~ ~ ~

something stupid

distant_drift — Thu, 21 Mar 2013 18:31:04 GMT

A: We've got the upper hand!
B: And the lower foot too!
A: The lo... what?
B: It's hard to stand on one leg, you know?

this and related postings will pay Homage to a recently departed old friend

distant_drift — Sun, 22 Apr 2012 19:33:11 GMT

I found it!
For the sake of amusement and to touch on memory I’m going to post an abridged version of Trina’s original character profile which was birthed February 7th, 1991.
I am also going to do my damndest to remain loyal to Rob’s former character.
originally from $Prodigy’$ X-Gen OC

Code Name: Scarlet
Name: Katrina Lirak
Age: 29
Marital Status: Single
Previous Occupation: Psychiatrist
Abilities: 1. Full Sensory Illusions 2. Astral Projection 3. Superhuman Reflexes 4. Superhuman Speed 5. Limited Empathic Contact
Masteries: 1. Jeet Kune Do 2. Acrobatics 3. Various Dance
Failings: 1. Mechanics 2. Demonstrative 3. Expressive Amusia
Achilles Heel: Acrophobia
Physical Stats: 5’7” – something like this

Background: military brat, lived all over the Midwest and deep South until attending the University of Minnesota, older sister Olivia also gifted, Mother Judith, Father David, previously engaged to former X Gen Striker

Code Name: Mystic
Name: Lucien Noirceur
Age: 30
Marital Status: Widower
Previous Occupation: Entrepreneur: political pundit and property baron
Abilities: 1. Temperature Manipulation 2. Light Manipulation 3. Superhuman Agility 4. Flight 5. Temperature Projectiles: fireball, fire bomb, ice lance, deep freeze
Masteries: 1. Mixed Martial Arts 2. True Aim 3. Stealth 4. Sax
Failings: 1. Honor bound 2. Limited Loyalty - only to his creed and persons of interest 3. Skewed Morality
Achilles Heel: Loved Ones
Physical Stats: something like this

Background: Unknown

streaming adventureland 1

distant_drift — Sun, 15 Apr 2012 18:07:20 GMT

You are walking down a roughly cobbled road. A forest rolls to either side, the sound of rushing river distant. As it begins to rain you contemplate the apparent infinity your path stretches, wondering how you arrived here.
A drop of water chills the top of your head causing you to pause. A second drop spatters followed by another and then another. Soon you are continuing beneath a downpour, your clothing growing increasingly weighted and clingy. The wind rises and chills you as you hurry forward.
If you have never walked on slippery pavers you might be surprised by the way the rivulets of wet suck at your feet and nudge you sideways. It takes effort to move.
Just as your body begins to shiver you catch through the gloom of trees ahead a faint pinpoint of light. You speed up managing a near jog, arms extended to catch you if you fall. Your shivering intensifies as the wind whistles and whips, but you are intent on the light ahead and soon reach its position.
The light however is on the move. It bobs gently toward your right, skimming over bushes and crags. You turn, curious and hopeful but stagger as a particularly deep puddle pulls you downward. The light pauses, hovering as if waiting until you right yourself, and then continues on.
You follow sensing some vague invitation that gives you hope for a specific destination.
The trees break some of the wind and you find minor relief in a more sheltered path, overgrown and obscure.
The light is like a glowing fuzz carried gently by the wind upward.
As you track after the path begins an incline. You curve back and forth while the terrain around you becomes progressively more rocky and steep. Great trees eventually give way to lower lying scrub and the wind returns icy and intense.
Suddenly you are nearly shoved over as the rain slices sheets across your body and you begin to shake uncontrollably. The light is barely detectable against a high cliff face several paces in the distance and you must brace yourself before you continue on.
It waits once again, quietly bobbing up and down until you are close enough to touch. Once there however it darts away, squirming through a long crack down the side of the escarpment.
You fall to your side, sick with cold, feeling a sense of loss and allow yourself to be propped by the hardness of rock. The wind is less vicious and yet rain continues its harsh assault as you peer through the squall in search of better shelter.
Just as you make out a thick copse of trees hundreds of meters distant a low rumble from the earth begins to sound. The shake and scrape of rock cause you to slip and scramble for balance. The cliff seems to be moving sideways, its crack widening slowly.

Streaming Eva

distant_drift — Fri, 06 Apr 2012 01:05:55 GMT

At the southernmost end of the central courtyard was a path of stones that wended its way through high iron gates to a private garden. Statues, vines, and flowers competed with the scent of freshly cut grass and birdsong. The gates were bracketed by ominous guardsmen whose hard eyes belied boredom. It was there that Lester led her, pace a scuffling frenzy as sweeping gestures pointed to historical figures and significant symbols. Eva thought he looked like a manic chicken zigging hither thither. They walked for several minutes deep into the fragrant fare until they reached a circular set of stone benches surrounding a fountain. There he stopped, paused for breath, and then launched into another of his commentaries.

“Right, you are to meet Celeste. She is the eldest of your kind and most revered. Nearing two hundred years old she is. Attractive woman but severe, mind your P’s and Q’s and you two will be fine. I don’t know if you’ll like her; you won’t dislike her. She is worth respect. Pay attention to what she doesn’t say and learn much,” he rocked to the balls of his feet, plucking at her sleeve and gesturing toward a seat. “She rarely has visitors,” he added as an afterthought. Eva sank down in response, fidgeting at his fluster.

“Very important woman. She is our mother of a sorts; your mother now,” he continued on. “Take care and it’ll be fine.” And he bent, smoothing some of her hair, straightening the seams at her shoulders, and tugging the frothy white hem so that it coiled at her feet. “You look very nice, very much the part. Just don’t move too much and everything will be fine.”

Eva was fairly certain Lester was unaware of his repetition, not that it mattered. She just wished he’d settle down. He was making her nervous. A gong sounded in the distance at which he jumped and gulped. Nodding he patted her hand in a reassuring way and promised to return once the meeting had concluded, then he turned and fled back the way they’d come.

distant_drift — Fri, 30 Mar 2012 23:23:38 GMT

distant_drift — Thu, 26 May 2011 12:27:43 GMT

I am not a brave person. I've been called practical and compassionate; I've been called boring by those who do not know me and kooky by those who do, but never brave. My idea of bravery is giving blood; have you seen those needles?
This, walking away from life as I know it is an act of bravery. The suffocating yet intoxicating strangeness of the alien is overwhelming. I have no idea how to react. I am frozen to my toes inside, so out of my element I shake. This is adventure?

distant_drift — Thu, 26 May 2011 12:17:08 GMT

A lot of us come to a point in life where we stop for a second, take a look around, and wonder what happened. Life has ceased to be an adventure. Is this what it means to be an adult?
There is comfort found in predictability, the routine like a security blanket. Despite this one's self-inspection invariably leads to those unexpected nuances that veered the expected path. Had you once intended for life to be this way? Had you pictured it?
It is a dangerous line of questioning and if you are feeling smart you will begin to remind yourself of all the things that make you smile or bring you a feeling of warmth. If however, as everyone experiences occasionally, you are feeling morose you will slip down that rocky slope and pick at the holes that were never filled. This will lead to depression, anger, or frustration and you will binge in response. It could be food, or sleep, or self-pity, something will catch you and keep you down. But, if you wait long enough or lament hard enough the world will right itself and the routine will become comfortable again.

I can tell you that the comfortable path can be sorely missed once lost. The predictability, the safety that normalcy brings is too often taken for granted. When you lose it often you lose a piece of yourself as well. So rejoice in your life; it is not bad, it is shaped by the choices that you willingly continue to make.

on creatures and magic

distant_drift — Mon, 23 May 2011 19:41:57 GMT

On types of magic and creatures:

All of us are human, or rather started as human; those who did not belong to other places like stories, fantasies, and other-realms. That is not to say creatures of mystical means can't exist within our reality, but rather that they find us alien. Our world is treated with suspicion, distaste, or ambivalence. It takes something significant to drive and/or keep them here.

It is important to note that nearly every person on the planet has the innate ability to tap meta-energies, what some would dub magical power. But what is also important to note is that almost no one does. Usually it takes some extreme event to trigger a harnessing of that energy, and then the person is not aware they have actually done so. For example, little Johnny runs into the street after a ball and gets bowled over by a station wagon which pins him underneath. Old Lady Miller, the seventy year old gossip who was watching from her window, comes racing out and on autopilot lifts the car so that Johnny's mother can drag out her son. Scientists explain her ability to do so with a super adrenaline rush and the body's weird ability to do amazing things in a time of crisis. What Old Lady Miller fails to realize is that she's unconsciously tapped meta-energies to gain the much needed boost and made the impossible, for that moment, possible.

Then there are the few, the often not so proud, receptives who are either born to meta-stream influence or have it thrust upon them.
The most common live relatively normal lives but can do a little something extra, usually kept hidden or played off as trickery in order to maintain normalcy. These are the people who might be able to slow something down, speed it up, hear the echo of thoughts, dream of an event the day before it happens, or some other strangeness. Mostly these people are harmless and ignored by my community. They may know something else is there but rarely do they have enough strength or control to make waves.

The next group is where my interest takes hold. Sensitives are people who actively manipulate the meta-energies. Maybe one in a thousand people not only have this ability but also recognize and take advantage of it. Telekinesis, precognition, telepathy, clairvoyance, astral projection, precognition are under a discernible degree of control by the wielder. Some of these individuals may also be able to shape energies for the purpose of enhancement, recovery, or even damage. This somewhat plays into certain Buddhist philosophies which call for directing of the chi. Often some form of ritual or training is necessary in order to establish proper focus. It also goes without saying that like a measure of intelligence, there are varying degrees of ability.

Last are the rarest types. These once humans have morphed over time to become something else, perhaps more. Usually this takes place over the course of generations as families or groups learn and adapt.
Some are unusually long-lived, some are unusually resilient to damage, some display enhanced attributes. Despite this however their inherent humanity is still very real. Their lives are driven by many of the same emotions and desires as the rest of us, and when it comes to the crux of their defining identities they are still relatively understandable.

Beings who do not fall into one of these aforementioned categories mostly do not belong to our reality.
There are creatures of course who evolve from the common once they too learn to direct meta-energies. Many myths are based on such things, like the cat who walks through walls for example, or the witches' familiar, but they are still notably creatures of this world. Angels and demons on the other hand, beings of otherness like tiny pixies and mammoth trolls may be real somewhere, but they have no interest in us or our domain. We are not of their kind and so we are lucky to encounter them even in passing.

distant_drift — Wed, 27 Oct 2010 16:00:06 GMT

Right, so here is my midterm short story.
I'm going to preface it by stating this was extremely difficult to write because:
1. I do not like the tone of the short stories I am asked to in some manner emulate.
2. I do not care for the way short stories seem to just drop off at the end.
3. I fail to enjoy the not-so-subtle preachiness our instructor seems to think they should entail.
4. If you can't tell, I have a bit of an attitude problem concerning the assignment.
5. This particular story could use so much more but I ran out of patience.

Ignorance

01:02:32

'Hermes, we are secure. Detaching seal in three... two... one... good to go.'
"That was the final broadcast from Commander Moore at Aurora station less than two minutes ago. The first habitation of an alien artifact ushers in a new era for our civilization as we expand ever outward in our quest for both knowledge and space. What will these brave people face during the challenging months ahead? Tune in to UBN at ten o'clock for the exclusive story."
They’d no expectations for fanfare, nor parades or countdowns accompanied by baited breath, and yet each of the station’s three long-term inhabitants had hoped for something more memorable than a ten second blurb. In a society where the masses were jaded and genuine novelty had become predictable this was not a surprise. Until one of them died or an actual alien appeared there would likely be little notice.
Contemporary society was accustomed to constant change and saw no farther than the trendiest bit of ingenuity, but to those few who were actually watching this was akin to a miracle. Men and women of great power and knowledge dissected movement and decision silently; survival hinged in part on their calculations. Unfortunately they were inaccessible and so whatever praises were offered went unnoticed by the trio.
With mild resentment Caleb Moore switched off the receiver and leaned his elbow on an arm, the bulbous chair whisked smoothly to one side. Emily's mouth meanwhile quirked, their surroundings had been designed for something taller and much heavier than they. Growing accustomed to the sensitivity of the apparatus would take time.

02:01:39

red
red
red
red
There was more to the world.

One shaky hand raised to blurred vision.
concentrate
Michael was on the floor and it was cold.
The grey of unrelieved metal and chunky box shapes surrounded him, this was the control room.
If he could only lift his head.
His vision cleared somewhat, hand coming into focus. Blood dripped hot and sticky into his eyes obscuring his view. Shaken, he lifted a shaky hand to his shaking forehead and moaned.
'Was this a dream?' he wondered then sank back to black.

02:02:23

red
red
red

Well, that part hadn't changed. Michael lay sprawled on his stomach, not too comfortably. How much time had passed since he last blacked out he could not say. His head lay cushioned, aching and yet strangely comfortable until he moved slightly and felt the ground move with him. Sticky, he was covered in it. His cheek was glued to the floor as well, suctioned by the cushion he could not see.
No, all he saw was red, red, red. This was often a bad color, especially when it was also flashing brightly around you. Fiery light glared at him and added strange dimension to the chill metal floor. He grunted and with effort slid his arms from awkward angles to place palms down by shoulders.
With a push he rose to a sitting position, an unhealthy sucking noise coming from beneath his face. There was drip and Michael became aware for the first time of the powerful metallic odor. Blood slid in globs from his hair, down his neck, oozing from his left side to rejoin the puddle beneath him. He lunged around and managed to retch a meter or so away.

01:02:37

The lights, as they had expected, dimmed exactly 2801 seconds after the ship Hermes had disengaged. What they had not expected were the other lights that would flicker to life, nor that instrument panels which had previously been thought faulty would suddenly alight.
A low thrumming noise jostled their bones almost silent in its depth. Michael, the third crew mate, came careening through the left doorway with wild eyes.
Caleb and Emily looked back from their respective seats beside previously active panels. They had been monitoring rotation, life support, transmissions, and other such functions that had become of routine interest since the Aurora's discovery some nine months prior. Now they blinked through stunned faces before snapping back to action.
"Specialist Hayes, contact the Hermes," Caleb commanded. Emily swung away from him and back to the dials beside her.

02:02:03

Behind his shoulder lay the body of Emily Hayes their chief Xenologist. She was burned where she was not bloody, which was primarily the back side. The front side of her was torn as if some great claw had rent through from eye to shin. The face and scalp were ripped off and laying some space away, identity now only recognizable by her exposed genitalia and suit. Michael had not known Emily before this mission but she had been pleasant with a quick humor and he'd learned to enjoy her company.
His vision shifted back to blurry when he spotted Caleb, still seated by the instrument console, now black with ash. An electrical discharge could have explained the singeing of his body but the macabre scene of Emily indicated something else. Head pounding Michael stood and staggered over to the commander's corpse, finding it easier to place his focus there.
None of the routine readings had changed and Caleb's hands were hanging stiffly at his sides suggesting that he'd not been touching the console when he died. The console itself was cool to the touch and polished which again indicated something other than electric discharge.
Michael cried out at a sudden tingle beneath his fingertips and jumped backward, knocking into Caleb who fell against him as he landed atop. The corpse was cold but should not have been. It also had very little odor.
How long had he been out?

02:02:04

Rattled to the marrow Michael leapt from Caleb’s lap breathing heavily. “Shit shit shit!” He spun as an electric blue dot chased its way from one console to the next causing areas to flash as it disengaged one after the next. The sound of the station’s immediate hum fell in pitch as each was powered down, leaving only the flashing red light to strobe through blackness. Michael laughed. It was not a happy sort of laugh, more bordering on hysteria as macabre scenes from nineteen sixties movies jumped through his mind. He shuffled away until his back hit a wall whereupon he slid numbly downward.
His mind was blank, could not cope. As he sat there his eyes closed to deny the strange and fearsome scene around him. What seemed like a week, it took a full minute for rationality to reassert itself. Whatever was happening, whatever had happened, he was still alive. Something surprising lurked, had killed his colleagues, and continued to influence the environment.
They had seen no hint of another presence nor detected any form of alien life during the nine month inspection. What then could have done this, and in so short a time?
Michael had to think. If he wanted to survive he had to have a plan. The important thing now was to find out what was going on, and failing that, a way to get out. Everything save the red light was dead. This had change if he was to accomplish either goal.

00:00:01

Emily Hayes had shared her colleagues’ apprehension about their forthcoming mission. Though they had been trained on all conceivable contingencies and the crews had spent months combing over every cranny, ran every test, and placed every safeguard, the station still felt alien. It was with both excitement and trepidation that they left the Hermes for the next six months.
“Don’t sweat it,” Caleb placed a palm on her shoulder as they stepped into the air lock. “It’s going be great.”
“Yeah,” chimed in Michael from her other side. “Power outages, blown bulkheads, spinning out of control as our alveoli explode in the vacuum of space. And if that doesn’t happen there’s always Yahtzee.”
“You’re an idiot,” she replied, but she laughed. They’d taken turns with the bad humor, picking each other up when someone got scared. It was simply her turn. “I’m not worried,” she continued after a moment. “We know everything there is to know about Aurora. We have books of diagrams, lists, documentation up the ass… or so I’ve been telling myself.” She looked from one to the next man and smiled. “Yes, this is great.”
“I wonder if the aliens really were inorganic.” Michael mused. The door sighed shut behind them. He of course had to ask one of the only vital yet unanswered questions just then.

02:42:04

Michael lay on his back, a cluster of wire hanging from the console’s bottom where not strung across the floor. It banged against his temple but he was too distracted to care. He wrestled simultaneously with its innards and his own, brain firmly steered toward productive activity. He could cry and scream later; his training told him right now numbness was better, more practical. It even almost worked.
Bracing himself against the dead legs of Caleb, he pushed upward to reach high. Caleb’s body slid to a slump but otherwise failed to complain. With a click and a blip the console reactivated, its flat inputs atop racing with light. Michael grunted in a pleased sort of way and hauled himself back to standing.
McGuyvering a source of power had been fairly simple. He’d scooched from one exterior connecting outlet to the next around the periphery of the room until the metal strip he’d wedged into the sole of his boot had reacted. Redirecting that power however had taken more elbow grease. But now that the communication controls were again active he could make contact with the outside world.
Michael worked up a wad of saliva and cleared the dry from his throat as he keyed in the communication sequence. Quiet static rippled for a moment and then, “Aurora, is that you? Thank God.” Muscles he’d had no idea were so tense suddenly loosed at the ensign’s excited voice and he nearly slid to the floor again.
“Hermes, this is Lieutenant Michael Anderson. I confirm that both Commander Caleb Moore and Specialist Emily Hayes are deceased as you have noted per their life sign monitors, cause is unknown. The nest is no longer secure, request emergency pickup.”
“We never left you,” returned the ensign’s voice. “The mooring rig went unresponsive but we’ve sent over an extraction team to cut through the bulkhead. They’ve just reached the interior hold. Evacuation ETA thirty minutes.”
Michael drooped with relief.

127 EST Days Preceding

Michael and Caleb hunkered in a room at the extreme aft arm of the station. The room was cluttered with neat rows of containers and had obviously been used for storage. Between them sat a pulsing spherical object nestled in a sort of bronze base. The blue light cast their faces as diseased masks by emphasizing each pit and groove. At its brightest, strange pictograms would shadow the orb’s surface seeming to indicate an ordered if still indecipherable script.
“Okay, try this sequence: house, tree, root, octopus, eight, fire, tree, cross.” Michael pressed as Caleb instructed, each pictogram intensifying as it was selected until the final “cross” banished all selections. Out of perhaps one-hundred symbols these first seven seemed to form a coherent string. They had been building it for over two hours, men with a toy, when Emily arrived.
“Mm hm, I brought lunch,” she said, setting a tray on the floor beside them. Neither looked at her as they grunted and kept playing. She shook her head and turned to leave as Michael smiled and grabbed a food pack.
“I love a good mystery,” he said.

03:09:26

The flickering blue light interrupted Michael’s train of thought. He’d put his back to as much of the room as he could, its stark interior unfriendly and its corpses unsettling. To pass the time he detailed what little he could to the ensign at the other end of the line. There was no point to opening the access door prior to his rescuers’ arrival. In cutting their path through the outer hull, air lock, and now ascension wall they were opening that part of the station to space.
They needed to complete the access route and be ready with a respirator before the control room lost atmosphere.
Now Michael’s attention was diverted however. “Please don’t shut me down,” he pleaded and scrambled worriedly to the wiring. Instead however the blue light sped across otherwise inactive consoles to his right and settled at the extreme edge of a terminal closest to the aft doors.
After a moment’s hesitation he followed and looked with confusion as the light winked at him. Simultaneously then the red light died as a hollow boom shook the doors. “What the hell?” Michael lunged behind the terminal as the blue light chirped, seeming to laugh.
Everything went still again, the blue light was now a solid on and after a moment he stood, both terrified and curious as he approached the door. A panel farther to his right illuminated and the blue light skipped over to a symbol recessed in its top. Then the scraping sound began.

03:10:03

“Lieutenant Anderson, do you copy? Michael, we need you to disengage the control room door.” It was his name more than the urgency of Captain Blake’s voice that snapped him to. Something was on the other side of the door. Something alive? Something sniffing around, scratching at the metal, trying to do… what?
Michael felt ripped between the need to escape and a powerful desire to learn an answer. His eyes seemed to stay fixed on the door as he moved back to the communications console and directed power over to the door controls. Fingers danced almost unconsciously as he opened the doors to his rescuers, and then after a moment’s hesitation the doors to the aft section as well.
There was a horrible sucking sensation as air ripped out and had Michael not been holding his breath with fearful fascination he would have died. As it was blackness hit again just about the same time a mask slammed over his face. There’d been yelling, a sort of terrible screeching, and everything blurred.

Later

Michael would never return to Aurora Station. Diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder he would dream of being there and of finding answers. Always would come a strange sort of logic to his hypotheses. An artificial intelligence had slept until it sensed a threat from the remaining crew, or a program designed to booby trap any unwelcome activities was triggered.
His mind wrestled with the sphere and its pictograms while his heart shied from the blue light it had emitted. Questions about inorganic sentience and artificial intelligence distracted his focus. The causes of death of two people he had grown to genuinely like heaped one atop the next as his brain tried to make sense of the science. He spent the next several years in private therapy and was reminded continually of his nondisclosure agreement.
The Aurora Mission was put on hold until better technologies could be devised to monitor and override the alien equipment. No news covered the incident and as far as the public was concerned more tax payer money had gone to a fruitless project. The deaths of Caleb Moore and Emily Hayes were attributed to a localized atmospheric contaminant. The people of power did their best to dissociate themselves from the entire event.

Will I actually do this I wonder?

distant_drift — Mon, 26 Jul 2010 18:10:17 GMT

Since September of 2008 I have been a member of dictionary.com's Word of the Day.
Since that time I have also saved every word that has made an impression, been new, or inspired some creative thought.
Good idea, right?
Since September 2008 I have also failed to use a single one of those words as a prompt which is just silly given they're right there.
And so today I vow that I will have used every one of those words in some form of fiction be it short or tall by January 1, 2011.

The list is as follows:
Misprize
Legerdemain
Plaudit
Bailiwick
Gloaming
Sidereal
Eminence grise
Lucullan
Xanthous
Pandiculation
Victuals
Froward
Inanition
Frisson
Outré
Quiddity
Imbroglio
Abnegate
Oneiric
Nimiety
Daedal
Bravura
Adumbrate
Ineluctable
Métier
Carom
Crapulous
Logorrhea
Eldritch
Esurient
Bonhomie
Numinous
Nebbish
Gelid
Mulct
Quisling
Mugwump
Afterclap
Undercast
Potlatch
Zaftig
Noctivagant
Saturnine

~ T'will mean two posts per week beginning August 8th.
One hopes it's swingable.

50 word story

distant_drift — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 05:24:52 GMT

today is my birthday
like dominos plans have fallen due to inclement weather
due to unforeseen obligations
due to careless negligence
one remembered to phone a wish of happiness
otherwise I have been entirely alone
my sniveling is quiet
it is my birthday
please pardon me
I am feeling selfish

pick in the ice - romance tool try two

distant_drift — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 00:02:41 GMT

War is a common thing.
Amidst these lives of normalcy it is waged silently but deadly next door, across the street, or around the corner.
Battles you did not know existed pull and plague close by and you are a stone's throw from destruction every minute of every day.
You live your lives with blinders on, happy to go about your routines.
I live in the truth.
I am soldier though not of your military nor any government, but a soldier all the same.
And, I have done things of which you would not wish to dream.

as I consider - nonfiction

distant_drift — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 17:34:24 GMT

Far be it from me to toot my own horn.
Still, I'd like to think the bulk of my writing is not trite crap.
Could very well be wrong, but hey at least I like it.
So herein lies the dilemma with making the Revenir a true romance novel.
I can see a comfortable crossover with adventure, but obeying the formula... I don't think I can do that.
Therefore as further thought dictates I'm going to have to come up with a more straightforward and contemporary smut jot.
ick
Ah well, I need the tool.
Must in turn drum up with a summary sentence.
mwrf

distant_drift — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 18:21:50 GMT

The wall was massively smooth.
It stretched upwards farther than Danea's craning neck would allow her to see and extended beyond where she could flee in a nighttime.
This wall was meant to be impassable.
There was of course a way to the places beyond, but she had no idea what it was.

~

king of demons
spawn of hell
black on black on black
Why do they associate black with evil?
Black is likened to darkness which in turn conceals truths and conjures the unknown.
Is the unknown then evil?

~

some serious chanting to be had

"Slay the child, save the mother. She can be used."

Harsh words delivered in fluid tongue were common and yet the sweet sophistication of the tone only added to the evening's chill.

~

kneeling
breathless in the winds of time
he could not move, suffocating
pushing beyond boundaries of the continuum
dying yet already dead
he was failing

Revenir drippy drip

distant_drift — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 17:20:13 GMT

Hard fingers increased their tension and Corvan deliberately pulled back, lips clinging damply for a moment.
She swayed forward, lost, and then snapped back to reality.

Corvan was not smiling as he looked down at her.
If he had been Danea would have become violent.
Her denial of their shared past is what sustained her in his company.
Having that belief threatened by such a jolt was painful enough and any smug, superior, or otherwise confident behavior would have bit too deeply.
He however was not smug, rather it was his turn to fear.
The hope that had led him to this point floundered under the worry of having rushed too fast; he did not wish to take another step backward.

Slowly his fingers gentled and the trepidation on his face smoothed to expressionlessness.
Danea's features quickly mirrored his own, covering her apparent confusion, and she leaned away as he stepped back.

"My apologies," he stated, though sorry for nothing beyond the worry he caused himself.
"I will leave you to your thoughts," and with that he turned and walked the stairs to places below.

~
So yes, it appears that this will be the romance novel.
Thus I am unstuck from my block but sadly must return to work.

Drippings et al a la Revenir – cont.

distant_drift — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 17:01:33 GMT

Something ancient she did not recognize rose inside her and lips softened beneath his own.
He smelled so familiar and good, like peppermint and musk. His arms, too the planes of his body called to some long dead part inside and she heated. Black silken strands tickled lightly at her cheeks curtaining the outside world, and though her eyes were open her heart and mind were lost in the past.
She kissed him back.

drippy cont.

distant_drift — Tue, 23 Jun 2009 18:42:35 GMT

Fire flashed before her mind's eye.
A burning, scorching scream ripped from her throat as her body, another lifetime, seared and boiled.
There was immense anger and defiance in her heart back then, and the sounds grinding from her throat were inhuman.
An anguished shriek emitted as something hard and heavy whipped across her back, knocking her to her knees.
Through the smoke and flames she looked upward to her family, white with death and grim.
They stood far up on a hill, watching and mourning, only her century long connection allowing the sense of their presence at all.
And then there was Corvan, so young again and uncertain, connected to her mind and burning through her.
She could feel his tears, feel his sobs even this far away.
He was likely being held, struggling to come to her, but that would mean his demise and she was grateful to the family for his safety.

As her last thoughts melted away and she crumbled to the ground a dizzying snap brought her back to the present and to the Corvan of now, who held her as she sagged, and who searched her frantically with his mind before his mouth slanted against hers.

Gishy Yuck - take one

distant_drift — Tue, 23 Jun 2009 17:47:14 GMT

It was a secret.
Danea's back pushed the length of his front, bodies aligned, strong arms wrapped around her waist; he provided a sense of love and safety she could not overlook.
A terribly unacceptable predicament.

"I hate you," she muttered, eyelashes fanning against pale cheeks. She was afraid to look outward. Such emotions as this were not real.

"I need you," Corvan's voice ghosted in return, skittering across her skin, his breath warm at her temple. Cool knuckles stroked up and down her throat and there was a silent glory in him because she had not yet turned away.

"You need nothing!"
Apparently that was the wrong thing to say, but too late did he recognize the folly as her nails had already slashed the side of his face, her torso half twisted in anger.

He did not react. A body made of iron would have given more yield as he beat back instinctual rage; but she was Danea and no harm would come to her.
She twitched slightly in his hardened touch but did not otherwise protest; anger was a sign that she was back in control.
One of his hands wrapped steely fingers around her wrists while the other rose to inspect the damage.
It was a minor wound and would heal in a matter of minutes, but damn if her nails weren't sharp.
His fingers came back with blood which he considered.
He considered too the fear in her eyes which meant good things, bottomless eyes of blackened red that he had looked into through how many faces?
Slowly those fingers rose, flickering beneath her nostrils before smearing his blood on her lips.
Her tongue stilled in a concerted effort to not taste, fear increasing exponentially with the rage.

What an interesting afternoon they were having.

North

distant_drift — Fri, 19 Jun 2009 16:40:56 GMT

02:02:03

Over his shoulder lay the body of Emily Hayes their chief Xenonologist.
She was burned where she was not bloody, which was primarily the back side.
The front side of her was torn as if some great claw had rent through her from top to shin.
The face and scalp were ripped off and laying some space away, identity now only recognizable by her exposed genitalia and suit.
Michael had not known her before this mission but she had been pleasant with a quick humor and he'd learned to enjoy her company.
His vision shifted back to blurry when he spotted Caleb, still seated by the instrument console, now black with ash.
An electrical discharge could have explained the singeing of his body but the macabre scene of Emily indicated something else.
Head pounding he stood and staggered over to the commander's corpse, finding it easier to place his focus there.
None of the routine readings had changed and Caleb's hands where hanging stiffly at his sides suggesting that he'd not been touching the console when he died.
The console itself was cool to the touch and polished which again indicated something other than electric discharge.
Michael cried out at a sudden tingle beneath his fingertips and jumped backward, knocking into Caleb who fell against him as he landed atop.
The corpse was cold but should not have been.
It also had very little odor.
How long had Michael been out anyway?

M'kay, this is inspired by a friend’s recent post.

distant_drift — Fri, 19 Jun 2009 14:40:32 GMT

we are eight
we are great
and we totally relate

she circles him who circles her
circle
circle

Her: Well I was created first.
Him: Maybe but I was made better.
Her: Oh yeah? But I already did that!
Him: Yet I do it better too!
Her: I've already found my finish!!
Him: I've only begun!!
Her: You suck!!!
Him: With relish!!!

~snerkles

I fill the time.

distant_drift — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 17:04:35 GMT

Black strands slipped silken over velvety white shoulder, there was no curl to hug the breast which hung round and high.
Her nipples stood tall with pleasure and yet she looked elsewhere.

The scene inside the room was warm.
One nude male lay sprawled, his arms and legs hanging loosely to each side.
A second male was crouched between those spread legs, mouth fastened on an erect penis and making squelchy noise.
A third was behind the second, fingers pulling at buttocks.

There were women about as well, four of them.
Three were together in a fair imitation of the male group, the other knelt at Yael's feet, mouth dripping from recent activity.

~

To me sex via word is rarely gripping.
If you've read one decent description you've read nearly all.
Even with the above passage most blanks can be auto-filled.
It is in the voice, the view, the fantasy, or the feel that arousal is found.
But then I crapped out on smut novels at the age of fourteen after having devoured a library full.

this is not interesting

distant_drift — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 16:43:22 GMT

To encapsulate any individual with a single term, say "sex," is unfair.
A wise person understands this and yet even the wisest person will react to the single word despite this knowledge.
I most often see a Yael who is cold and determined.
I see her driven and unyielding.
That is why I am often surprised to hear her most commonly related to activities of passion.

~a sibling

North - Prologue - etc

distant_drift — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 17:19:28 GMT

01:02:37

The lights, as they had expected, dimmed exactly 2801 seconds after the Hermes had disengaged. What they had not expected were the other lights that would flicker to life, nor that instrument panels which had previously been thought faulty would suddenly alight.
A low thrumming noise jostled their bones almost silent in the depth of its pitch.
Michael, the third crew mate, came careening through the only doorway with wild eyes.
Caleb and Emily looked back from their respective seats beside previously active panels.
They had been monitoring rotation, life support, transmissions, and other such functions that had become of routine interest since the Aurora's discovery some nine months prior.
Now they blinked through stunned faces before snapping back to action.

"Specialist Hayes, contact the Hermes," Caleb commanded.
Emily swung away from him and back to the dials beside her.

~

Walker, Moore, and Hayes

North - Prologue - ever rough

distant_drift — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 11:19:56 GMT

02:02:13

red
red
red

Well, that part hadn't changed.
Michael lay sprawled on his stomach, not too comfortably.
How much time had passed since he last blacked out he could not say, nor was he certain it was relevant.
His head lay cushioned, aching and yet strangely comfortable until he moved slightly and felt the ground move with him.
Sticky, he was covered in it.
His cheek was stuck to the floor as well, suctioned by the cushion that he could not see.

No, all he saw was red, red, red.
Red was often a bad color, especially when it was flashing brightly around you, which this was.
Red light poured over him and added strange dimension to the smooth and chill floor.
He grunted and with effort slid his arms from awkward angles to place hands palms down by shoulders.
With a push he rose to a sitting position, an unhealthy sucking noise coming from beneath his face.
There was drip and Michael became aware for the first time of the powerful metallic odor.
Blood slid in globs from his hair, down his neck, oozing from his left side to rejoin the puddle beneath him.
He lunged around and managed to retch a meter or so away.

North - Prologue - still quite rough

distant_drift — Tue, 16 Jun 2009 18:27:57 GMT

02:01:39

red
red
red
red
There was more to the world.

One shaky hand raised to blurred vision.
concentrate
Michael was on the floor and it was cold.
If he could only lift his head.
His vision cleared somewhat, hand coming into focus.
Blood dripped hot and sticky into Michael's eyes quickly obscuring his view.
Shaken, his lifted the shaky hand to his shaking forehead and moaned.
'Was this a dream?' he wondered as he sank back to black.

~
quite busy at the Hub today