genetic imperatives

GAETSS, Update Infinity Plus One (8)

unconscionables — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 20:26:42 GMT

GAETSS, Update ∞

unconscionables — Mon, 08 Jun 2009 14:49:09 GMT

Drunksplanation and Addendum.

dılɟ cup, spilt beer (as opposed to spilt milk), vodka-tinted glasses don’t make things rosy but they do make them spin. dancing’s easier when you’re drunk and so is your mother. “poker face” and hip action. i’m probably embarrassing myself now. there went my social safety net. with it, my sanity. walking is like tripping, or are we running? take the escalator stairs one at a time (because they’re too big to take faster), but arrive at the top with no destination. or does he have one in mind? maybe i ask, but there’s no answer. that might just be the ringing in my ears. the lights are still on and the doors wide open, but boy does he ever look good. legs splayed, leaning back in a hotel conference chair, and it’s my invitation to pull a stripper move. it’s not so hazukashii when i’m this drunk. did i drink red bull or rockstar? i feel more like the latter. in that case, is he the former? lips are good, but since when am i the one leaning back? fast hands, faster breaths. it’s no time to joke about heart arrhythmia; something notable’s about to happen. did i say noteable? in five minutes, i’m going to realize i meant regrettable. cavalier when i ask what’s your name, again? like it wasn’t even something i’d fantasized about. what the hell was that fake british accent about? skyy is missing its cap; can’t conceal it any more. wrong elevator, back stairs. did i just piss in a public stairwell? god help me. frantic texts; is this cause for concern or celebration? fall into bed. am i wearing pajamas? nearly three-thirty a.m. eastern. committee starts in four hours.

Four hours and fifteen minutes later, I’m being woken up by a half-insane Elias. He’s throwing papers and electronics into an overpriced suitcase and I’m supposed to be in committee ten minutes ago. Good thing I’m the Chair; fifteen minutes late is actually fifteen minutes early, and if I don’t shower it means on time. I didn’t get count on being hung-over. I don’t get hangovers. But in committee, I’m barely functioning and I’ve already had three glasses of water (unusual). The first caucus has my head on the table, asleep within minutes. The Director sends me home. Does he know I’m hung-over? Does it matter if he does? I’ve ruined my chances at an award by accept this useless figurehead position. I might as well enjoy the fruit of my mistakes in the most comfortable bed in which I’ve ever slept.

Sometime around noon, Elias is back and I can’t help but tell him the essentials of the story. He insists that I buy emergency contraception; I don’t even know if “John” came. Was I really that drunk? I’d rather chalk it up to that than admit inexperience. So Plan B it is, but this would be my Plan Z. Going to the Duane Reade with the Greek Psycho to pick up drugs to stop any potential alien persons from gestating. Gross. And I haven’t even begun to think about the possibilities of infections. That concern will come later. Did we have pizza that day? I don’t know, but I remember tripping in my heels a block from the drug store and completely losing my cool. Having a crazy foreigner (whom I don’t really like at this point) making fun of me all the way isn’t helping my composure. How many times do I have to ask this Hispanic/ambiguously Asian/Middle Eastern/useless employee where the emergency contraceptive is. And why is that burly black man staring at me? Doesn’t this happen to all irresponsible young ladies at some point? I’m guessing not.

Plan B is expensive. And it’s neither very big not very exciting. Two doses; one within seventy-two hours and another twelve hours after the first. They even give you a place on the package to write down the times. I want to get rid of the evidence as soon as possible. Committee goes on and so does life, but I’m thinking this’ll make a great story.

Huddled in bed, I peak my head out to recount my evening to Elias and Kaitlin. The best part is Elias’s Seizure Face™ when I inform them that approximately twelve hours ago, I was a virgin. I flapped the unflappable, and that almost made my evening worth it.

Back at home, there are people to be told and tests to be done. I’m focusing on the positives (great party story) and not the negatives (reckless, potentially dangerous. Was it even consensual?) when I retell it. PAP smear hurts like a bitch, but I have to have two in as many weeks because Plan B makes me start my period two weeks early. Better cramps than an unwanted baby, right? I have to keep reminding myself of this. I don’t bother with the syphilis test because even though I don’t know “John”, he didn’t seem like a shoot-‘em-up heroin addict. I’ll have to trust my drunken instincts on this one, because after diligently stalking him on Facebook, all I got was this lousy message: “Sorry but I don't really know what to say.I think it's best we go our seperate ways though.” He can’t even spell separate! He’s a freshman, I found out. So my proclivity for younger men never went away.

An upside to all of this? I’m no longer into Phil, but now I’ve got a weird attachment thing for someone in Georgia. I just can’t escape home. And I got some extra points because John has a girlfriend. Did I ever tally them?

Penetrative sex with delegate from another school: +4

Public space: +1

Partner has S.O.: +1

Loss of virginity: +1 (that was a new rule, ironically made to save my dignity, as if there was any left)

Unprotected: -1

I thought I’d had ten. Oh well, it’s sort of like I have zero, because I totally fucked up.

It’s been a month (second Tuesday of April then and now it’s May). Lisa mentioned today that maybe I’ve gotten two periods since Plan B (that extra one, and now the same old thing) because the pill had “some work to do”. Fuck, that’s terrifying. It’s a good party story, but is that something I’m willing to think about in the sober light of day? Or the differently sober dead of night?

Soon, I’ll even lose the right to look at his profile pictures on Facebook. And then.

ɐʌlıs uɥoɾ

GAETSS: Real Letters to Real People

unconscionables — Sun, 24 May 2009 23:30:58 GMT

Real Letters to Real People

6/27/07

Dear Drew,

I’ve wanted to write this letter, or at least say some of these things to you forever, and I figured a note was the best way to be getting on with it. Call me puerile; it’d probably be the truth. So here I go. I guess I’ll start at the beginning, like most good stories do.

I’m pretty sure it was the second semester of my eighth grade year. I lie; I know it was. Hell, I was pretty stalkerish about it all, really. The crush, I mean. You remember? I got Catherine to introduce us. I thought you were cute, reminded me of a British actor I’d seen (Get Real, he was in). You went to CSLA and I was at CSAS, but I thought about you after that. We met at All-County Band. TJ was gone by then. Too bad. But I digress.

We had Spanish together some year. Twice, actually. In ninth grade with Sra. Hughes, I remember, on one of the first days of classes, you were behind me on the way out the door and I body-checked you, shoulder to your chest. Probably hurt like hell. I don’t think you could’ve called us fast friends. We had español together with Sra. Richardson the next year. I didn’t hesitate, even then, to call her a cunt (and many other colorful things, I’m sure. That bitch would ruin me two years down the road.).

Honestly, things between then and senior year are a little blurry, even to stalkerish lil’ me. You liked a string of dumb bitched, kissed Chetna after our Junior Prom (some reward that was for the girl who’d planned the damn thing). In any case, I was prison-locked – solitary confinement – in the friend-zone.

Halloween, senior year. Sketchy online conversation ensues. I don’t wanna fool around if you don’t want to be my boyfriend. I think you’ve always been ashamed of me. Smart but not pretty. Only good as a sounding board and because I won’t judge the size of your cock (I would’ve, by the way). Good enough to pour your heart out to in private, but never friends in public. I’ve thought of Dirt Little Secret as “our song” for years. I’ve digressed again, I see. In any case, you realized it was all a mistake and told me as such in the morning. I wish I hadn’t begged to be your girlfriend.

After Senior Prom, your house. You brought Shannon (huge mistake, as I recall), I brought Alex. You had told me to ask John. He’d told me to ask you. You were both ashamed of me. My self-esteem’s great now, if you wondered. Anyway, you try to whip it out, as they say, after everyone’s asleep, and I stopped you. I’d seen your hard-on earlier, after I’d touched your thigh (total mistake, by the way). Maybe you were ashamed for liking someone as hopeless as me? Desperate is the better guess; that’s what you basically told me, at least. No “word magician” with your cock out, are you? Oh, I was sure you hated me after that. No one at school knew why I was crying in the middle of the hall during lunch a week later. Like it was my damn fault.

Stop kidding yourself, alright? Everyone else may think you’re great, but you fucked me over and strung me along for more than four years. Four years of hell. I had an eating disorder (to my best estimation) during that time. Some friend you were for noticing. I’ve felt inferior to everyone at least once since then. Why could you like anyone, everyone, but me? Your secret little cocksucker. You wished. You may have made me feel like shit that whole time, but no more. I deserve way better than a manipulative bastard like you.

Let’s still be friends, okay?

P.S. I won’t spread your little secrets as long as you don’t tell anyone that I ever gave you a second glance.

GAETSS, Update 5

unconscionables — Fri, 12 Dec 2008 05:28:44 GMT

EXCERPTS FROM MY REAL LIFE DIARY

September 1, 2008
… To be honest, however, I can’t believe I’m really going to be living here for four months. I don’t think it’s going to sink in until I’m on my way back to Minnesota.

September 6, 2008
… To get this half of me to shut the hell up, I’ve made a promise to myself, in writing.
…
I used to be interested in the unattainable precisely because it was such. But really, truly want this. For keeps. And that scares me.

November 9, 2008
… When I talked about the sakura this weekend, he held my from behind. I’ve never felt closer to anyone in my life, and so far away from myself. They said just my existence is powerful. I feel like these people actually love me. I sometimes can’t even do the favor of loving them.

November 13,
… Needless to say, I feel foolish, immature, and ever-so-slightly like my…bubble has been burst.

Rocking out,
Corporal Captain Awkward

December 11, 2008
… I’ll never re-adjust to being the rock rather than the stormy sea.
…
What good is there to return to? Broken friendships, empty beds.

STILL SEARCHING

Apparently I exist in bold lines and bright colors; a huge red bag with white polka dots; an absurdly patterned shirt; neon yellow; blue tights; green pencils and Rilakkuma accessories. The longer I’m here, the more I feel like those things are no longer meant for me. On the outside, I’m the over-excited, rambunctious puppy of my group (as per Lisa’s inadvertent suggestion, perhaps no longer to be called the Core). I go boldly where other people wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole, often just to prove that I can. Someone else made the plans to take the bus, but I’m the one who has to ask driver tell us when the hell to get off his ride and start enjoying our fucking lives.
In so many ways, I feel like I’ve evolved painstakingly and purposefully into that person. That is Joanna, and Joanna is me. But when I sit down and begin to write here, or in either of my journals (because really, don’t kid yourselves, my LiveJournal has nothing to do with what’s written in my real journal and even this is filtered to protect the guilty), I don’t know who is writing. She’s scared of what’s to come, terrified of losing and making mistakes, of not understanding.
As sure as I was when I started writing this that I had “found” myself, I’ve begun to question that. On some level, I think much of it is because I was in denial about going through the ridiculous phases of culture shock. Of course I haven’t been on an emotional roller-coaster for no apparent reason. But now, five minutes removed from the crying wreck I was while I wrote to my grandmother, I see that I’m no exception to those particular psychological rules. My culture shock may not have manifested as annoyance with local customs or feelings of distance from my home culture, but it has certainly accompanied me here.
But in my time in Japan, looking back as far as September and as recently as this morning, I realize that every day is a little culture shock of its own. A shock because every time I look in the mirror I see a different version of me (incidentally, thanks, Fiona Apple), because I never know what I’m going to be the next time. Am I a different person when I step into the ladies room during dinner with friends than I am when I brush my teeth at the upstairs sink in my homestay?
Hours ago, for the past few weeks, never, have I realized just what it means to be a human. I’m not just a purpose or direction, a collection of skin and bones, emotions. I’m not divorced from the context of every changing minute. I am neither the music I listen to nor the things I aspire to be. Or I am, but I can change. I can change when I want to, when I put on a smiling face as I arrive at CJS in the morning, when I allow myself to cry over my insecurities about returning home. Perhaps the changes aren’t something to fear (but not necessarily something to embrace, either). I feel as though there’s an adage that fits my realization here, something to the effect of: If I ceased to change, I would cease to exist.
So maybe I will adopt some Eastern philosophy. I think I’m beginning to see that it is the journey and not the destination. At moments I’m frustrated, scared, horny, nostalgic, elated, but those moments won’t last forever. If I don’t start looking into that uncertain future, I’ll never get there, no matter what happens along the way or how it all ends. Maybe now I can stop being afraid of going home and accept that just like coming to Japan did, going back will change me. But it won’t take away anything I’ve had. Relationships will change, I’ll continue looking in mirrors, but not even the future can take away the things I love about now.

GAETSS, Update 4

unconscionables — Fri, 05 Dec 2008 06:06:55 GMT

A small, hysterical one. But like I said, I`m not editing right now. For the Japanese-unitiated, the title essentially means "nothing."

無

I’m terrified of the future. Terrified that everything will be the same. Or that everything will be different. Scared that I’ll wake up in fifty years and I’ll still be afraid to say goodbye, or to move on. Worried that one day I’ll want to cry in bed alone but there might be someone else there, a husband or a child. Worried that because nothing’s wrong, nothing is ever going to get better.

Hello, crazy, nice to meet you. My name’s Joanna, and I think we’ll be spending quite a bit of time together, if I live that long.

I want to scream, but I can barely cry now. It’s too much, too big. The heater is turned off, but blankets can’t protect me from a chill that has nothing to do with the cold.

There is so much I can’t anticipate, plan. I’m in my room in Japan now, but I can just at clearly remember ten years ago in bed, pretending I was a patient at a hospital whose one true love had come to visit. And in ten years, where will I be?

In the uncertain future, there’s so little to live for.

GAETSS, Update 3

unconscionables — Wed, 26 Nov 2008 04:06:31 GMT

LETTER TO JASM, OCTOBER 2008

   When I decided to sit down and right another update, I couldn’t believe almost a whole month had passed since the second quarter ended! For my lateness, I apologize, but the extra three weeks have been sufficient time to realize that I’ve made great strides in different aspects of my life. Not only have I traveled with my study abroad group to Kyoto, but I’ve also forged my own path to Osaka, Koya-san and Ise for a whirlwind three-day adventure, gathering interviews along the way. Approaching strangers is difficult enough in English, but my Japanese held up to the pressure (much better than my continence to the stress of traveling, at least).
   The ensuing time, in which I’ve conducted another interview, reconnected with an exchange student I met in elementary school, taken a midterm in Japanese, and received confirmation of my registration for the JLPT, has been plenty to realize that my language skills have truly improved. I’ve been willing to admit along the way that I’ve matured academically and emotionally, but it was truly a surprise to see how much language facility has actually improved. In the most recent chapter of my textbook, I read a two-page essay about America’s first contact with Japan; I learned the words for shipwreck, Japanese isolationism and whaling vessel and also realized that I can comprehend sentences written in passive and causative-passive when I previously struggled to distinguish them both from the potential form.
    As excited as I am to see my language skills progressing, some days I still feel like I’m getting nowhere. I can proudly recall words like hyouryuusha and taiheiyousensou, but I recently had to look up “wet” and “dry” because we’ve yet to learn them in class. So, while I’m pleased with my academic comprehension, some days at the homestay are still a trial. I talked with my host-mother about the American presidential election with relative ease, but when I forgot which button to press to dry my clothes quickly, it became a guessing game of charades and katakana-Japanese. Fortunately, the host-siblings are content to talk about the newest Sanrio characters and their love for Japanese pop bands. My fifth-grade sister can still out-read me, but I showed up the younger in a game of “who can make the craziest face.”
    Aside from the language, I’m becoming accustomed life in Japan in smaller ways. In Osaka, I was completely taken aback when I was expected to stand on the right side of escalators while people passed on the left. In Nagoya, people stand in what I’ve come to think of as the “Japanese” way, i.e. everything opposite the way it’s done in the United States. Around town, cars feel like they’re driving on the correct side now, and walking on the left feels normal. Unfortunately, I still haven’t figured out sidewalk etiquette, which caused me to graze a passing bike just this week. But one day before I leave, I’d like to be able to navigate a street without breaking out in a nervous sweat. If can’t, at least I know how to say hokousha.

HOMELESS COLLEGE STUDENT FOR THE HOLIDAYS

    I’ve been thinking a lot about Tennessee lately. Maybe it’s the awkwardly chilly – but not quite cold – weather, the extremely premature Christmas decorations, or the mysterious smell of an October bonfire in my neighborhood in the middle of November. I’ve realized many things about myself, and ignored just as many, since being here, but I never thought that I would come to the day when I would realize that Tennessee is home. It’s not where my intellect is, or where my ultimate desires lay, but it’s the place that nurtured me for most of my life; it’s the place that made me want to leave for bigger, better things, and maybe ultimately where my heart is. A Dexter Freebish feels especially close to home these days, when I think that I may actually want to go back sometime. Incidentally, I haven’t lost all of my feeling for Chattanooga, but California can certainly expect to see more of me than the Volunteer State.
    Now, though, sitting in Starbucks on a cold evening listening to Christmas songs with an intimate group of four, or walking home from school in the rain, as opposed to the snow, reminds me all too sappily of sitting in Rembrandt’s with Abigail, too close to the New Year to be hanging out alone, or walking along the Walnut Street Bridge hoping that next year I’ll have someone with whom to share the experience.
    So thinking of home is always a bit bittersweet for me. There are the terrible times when my parents fight far too loudly, the ridiculous times when I work at a coffee shop inside a hospital and then leave to go drinking at my boss’s place, and the times that define my existence; driving down I-95 at ninety miles an hour, blasting “Gold Digger” and rapping with the windows rolled down, studying Japanese at Barnes & Noble for four hours when I just can’t stand being in the house any more, smoking cloves on the bank of the Tennessee River after a particularly annoying shift. Those are the times I miss even when I’m in Minnesota.
    Seeing Christmas lights as I walked home from school this evening reminded me that I’ll neither be here nor there, as it were; neither in my real home nor in the place that has so lovingly become such in the past two years. There won’t be eggnog or Mannheim Steamroller. I already forgot the date of Thanksgiving and called my parents a week early. I’ll be with my sister, but it feels like little consolation. Being away from home for consecutive Thanksgivings was nothing, but knowing that I’ll be going to a Japanese middle school to help teach English on Christmas Eve and day couldn’t ever possibly feel right. Those days are reserved for family things, quiet reflection, not fried chicken and a Christmas cake. I wonder if I can make pineapple stuffing in a Japanese so-called oven; do they even have the ingredients?
    I’m not even sure if I miss home or simply the prospect of going back to warm places and the usual routine of work (at a coffee shop), coffee shop, another coffee shop and finally to the house with a perfect view. Having my mother tell me she didn’t expect to see me for another summer or winter break only reinforced the feeling that I’ve left for good. No one could believe I worked away from home for a summer, left directly for a foreign country for four months where I would spend both Thanksgiving and Christmas and then spend another semester away from Tennessee. It felt so natural, staying away, and allowed me to appreciate having a car to drive, a steady income and a room of my own.
    Maybe I made the unconscious decision to leave home long ago, but it wasn’t until this season that I realized I’d done so. I intended to escape Tennessee, not leave it entirely behind.

Great American Early-Twenties Short Story, Update 2

unconscionables — Fri, 21 Nov 2008 04:31:57 GMT

More self-defeating, less witty, the next few chapters!

SELF-ESTEEM: OR, GETTING TO HATE YOU.

   Some days, I have serious debates with myself over whether or not I’m a narcissist. On those days, I look through my “Vanity” folder, which is specifically designated for my own personal cam-whoring. The folder currently has 55 pictures in it, seven of which are in the even more special “Best Of” sub-folder. I really like to look at myself, apparently.
   I’ve noticed something unfortunate about this folder, however. Besides the fact that it’s probably a bit creepy, that is. The pictures are all old. Nothing has been added to that folder since my freshman year of college. And of those photos, none were taken after first semester. In fact, most of them were taken on the same day, or within the same month.
   I’ve done a lot of self-hating in my life, for various reasons. Part of that, as loathe as I am to admit to myself, is the fact that I’m overweight. I fucking hate that word. Even typing it makes me want to throw up the 1300-calorie dinner I ate tonight and start taking cold meds again tomorrow morning. It’s a constant source of discomfort, self-loathing and guilt. I think of that word and I feel absolutely disgusting.
   So suddenly it comes as no surprise to me that I haven’t dated anyone since the summer after my freshman year of college (and before that, not “seriously” since the eighth grade). Is that unreasonable? You tell me. For the better part of my life, I was one of the smartest, highest-achieving people I knew. Eventually I added a sense of humor on top of that. There was simply no reason that boys had no interest in me. I’m not even being picky here. In high school, only one guy expressed interest in me. He also practically stalked me and expressed interest in shoving his cock down my throat. Oh, and his little brother the carbon copy. I don’t think they count. Because they just make me want to be ill for another reason entirely.
   My mom has always told me I have beautiful skin. For the most part, it’s true. I can practically count the number of pimples I’ve had in my life on my fingers and toes; the only rough spots are the soles of my feet and my elbows; my hands don’t crack in winter; I only get greasy right around my nose and I’m fairly certain it’s only even visible to me. So, technically, she’s right. But sometime, maybe a year ago, I was reading/watching/listening to something (and trust me, I’m angry at myself for not being able to remember) and a conversation about looks is occurring. Seems that “you have beautiful skin” is really just the beginning of the sentence. The rest is, “but you have no other likeable physical attributes.”
   After I heard whatever that was, I was outrageously angry at my mother. How could she have been pretending all of my life? I wanted her to take back the comments about my skin. I wanted her to take back the “boys are just intimidated of you” comments, because all of it was just a lie, a way not to have to tell her already-fragile daughter that boys were most likely not interested because of her looks.
   Today, I still hate comments about my skin. I don’t make them to myself any more, not even in my head. It upsets me to even think this way, because I like to consider myself an independent, likeable woman-girl-person. But as soon as I’m having an off day, when I look in the mirror and my hair isn’t laying right or my arm looks a little flabby, my whole life is thrown off-kilter. No longer am I happy, free and stable without a boyfriend. Suddenly I’m fragile and ugly, unworthy of male attention. Unworthy of any attention at all. And it hurts so badly. I can’t wait for a time in my life when someone will tell me I’m attractive and mean it; not attractive for a fat girl but actually attractive, damnit, because they’re different.
   It hurts because it’s nothing that people can say to your face. What friend just up and mentions in casual conversation, “I don’t think you’re very attractive and it’s been difficult being inventive with reasons the guys you’re interested in don’t reciprocate.” I don’t care if there are legitimate grounds, like incompatibility. To me, it all comes down to looks, and I don’t have them. In a group of girls, I have never in my life been the most attractive. That begins to wear on even the sanest person after long enough, I think. Every shortcoming gets tied into this crazy self-perception, and it just perpetuates itself. Sometimes it may just be a nagging feeling, “Oh, someone else is getting the attention today. That’s because I’m in a group and no longer engaging or attractive in comparison to these people. It’s alright, tomorrow I’ll hang out one-on-one and I’ll suddenly become much more interesting.” Other days it’s absolutely crippling. At the moment, I want nothing more than to relive my dinner, backwards.
   One semester it drove me to stop eating. That was just the icing on an unfortunate cake. That year, when everything was spiraling out of control, and I felt like my life was falling apart, at least I could stop eating and have control over something, even if it was just my caloric intake. I remember one day buying a cookie from Subway and eating it in addition to an apple. I felt guilty for two days. I can still feel that guilt sometimes. But it was oddly liberating. Instead of feeling sorry for myself, I could get on the pro-anorexia groups on LiveJournal and say to myself “I’m not eating, but at least I’m not one of them.”
   The only reason it ended at all was because I thought I was going to faint right before a somewhat important musical audition. And the worst part is I sometimes want desperately to go back to that. Not just sometimes, often. I feel so bad about me that I want to go back to a time when I was anorexic. A truly ringing endorsement for my self-esteem.

CHAPTER NINE

   Eagerly awaiting inspiration.

IMPEDIMENTA.

There were few things Severus Snape detested more than incompetence, and impatience and impertinence were high on the list. Such things would get one killed in battle, and years of mental combat against one of the greatest powers in the Wizarding world had schooled him on the importance concentration and patience, though imparting this to the Potter brat, who was currently displaying neither of said qualities, seemed to be nigh on impossible.

“I realize, sir, that you think patience is a virtue, but I think you’d feel a little differently if you were a sitting duck for Voldemort,” scowled the aforementioned brat, his face set in imperious, if not childish, lines, betraying a complete and utter lack of control over his emotions.

If he had not been directly ordered by a surprisingly stern Albus Dumbledore to teach the boy, Severus would surely have lost his prided composure and cast some or other unmentionable curse on the ungrateful little –

“Haven’t anything to say to me? You’re all talk, Snape; when it comes down to it, you don’t know anything about fighting the Dark,” Potter concluded, seeming confident.

“For all we know, you’re still on their side,” he added snidely. Severus had to take a steadying breath to fight off the Unforgivable that was on the tip of his tongue. The idiot boy ought know better than to question his loyalties after the countless times Snape himself had saved the blundering fool, but that didn’t lessen his rage.

His eyes slit, voice set to its deadliest, Snape backed Potter against the desk from which he had so defiantly stood minutes before. When he spoke, he could feel the reverberations of his own voice against his chest, dangerously sinister, “I think you will agree, Potter, that I have considerable experience over you in matters dealing in defense against and, may I remind you, use of, the Dark Arts. The Headmaster may have directed me to teach you to defend against said magic, but he did not,” Snape emphasized the word, “counsel me on how to do so. Next time you insist on speaking about things you do not understand, consider that the Headmaster would be none the wiser if I were to teach you proper defense by way of example. Don’t think I would hesitate to use any manner of Dark curses against the Savior of the Wizarding world.”

“If you please, Professor,” Potter spat, pushing the Potions Master away, wand held steady in front of him, “I don’t think the Headmaster would be too pleased if you offed said Savior.” Despite his anger, it was difficult referring to himself as such, and Harry felt his resolve waver slightly. The only time he’d seen Snape looking quite so murderous was in his third year, after he and Hermione had set Sirius free, and he had no doubt the nasty git still wanted to exact some kind of revenge for that particular offense.

WAITING.

   I found that I’d rather sit alone on the Nanzan campus after classes than face the prospect of walking home, slightly chilled, unfulfilled and ultimately still alone.
   Sitting on a bench across from the building where the semester began, listening to Rufus Wainwright singing about being broken, I wondered if Japan had stolen something integral part of me while I wasn’t paying attention. When I first walked into D-building at the beginning of orientation, I was physically overwhelmed by people, but mentally isolated. I had started this journey as my own woman, independent of the desires and whims of those around me. Relatively speaking, at least. As green as I think I am, that’s was never entirely in my stars. But sitting on that bench, my independence fell into question.
   When did I lose the will to walk home alone? That evening, I was a single dot of human warmth on a campus of concrete and plaster, classes long-ended, but I was no longer alone mentally. There was Phil, who I was fairly certain was still in the gym; Lisa, getting ready to go to Kumamoto for the weekend; Diana, headed back to her beloved homestay. And there I was, getting crazy stares from the lone security guard, one sketchy-looking foreigner in the dark, apparently not waiting for anyone to come to her rescue. But in my mind, I was no longer independent of those around; certainly not free from the Core.
   Night is our time, me and any one of them. Lisa on a Tuesday after Foreign Policy; Phil on Wednesday after a Skype date with KT; Diana when she’s been on the computer too long and lost track of time. That’s why I can walk to school, but not back. Morning is for thinking alone, evening is for unwinding with company. But I know that one day our parting will be for good. Even if Lisa is just off-campus, Diana is forty-five minutes away and Phil is in the same country. One day, I’ll see them off at the airport and have to navigate the streets again myself, at least for a few weeks. It’ll be me against the bikes, agitated pedestrians, myself.
   So am I more or less alone now than I was before? Does one matter more than the other; physical or mental solitude? Because thoughts of other people can only sustain me so long before I need to be in their presence again, receiving their compassion like a security blanket to which I’ve become far too accustomed. But that security will leave in December, and will stay away from the coldest part of the year. I’ll be here, unsupported in this frightening land of Xmas Festas, lost dreams and forsaken freedoms. Will it somehow make me more Japanese to live alone in a sea of millions?
   I found the solitude that evening both dangerous and liberating. Sitting alone was more bearable than watching things pass me by. The thought of walking alone past buildings, in stride with strangers, next to cars, was suddenly terrifying. Was it some sort of ridiculous metaphor for my life? Like, everything moves while I stay stagnant. If so, when will I be able to break out of the pattern? When will I want to?
   I could see one star from my vantage point on the bench. It seemed impossibly bright in the dark sky. Had any other stars crowded its space, its intensity would’ve only dimmed, I’m sure. And I wondered if that’s how humans work as well. We’re drawn to interactions and relationships, but do they dull us, make us less than we rightfully should be? Do we shine brightest when we’ve pushed everything away until we’re a solitary dots, burning fiercely, thousands of miles away from everything else?
   Is North Star or Orion’s Belt a conscious choice me make? And have I already lost the chance to make that decision? Or is our place chosen, like a single cog in an excessively-intricate clock? What if the clock breaks?
   So I sat there, full of poor metaphors, too many adjectives to describe “dark” and not enough nouns to mean “alone,” the human spot on a prematurely dark evening, full moon hovering behind my shoulder and waited.

Fic - heroesprompts

unconscionables — Thu, 10 Jan 2008 17:36:40 GMT

Title: Special
Author: unconscionables
Prompt: "All You Need is Love" lyrics
Rating: PG (for character death - canon)
Word Count: 100
Spoilers: Up to 1x20, The Hard Part
Summary: Gabriel returns home.

Returning home, Gabriel remembered why he’d left. The dank smell of unwashed carpet, air thick with dust, his mother. Sylar was shed at the door, traded for a sweater, glasses and slicked-back hair.

But she was disappointed to see Gabriel, disappointed he wasn’t an investment banker or a politician.

And so, unbidden, Sylar returned. Sylar stabbed Gabriel’s mother with a pair of scissors meant for yarn. And it was Sylar who echoed, Nothing you can do but you can learn how to be you. In time it’s easy.

He was Sylar now, and letting go of Gabriel was so easy.

heroesprompts table.

heroesprompts Table

unconscionables — Thu, 10 Jan 2008 05:40:29 GMT

I'm feeling ambitious, so here it is.

Across The Universe
(A prompt table featuring Beatles lyrics & inspired by the film.)

01.	You want so much it makes you sorry. (Girl)	02.	What would you do if I sang out of tune? Would you stand up and walk out on me? (With a Little Help from My Friends)	03.	Pools of sorrow waves of joy are drifting thorough my open mind, possessing and caressing me. (Across the Universe)	04.	The sun is up, the sky is blue. It’s beautiful and so are you. (Dear Prudence)
05.	Lying with his eyes while his hands are busy working overtime. (Happiness is a Warm Gun)	06.	You tell me that it’s evolution. Well, you know we all wanna change the world. (Revolution)	07.	Living is easy with eyes closed, misunderstanding all you see. (Strawberry Fields Forever)	08.	Take these sunken eyes and learn to see. (Blackbird)
09.	AI’m coming down fast but don’t let me break you. (Helter Skelter)	10.	The minute you let her under your skin then you begin to make it better. (Hey Jude)	11.	Close your eyes and I’ll kiss you. Tomorrow I’ll miss you. Remember I’ll always be true. (All My Loving)	12.	Oh please say to me, you’ll let me be your man. (I Want To Hold You Hand)
13.	I’ve just seen a face. I can’t forget the time or place where we just met. (I’ve Just Seen a Face)	14.	And when the night is cloudy, there is still a light that shines on me. (Let It Be)	15.	Nothing you can do but you can learn how to be you. In time it’s easy. (All You Need is Love)	16.	Writer's Choice
17.	Writer's Choice	18.	Writer's Choice	19.	Writer's Choice	20.	Writer's Choice

Prompts donated by keeper_of_stars

Also Writer's Choice prompts must be songs from the Across the Universe soundtrack.

January 9 - primeval (Heroes)

unconscionables — Wed, 09 Jan 2008 17:21:29 GMT

Characters: Sylar.
Rating: G
Word of the Day™: primeval
Summary: Gabriel was hardly the fittest in the Darwinian sense.

Thousands of years of evolution and survival of the fittest remains the rule. It was simply a biological imperative that Sylar rise out of the dust that was once an unassuming watchmaker.

The authorities sought Sylar for murder, but for Gabriel to have used his talent for watchmaking was in itself criminal.

So Sylar became what Gabriel had always wanted to be, and allowed the other to give into a primeval urge.

The television clicked on and through intermittent signal he could hear, “The reward … leads to the capture of … ‘Sylar’ is $100,000.”

Gabriel was very special, indeed.

June 13 - utmost

unconscionables — Wed, 20 Jun 2007 04:21:21 GMT

Pairing: Gen (Snape wangst)
Rating: G
Word of the Day™: utmost
Summary: Minerva makes a connection.

Minerva McGonagall held Severus Snape in the utmost regard. Professionally, that is. Years as a Death Eater had hardened him, of course, and he had never tolerated incompetence. Even so, she could respect a man who kept his classroom as quiet as a mouse and neat as a pin.

Things changed after Harry Potter arrived. Severus’s Reign of Terror had begun that year.

Minerva McGonagall had known Severus Snape for quite some time, and she had only ever seen him so wrathful during his school years. She was quite certain that he had been in love with James Potter then.

June 8 - June 11

unconscionables — Fri, 15 Jun 2007 03:49:01 GMT

Date: June 11
Pairing: Gen (Harry/Snape by implication)
Rating: PGish
Word of the Day™: wimple
Summary: Harry muses on what he's lost.
Warnings: Spoilers for OotP and HBP. If you haven't read them already, you'd better.

Harry had grown up since Sirius’s passing, at least in word.With Dumbledore dead as well, he had to work doubly hard to wimple his grief,just as Sirius had been wimpled. Itwas a terribly un-funny pun.

Harry’s real father was dead too soon, his father figure followed,and the only other man that had come close had been murdered by the man heloved.

The world was so fucked up with Voldemort in it. Killing himwouldn’t bring back all of Harry’s loved ones, but if he could have just one,Harry was willing to sacrifice the others.

Date: June 10
Pairing: Harry/Snape
Rating: PG-13
Word of the Day™: Golconda
Summary: The thing between them has to be discussed eventually.

“Accustomed as you must be to living in the lap of luxury,you must know that I am not privy to some secret Golconda,”Severus said. Harry was sure it was meant to be harsh, but even Severus Snape couldn’tmanage as much, naked and spooning the younger man as he was.

“How many times have I told you that doesn’t matter? Myparents left behind enough for me to live on for the rest of my lifecomfortably. Unemployed. I’m obviously not after you for your money,” Harrysaid thoughtfully.

“Ah. I’d forgotten. You’re interested in my devilish goodlooks, patience and heart of Gryffindor gold,” Severus scoffed for what had tobe the ten-thousandth time since they’d started…this. They weren’t exactlydating, weren’t just fucking, and they’d been stuck somewhere in between fromthe moment Harry had mentioned living together more permanently.

Harry had learned long ago that a minor squabble was muchbetter solved with sex than bickering, and he kissed Severus’s neck and groundhis “not terribly misshapen” arse into the Potion master’s groin, feeling hislover stir slightly, obviously trying to not respond.

“Not to mention your stamina,” Harry said breathily. Beingtwenty certainly had its benefits; Harry had come very satisfyingly not twentyminutes before (“By just my voice, Potter? I always thought you liked beingdressed down in class a little too much.” Snape had said), and he was readyfor another go, with a little more physical participation from his partner, whosecock seemed to much more interested than the man let on.

Long fingers snaked down Harry’s back, all the way to hiscleft, doing that thing with theknuckles that Severus knew drove him crazy. “We will,” he hissed, “becontinuing this discussion later.”

Harry just groaned appreciatively as a finger entered him;Severus was always more amenable to his demands after sex, anyway.

Date: June 9
Pairing: Harry/Snape
Rating: R by implication
Word of the Day™: obstinate
Summary: Wiping away the indiscretions isn't always so easy.

The voice rung clearly in his mind, “You will do as I say, Potter,” and for the first time he couldremember, Harry obeyed. Snape’s dull black eyes had been transformed, had shone with what Harry thought wasmalice.

Harry scrubbed his hands and arms vigorously, but the weltflared a violent red. He washed his body twice, but the fingerprints shoneobstinately, blue and yellow against porcelain.

The next time Snape dressed him down in class, both of themwould know Harry had as well as surrendered; he may be able to lie to himself,but the marks wouldn’t.

Date: June 8
Pairing: Harry/Snape
Rating: PGish
Word of the Day™: thimblerig
Summary: Harry has a bit of a defiant streak.

“Now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen…” Dumbledore said,eyes twinkling, “I have a little cleaning up to do. The latest of the Weasleythimblerigs, you know,” and with that, he swept out of his office, leaving an annoyedHarry and a positively livid Snape inhis wake.

After a minute of tense silence, Snape sneered, “I assureyou that I will not leave this office without an apology, Potter. You havebroken into my private stores for materials for the last time…” Harry was surehe heard more after that, something to the effect of, “Should’ve let me dealwith it myself the first time around” and “Wring his scrawny little Gryffindor neck.”

“I won’t.”

“Steal again or apologize? Because we can see where yourguarantees against theft have landed us.” Snape crossed his arms ratherdaintily over his chest, somewhat covering a very childish huff.

Harry rose from his chair, and before Snape had a chance toblink, the annoying ruffian’s lips were on his, soft and wet, determined like the bloody Gryffindor he is and beforehe had a chance to fully comprehend what was happening, Potter had alreadystepped back.

“Neither.”

~~~

If Potter looked just a little more defiant in class, thatwas acceptable. Severus wasn’t sure he wanted to know exactly Potter felt sotriumphant about, but rendering the Potions master speechless and evadingpunishment for a severe offense were both likely guesses.

If Severus was a little wary of Potter for a few days after TheIncident, it was understandable as well. A student had not only defied him, buthad physically assaulted him in theheadmaster’s own quarters. He certainly was not planning to admit he hadenjoyed it; Severus Snape was many things, and a child molester was not one ofthem.

Severus admitted to himself, however, that he was very gladindeed that Potter had only two more months left in school.

June 7 - askew

unconscionables — Thu, 07 Jun 2007 23:10:29 GMT

Pairing: Harry/Snape
Rating: PG (higher by implication)
Word of the Day™: askew
Summary: Severus can't hide everything.

His glasses were askew again, cheeks flushed, lips red and parted, hair slightly more tousled than usual. Harry knew it without looking at a mirror; Severus’s face told him as much. Years as a spy had forced the man to conceal a great deal, but even after nearly a month, his pupils still dilated and spots of color rose on his cheeks, marking the otherwise flawless skin when Severus looked at his debauched savior.

“Severus, a spell to unwrinkle your trousers isn’t going to do much good if everyone can see what we’ve done just by looking at your face.”

June 6 - canard

unconscionables — Thu, 07 Jun 2007 23:09:10 GMT

Pairing: Harry/Snape
Rating: PG
Word of the Day™: canard
Summary: Thoughts on the Daily Prophet and being idolized.
Author’s Note: AU past HBP, sadly. Not that I could’ve known at the time.

“I think there’s something you should see, Harry…” Hermione said, worrying her lip as she set down a copy of the Daily Prophet in front of him at breakfast.

It can’t be any worse than the garbage they’ve already printed on me. Unhinged, psychotic, hormonal, emotional, dating Hermione, making up stories about Voldemort… Harry looked vaguely annoyed as he skimmed the article tucked away in section C (“for Charms!” it proclaimed). He could feel a number of stares boring into the back of his skull, but that wasn’t unusual. He had, after all, aided in the final defeat of Voldemort only a few months previously, and hero worship never seemed to fade in the Wizarding community.

Hermione leaned over again, “It’s just a canard, Harry. They could’ve done a lot worse, after all. I wouldn’t worry about it. Although, really… Snape

And suddenly Harry wondered why there weren’t more than twenty people looking at him. The article stated, in no uncertain terms, that perfect angel Harry Potter was shagging Professor Snape, ex-Death Eater and greasy Potions Master.

The article was an abomination, as per the Prophet’s usual style. If he hadn’t been so appalled at the editor’s gall, he might have laughed. When the article cited some source who had seen the two, “huddled close together, as if in a post-coital cuddle,” Harry snorted. If bypost-coital cuddle they mean “trying desperately to heal each other before another Unforgivable was thrown our way,” then yes. That would be correct.

Harry, looking more amused than resigned sighed, “I guess they had to get something right eventually,” the Gryffindors around him looked shocked. Across the table, Ginny dropped her spoon.

“But they’ve got a few of the details wrong. We weren’t shagging during the war. Severus insists that we wait until after I’ve graduated.

As Harry exited Great Hall, he was more aware of Severus watching him from the staff table than the boggling Gryffindors. He’d endured the prickly feeling of being watched for seventeen years; he would certainly survive another month until the term was over and he could finally make good on some of the things the Prophet had printed

June 5 - louche

unconscionables — Thu, 07 Jun 2007 23:06:49 GMT

Title: Cliché
Pairing: Harry/Snape (AKA I'm going straight to hell)
Rating: R
Word of the Day™: louche
Summary: After many long years, Severus has to change his personal mantra.

Severus Snape knew the Muggle saying, “Hope for best, prepare for the worst,” and sometime around sixth year at Hogwarts, he’d adapted it to, “Prepare for the worst, and, in a really sticky situation, hope for a quick death.” He had yet to meet the Dark Lord when he’d begun reciting the mantra. There were simply some precautions a wizard had to consider when living a louche lifestyle such as his own, and Severus had written his Will early in case of emergency.

Harry Potter likewise knew the Muggle saying, “Think before you act,” mostly because Vernon Dursley had roared it at him (tacking on a few not-so-carefully chosen expletives) on a daily basis. Having it beaten into his skull in such a manner didn’t mean he had to abide by it, however. The Sorting Hat may have considered Slytherin for a moment, but Harry was assuredly a Gryffindor when it came down to foolhardiness. Not to mention, if Vernon Dursley uttered it, it was probably not worth heeding in the first place.

~~~

As Severus pushed the Boy Who Simply Would Not Give Up His Ridiculous Pursuit into the overlarge four-poster in his chambers, he realized that this particular situation didn’t fit neatly in line with his usual mantra. He did know, however, that he was going to die a slow and very painful death if the brat below him didn’t do exactly that again. If only he showed as much promise at Potions as he does at seduction, the rational part of his mind mused.

“I see you’ve learned…something,” Severus heaved, distractedly, “in nearly seven years,” came out as a hiss, “here,” he very nearly moaned when a talented tongue had its way with the hollow of his neck.

Potter only grinned somewhat deviously. The boy needed to get off just as much as he did, as was evidenced by the ceaselessly grinding deliciously hard length pressed against Severus’s thigh. This was, indeed, to going to be a sticky situation.

The Brat looked at him confusedly when he laughed outright at his own pun, but his expression changed considerably when Severus uttered a spell to remove their clothing, allowing their cocks to brush unabated by cloth.

Harry gasped at the sensation. He had certainly better make the best of this situation before his tight-lipped (tight-arsed? he hoped) Professor realized what was really going on and hexed him into oblivion. What luck had landed him in this position, he wasn’t sure, but he sucked experimentally on one of his most hated teacher’s nipples, and the resulting moan reassure him that he didn’t particularly care.

An hour later, when Harry awoke, sated and slightly sore from exertion, he was doubly sure that Muggles were full of shit. Severus was, meanwhile, in the kitchen, amending his mantra: “Prepare for the worst, and, in a really sticky situation, hope for Harry Bloody Imp Potter to do something preposterous without thinking that will lead either to a quick death or a great fuck.”