twenny twenny twenny four minutes to gooo, feel like I been sedated

I'm in denial of morning. I am NOT getting out of bed yet and YOU CAN'T MAKE ME.

*burrows*

I so very need a duvetlump icon.

(no subject)

I just found this, randomly; something I wrote a long time ago for an icondrabble. I read it again this morning and for some reason I really like it, today, so I'm posting it in the hopes that someone else likes it too. :D






Everything has to start somewhere.

He doesn't move much any more but it doesn't do to question the ways of nature. Herself is bigger than any man, and she'll have it as she will, and seeds are made for spreading. Somehow word always gets out, see. Circumstances right. Doesn't even needs mouths or words any more, seems like, just someone with the germ of a seed of an idea, some trick of the light or the moon or the winds that brings them up in their colours and their movements and their young fresh faces.

He had a name once, and it's that name that has them coming. They expect more from the name, but he was never the name. He wore it for a while, that was all, wore it like the cloak and the tall hat, like the traditions and legends that wove themselves around him.

(He didn't ask for this, but since when has what he wanted ever mattered? Herself'll have it as she will.)

Of all of it, he kept the staff. Not so impressive as the tales would have it, for there's nothing a fire-bright crystal can get you that can't be got with eight feet of gnarled oak wood. It holds him up, besides, when he gets around to moving - his legs don't work so well as they once did, wood-stiff.

They come to him every so often, always in packs, bright-eyed and bushy tailed, but he doesn't move much any more. That cuts out half of them, straight away. This is a place of stories and the darknesses that live at the edge of them, and as soon as night falls a half of them are gone, and another half again after a day or two of searching.

(That's the problem with youngsters today. Lack of ambition. Searching for things they ought to be finding.)

Half again fall to the first of the storm clouds, half again with the half of a tree, lightning struck and lightning killed. (They know he's here by then, or they think they do.) Soon enough there's only one left, leaf-green and nut-brown and sharp white teeth, and it's been forever and forever since he's felt anything like fear but his sap rises to this, sure enough.

He doesn't move much any more, but neither does the boy. Sits, quiet, still, long enough to have set down roots in this place of stories and darkness.

Sometimes seeds fall in fallow ground. Everything has to start somewhere.

(Herself'll have it as she will.)

(no subject)

NO.

I refuse to exist until I've had some sleep.

WORLD ON STANDBY.

PLEASE WAIT.

(no subject)

I really want long, slow Scripps/Posner.

I don't suppose anyone knows of any good History Boys fic?



Other news, things I've been doing of late:

Apricity

Just Another Mission Gone Wrong

That Thing

all for artword: Round Robins, in which four artists and four writers worked together to produce stories with accompanying illustrations. Those are only the three I was involved in, there are loads more stories on the community which you should definitely take a look at.

There's also Matched Set, a small piece of writing that doesn't nearly do justice to the gorgeous art that unamaga created, so you should definitely take a look at that, too. Mmm, back.

'night, all.