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Writing about ...writing? An excerpt from whatever the hell it is I've been penning for months now. - Niagara Writers [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]
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Writing about ...writing? An excerpt from whatever the hell it is I've been penning for months now. [Jan. 12th, 2007|01:31 am]
Niagara Writers


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Chapter Two:

And without warning: plot twist. All settled in, I was, and then it happened. Sipping a green tea, reading a hardback novel, feeling bohemian yet significantly poorer, I was interrupted by a body bumping into the table. He spoke. Ah, so the bump, it was intentional. He asked me if he could use the empty seat across from me. I looked up to say “Yeah, sure. Take it,” when locking eyes with him for the first time, I knew I should have kept my head down.
“You… yes. By all means.”
Charming, I am.
Cheers. I hated that. He sat. I noticed the room was full, with not a seat free. Aha. So he was sitting across from me, was he? He pulled out a thick, blue hardcover volume from his messenger bag. I raised my eyebrow, then made short work of pretending to read on in my book.
“Do you have a pen? This one’s dry,” he waved it at me.
In an attempt to appear annoyed, I huffed and passed him the pen that lay in front of me for note-taking. “Is black okay?” He nodded.
Struggling to be involved in my book, a book about love lost, my mind wandered off to wondering how my own love was faring tonight. We were always at a distance, it seemed. Most of the time, I was not only okay with this, but I actually enjoyed it. The love seemed stronger, the sex seemed rougher. Something was different when you were separated for at least five days at a time. At this very moment, I wanted him here. On this chair; below me, please. Offset this awkward clean cut, adorable soul across from me with unbridled fervor, baby. I couldn’t take it any longer.
“What’s your name?”
Surprised a little, he smiled. It was nothing short of heart-stopping.

I dreamed of fields and blood that night. Gore. Twists and curls of scarlet and crimson. Running from whoever “they” were. It doesn’t really matter.

The many ways we ruin our own lives out of desperation for something to do. Desperation, fear of boredom – I’ve drawn a fine line between the two.

(Aside: All writing expressed here is copyright. Everything is copyright, really. Look it up some time. It's fascinating.)

[User Picture]From: plexicon
2007-01-12 06:33 am (UTC)
Ps, whatever it is I'm writing is mostly about nostalgia. Taken out of context, I can see how this chapter would suggest otherwise.
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