Posts Tagged: 'original'

Nov. 28th, 2009

[No Subject]

Well, when you're on a roll I guess...

Type: Original Work
Title: Roost
Rating: PG
Warnings: Main character is a lesbian.
Summary: If you have a haunted/cursed item, the Roost will take it for you. Please don't worry, they are the very best.

Part One: (801 words)
Part Two: (588 words)
Part Three: (1411 words)

Where Robin gets cranky )

X-posted to

Nov. 27th, 2009

Roost - Original: Chapter 2

Type: Original Work
Title: Roost
Rating: PG
Warnings: Main character is a lesbian.
Summary: If you have a haunted/cursed item, the Roost will take it for you. Please don't worry, they are the very best.

Part One: (801 words)
Part Two: (588 words)

The young priest's quest for the box continues )

Nov. 15th, 2009

Roost - Original: Chapter 1

Type: Original Work
Title: Roost
Rating: PG
Warnings: Main character is a lesbian.
Summary: If you have a haunted/cursed item, the Roost will take it for you. Please don't worry, they are the very best.


The Box )

Nov. 9th, 2009

[No Subject]

Lily isn't REALLY mine, I borrowed here. But this was stuck in my head.



The music had a hard sort of baseline to it, but that didn't matter when one wore earplugs. No one asked important questions in her line of work. Eyes followed the curve of her hips and the sway of her shoulders. Lillian could read lips anyway.

On stage they called her Lilith and very few people got the joke these days. Of course, the man that waved her over was in a priest's collar.

What would he assume, she wondered, going over the lines that she had heard before a million times, the rehashed scripts of people that think they are clever, think she is stupid, or think that she would believe them.

As long as he wasn't the love at first sight sort, Lillian hated those. "You don't belong here." He said, proving to be disappointing.

She smiled instead of saying what she wanted; she doubted he noticed that she'd removed the earplugs.

"Aren't you going to comment?" He had dark eyes, almost black in the light of the bar. They were sharp, unusually so for the sort that frequented a strip club. It meant that he was intelligent and probably dangerous.

She snorted. "You're not here for my conversation."

"I'm a priest." He looked affronted.

So did she "and I'm not here to find salvation."

"What if I am here to give it to you, none the less?" He sipped coffee, and she could not smell or sense booze on his breath.

Her eyes searched his neck, his hands, trying to find any sort of clue to the man's capabilities. Lillian was sure of her own skills, but she never took too many uncalculated risks.

"Four years of Judo, but I'm horrible at it." He answered her unspoken question.

A red eyebrow arched and she scowled. "What do you want?"

"If I say anything other than sex would you believe me?"

She shrugged. "Maybe."

He flicked a business card at her and finished his drink in one smooth gulp. "If you're interested. It's rather risky employment."

She looked over the card; it was black and had one address on it, letters that shone in a flat black against the gloss. "You're kidding. Why in the world would I go here?"

"Because, Lily, you've had a lot more than four years of Judo and I can promise you that this will not be boring." With that, he stood and collected a wide brim hat from the chair next to him. He tipped it to her and then walked out.

She bit the inside of her cheek. He wasn't a stalker; of that much she was sure… for some reason. The black on black card nearly yelled at her. "I'm going home early." She informed the bartender. He wasn't dumb enough to argue with her.

Nov. 6th, 2009

Original - Freewrite (On Highway 33)

There's something about the lonely stretch of 33 that always tugs at my throat. Maybe it's that point that the coffee starts to really hit me; an almost dry feeling at the back of my tongue and the top of my throat. The road reaches west and north, but ultimately makes me think "go west young man, go west".

There's nothing young about this stretch of road. The farms that hug the curves of the road are older than the pavement. I remember someone told me once that the reason there aren't straight roads in the Midwest was due to farmers being too proud to sell their land. The result was that the government had to pave around them. Of course, my father could have been the one to tell me that, so it may very well be false.

I drive for a living and have seen about every highway that Ohio has to offer, but 33 always gets me. It rolls up to 30 and then you hit US 31 and can ride the road into South Bend, right along the road to Notre Dame. I never felt a great affinity for the college. The idiocy of having to drive up to Michigan (admittedly not a long way) to get back to Indiana to go home always irked me. All because of a game.

Back to 33. I always feel sad when I see the businesses that dot the landscape along the farmlands. It's like the land itself gave up and went bad. Farms failed and turned into banks or fast food restaurants that failed and turned into small car lots or rental companies that ended up abandoned with "thanks for the memories" in falling letters. Nothing young. Nothing old. Just given up.

I always start to think about the first funeral. Everyone has a first funeral. The first time a friend died. I was fifteen when my ex-boyfriend committed suicide. He'd first broken up with me, about a week before that. He used a shotgun. I have no idea, to this day, why his mother insisted upon an open casket, his misshapen face still bothers me over ten years later. We had accumulated a group of friends that just drifted after his death.

One of those friends called me a few years back. I can't even remember the conversation, I think I responded with a "how did you get this number?" it was hardly friendly on my part. We'd met for an awkward lunch and probably both had each other's numbers deleted before we pulled into our parents driveways.

It isn't that I'm hiding from people, really. My biological father hasn't tried to make contact in years, that side of the family sometimes presses against my life, along the edges, but they never get under. Old friends aren't bad people. I just don't have anything to say and I feel like they deserve more than false pleasantries from someone who hasn't thought too much about them.

Strange things to think about, alone on a road.