his facial hair. They fell faster now, a trail of tears cutting a path down to the sodden earth below. He sat up for the first time since daybreak and looked around himself. He gazed forward, seeing the great walls of the city he ran from. They reached toward the sky almost endlessly, people living and working in the heavens. He regained his position on the grass, eyes gazing into nothingness. Another tear fell from his cheek, rolled onto his neck, and hit the earth with an inaudible splash. Randall began to smile then, for no reason that he could understand. He sat up again, watching as the walls of the city began to crumble. His head began to soar as the walls toppled down, the ground rumbling as they did, leaving the inner city open and exposed. He knew that his time had come again, that he could start life anew. He leaned back, and smiled youthfully as his eyes saw nothing but bright beautiful blue. (comment on this) |
| 1:31 pm |
| dreamervictoria She lifted a heavy cut glass vase from the side table and hurled it at the brick fireplace. She'd put it there several weeks ago for just such an occasion. It popped and shattered as she screamed,"Start giving a shit! Start caring!"He leaned forward, elbows on knees."I do care," he said evenly. "I just don't care the way you do.""Why not?" She stamped her foot on the rug, arms crossed, tears poised and ready to jump off the rims of her eyelids."Because that's not the way I work."She stared at his blue eyes through the shimmering waves of her tears. She wanted to splinter the ocean of his eyes, cut the calm and cause tempests through which no ship could safely navigate. She wanted movement, action, a sign from God."Fuck you!" she screeched. The tide was out, the tears tore over her skin. "Why don't you love me?!" The totality despair turned into a wave of violent urges that crashed over her. She trembled like disturbed water. Her eyes no longer saw, pulled into the storm.He stood and wrapped his steady arms around her. His breath trickled through her hair, arriving on her neck damp and hot. "I do love you." The tremors melted with the tension, and suddenly she was very tired.They fell asleep curled around each other. (1 comment | comment on this) |
| Saturday, January 27th, 2007 |
| 3:43 pm - Illustrated E-Book |
|
| Thursday, January 25th, 2007 |
| 8:33 pm - New from me. |
 dog_molar The American Living Room. When’s it going to stop? The same old song and dance-even the band is getting bored with it. TV’s on, and I’m listening to people sing songs from the 1980’s. The set-up for the punch line when some ocean-jumper tells them how awful they were. In-between commercials I tune in to another mindless program. Though this one seems to always be in reruns. Days and nights repeated over and over again. The same fights, the same tears, the same addictions. I swear I’ve heard that joke before… Daddy loves me, but he loves the paper rock and scissor more. Mommy remembers the cancer that killed her father too often, the baby that never saw the light of day. We all have our reasons and our excuses; I just wish their’s weren’t so rough. But a wish is nothing without a well and some spare change, right? So I tune it out. I tune it out as best as you could tune out a screaming elephant sitting next to you in a studio apartment. It amazes me that I can forget it some nights. The rare nights that I can touch head to pillow and that stream of thought never hits the rocks. I think about all the trivial things most people busy themselves with. And when the alarm clock wakes me up, I can stumble out of bed and almost make it all the way through with brushing my teeth before I think about the beach of Normandy I’ll have to cross before I make it to the front door. But hey, I’m an Ally, right? History says I make it to that door, every time. I just lose a few more squad-mates each time. Btu who’s counting? I’d quote some of the phases I hear those mornings, but why bother? You have an imagination, don’t you? You’re getting most of my metaphors (I hope) so you must. Shut your eyes and think of how to really hurt a child; without ever laying a finger on them. See, it’s not hard. I surround myself in music. As much as possible in a day. Music reminds me that there are other problems to face in the years to come. Love lost, money squandered, friends betrayed, wasted nights. It’s a blessing at times. I know that if I make it through life as it is defined so far in the dictionary; there’s more out there to keep me tossing and turning. Dancing more and more in my bed. Keeping the beat while losing sleep. (comment on this) |
| Monday, December 4th, 2006 |
| 4:12 pm |
|
| Friday, August 18th, 2006 |
| 10:07 pm - Once Upon a Time//842 |
|
| Tuesday, August 15th, 2006 |
| 3:44 pm - Newbie |
|
| Monday, August 14th, 2006 |
| 11:02 pm - Something I've had around. |
| dog_molar When I was seventeen I took my friends advice-driven mostly on the pure grain alcohol that we had been liquidizing our system with for the previous three nights-and visited a palm reader. She was a nice looking woman with river-flowing black hair and three small scars on her left cheek; that took up the majority of my imagination. They were very similar to the Hawaiian Islands, just a lot tougher of a sell for even the most seasoned travel agent. Over the course of the reading, the woman told me that I would grow to marry a beautiful lady with a deep and loving outlook on life, and we would live in squalor till she birthed our second child who would be named Ted. Three months later, despite her 12 years my senior, I married the palm reader. It lasted a month. I still cannot say for certainly why or what ended it for us. Frankly, the why or what that started it isn’t too clear either. Why did I marry her? Perhaps it was the hope that on our honeymoon night, lying in our fluids in the humid apartment I rent from a serious looking German woman (are there any other sorts?), that the palm reader would divulge the origins of the three small scars on her face to me. She didn’t. And why did she want to marry me? Maybe it was just an attempt at proving her superiority as a psychic with the old “two bird/one stone” technique. Proving herself to be beautiful and talented in the arts of “reading” all with the simple words “I do.” Interesting to know that it was only after a short month of my proximity she gave up the fight for her ego. Returned to the table; five bucks for a reading. Things were never normal for me. Childhood drama? I’ve had mine and a few of some other people’s fill. If you looked at our family photos you might have deducted that I was an only child; but sorry Charlie, you don’t when the toaster oven. Granted there was only my name on the presents under the tree come Santa-time, but I did share my parents, make no doubt about it. My father I shared with the nearest bar, and then later on the quickest high. Gotta jump on that highway for some speed, speed, speed. But that was Pops. I suppose everyone needs something to get a goin’, and some more than most. And some even more then that. It’s hard to describe my father. Druggie, hop head, salt and pepper-haired Neanderthal whose stuck in the 70’s, and a sense of humor that would make a sailor blush-no lube needed. Well, maybe it’s not that hard. “Momma, she always told the lie,” if I can be so bold as to quote and then totally alter the Bob Seger song. When describing my “gift” for seeing through other people’s bullshit, I always use the same old tired line (mostly due to laziness), which follows; “Momma taught me how to tell a lie, and Daddy taught me how see the lie.” Sure, it’s filled with all that self-imposed childhood bullshit that you hear from every two-bit double eyebrow on the street, but in my case it’s actually real. Seriously. I promise. I love me mother, not literally-I’m not a Greek, but given the option of spending a great deal of time with her (20 minutes) or allowing myself to be fist-fucked into believing the silly story that men with white breads live in the sky, priests only want to help, and the church really needs some of my donations; well just hand me over to the Lord, and give me a napkin to clean up afterwards. (comment on this) |