Oh God! I just stumbled upon this as I am cleaning up my hard drive.
I wrote it for a friend AGESSS ago and had totally forgotten all about it. It’s cringe-worthy, but find myself laughing at some of it. * FACE PALM*
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As they enter the room Sonia plants herself down on the bed with a sigh. Her friend continues to walk towards the dressing table and glances in the mirror “what’s up with you? Aren’t you glad to be home?”
I do intend to make a proper post later this evening. I’m just off out to the cinema and have stuff to do before I go.
Until then you’ll have to make do with two of the Twilight fanfictions I mentioned in a previous post. Namely the two Caius ones.
Be warned: adult themes, bad grammar and confusion with past and present tense. (I always to that, d’oh!)
First up…
Cat and Mouse
I don’t write fanfiction often. In fact I’ve only published two stories prior to this weekend. One is still ongoing, and I’m a disaster at updating. The other was just a one shot.
A one shot I wrote another one shot to follow it up. Honestly, what a silly thing to do. Even sillier though is the fact that all three are Twilight related. Or more importantly Volturi related. Oh how I do love vampires to be vampires. And as one reviewer mentioned, that’s the great thing about Caius. He is a vampire and makes no excuses for it.
Now none of this is what I generally regard as ‘wordpress worthy’. And not that it’s so great and would ruin the high class, sophisticated works I post on here, I just don’t want to bring attention to the fact that I write Twilight fanfiction *shudder* I’ve a reputation to maintain, for goodness sake!
Why I do bring it up is the fact that I put a warning on this latest one, just in case, you know. ”Warning: contains callous talk of rape” I’ve had over 100 hits. It’s not even up twenty four hours.
WTF? That’s more than the other two have ever gotten. I find that completely mental.
“So…” he says in mild bored tone. Sighing, he sits upon the kitchen table.
“So…” is the mimicked reply she gives.
He casts aside the evening’s newspaper that he held in his hand.
“You don’t even read the news, what’s with the paper?”
“I’m bored”
“No shit, really?” She makes her away across the room and postions herself beside him on the table.
He nudges her in the side, “Tell me a story”
“What?! No, i can’t”
“Of course you can, you tell Steph stories all the time, right off the top of your head”
“That’s different”
“How?”
“Well, they’re shit for starters”
He leans in and rests his chin on her shoulder. “Tell me.” It’s only above a whisper but it managed to send a slight shiver down her spine.
“OK, fine, but if its shit don’t blame me”
A woman, right, she’s standing under a canopy of a shop watching the rain pouring down, washing away the dirt that litters the street where she stands.
“You know those nights where the wetness of the rain meets the hotness of the concrete and a mist rises from the ground? Well its one of those nights!”
Moments later, through the mist, she notices the stranger from the corner of her eye. He is standing at the other end of the canopy escaping the rain just as she is.
She sits up from the table and moves around it, all the while keeping her arm out stretched with her palm flat down on his back. She sits to the side of him and moves closer, he can feel her breath on his cheek as she continues with the story.
His gaze never leaves hers, not once does it faulter. As he comes closer she know’s she should feel afaird, she’s had these obsessive ones come up to her before, yet she doesnt. She doesnt move, she doesnt do anything but meet his gaze.
Raising his hand, like this…She manovers herself on the table and raises her hand and places it around his head to gently meet his face. Her breath seems closer now and he becomes aware of the growing tightness he is feeling….he meets her face. She can smell the linseed from his hands and can’t help but think how soft his hands are for an artist. “Do i know you?” she finally speaks, not fully knowing where she got the courage from. “No, but i know you” comes the reply.
Running his fingers over her lips just like this “I’ve painted these lips so many times, I’ve painted this face so many times…” He moves his smooth hands up her face… like so…”this eyebrow, this is where I start. Then this eye” She is transfixed, as he moves his hands across her face describing the technique he uses to sculpt her features. He runs his fingers over her lips ever so slightly, the whimper she exhales is almost inaudible but he feels it linger on his fingers. She leans in closer, her chest is resting on his back and he tries hard not to turn into her to meet her lips, surely they are as desperate for his as he is for hers? He didn’t think she could get closer but somehow she does without pushing him foward, his hand moves by reflex over so slightly towards his crotch, a move that doesnt go unnoticed by her. Loving the impact her words have on him, or perhaps its more the acting out the motions of the story that is really what is effecting him, she continues her story.
He traces her chin line up until he comes in contact with her long blonde hair
“Dark”
“What?”
“Dark, I want her to have dark hair”
“Dark hair it is so”.
He traces her chin line up until he comes in contact with her long dark hair. Running through the silky locks, which she was most famous for, he leans in for what they both are longing for. They’re drawn back to reality with the sound of a car pulling up beside them. The mist that surrounded them seems to lift and with it so does the fogginess of her mind. Remembering where she was and who she was she walks to the car, taking a seat in the back she looks towards her artist. He still stands there, gaze still fixed. A gaze that never faulters, not even when all he can see is the red tail light in the distance until it finally disappears into the warm misty night.
Burying her head in his hair “So, how did you like your story?”
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Yay! From when I am actually creative 
WOW! It’s been a while since I updated here.
I don’t even have an excuse why not. How unlike me?!
Truth be told I’m getting lacks in most everything. Lazy lazy cow! I think I updated my LiveJournal once since the beginning of this month, a post I didn’t post here. And my leather journal hasn’t been updating either.
I think I’ve mentioned before how I love journals and have a large pile of them on my bookcase, next to a wide selection of pens, but many of them are unused. I quite frankly don’t have that many thoughts or ideas. I’m a bit of a silly mare, to be honest, because I also hate using them. I always feel I’ve ruined them by writing in them.
My latest one though is different. It’s my absolute fave and I really REALLY wanted to use it for something useful.
First I thought an story idea journal. Then I realised I never keep to one of them. My stories are generally all on scraps of loose pages and then stuffed into different books I own.
I finally settled on a dream diary (a fact my nephew found hilarious and deemed me a ‘fooking sap!’) as I was dreaming almost every night. And not just little dreams you couldn’t really remember by mornings light, but mad, crazy shit that were like mini-films.
I thought it a good idea to write them down (For future references by my shrinks to see how my crazy stemmed back a long time) but once again – I got behind on it.
I stumbled across some old(ish) writings I did for my last writing course as I was cleaning out that big pile of Empire and Total Film magazines I had under my bed. Thought I’d add one of two up here as I noticed the category titled ‘writings’ had very few entries.
The requirement was to write about a day in the life of a politician. Me being me and therefore knowing nothing about politics decided to go the ‘take the piss’ route (its a genuine sub-category in Literature, look it up!) Anyway this was the result: Read the rest of this entry »
Meh! I don’t know what is wrong with me lately. Try as I might I can’t seem to get pen and paper to work in unison.
I have this story, it’s nowhere near original but its there, stuck in my head, rolling around and evolving. It’s in my dreams, it’s in my daydreams, it’s just not coming out onto the page. I’ve never had this problem before so I don’t know whats going on.
I would change tactics, type it up rather than my usual pen and paper job, but my sight has gotten to the stage that I am sorry I got the damn surgery done. Not only constant headaches but actual pain in my left eyeball itself. It feels like someone is pressing down hard on it. I’m now trying to avoid online and the PC screen more, avoiding reading and television screens too. I am not a happy bunny!
The only thing that’s keeping me sane is these characters that I have now fallen in love it. I can’t seem to let them go and I’m doing them a great disservice by being an inadequate writer. I always seem to be lacking in something. I develop character depth, I lose imagery. I develop emotion, I lose a non bias opinion. Grrr!! Why can’t I seem to write in all the elements thats needed, instead of losing out when I try to incorporate something else.
NaNoWriMo loves me, apparently. Well, so says the title of the confirmation email I got off them.
I don’t think they’ll be too give-ish with the love if they realised; it ain’t gonna happen. Not this year anyway. I know it’s still early November and technically I’ve only missed seven out of the designated thirty days of writing, but I know I just won’t get the time this month to dedicate myself to writing.
Every little may help but it goes back to my main problem this year: eye sight. It may not seem like I’m trying to stay away from the computer/Internet but I am. When bored it’s the main thing I turn too, so it is hard. Radio or TV is what I have in the background but surfing is the new past time. (It’s like being a school kid again, doing homework while one eye roams to the TV screen or I suddenly burst into song at my favourite part in the song.)
Now what I am trying to do is go the ways of yore, by turning to pen and paper. None of this fancy-shmancy typing malarkey. Good old fashioned ink and parchment. I like scribbles! I like sketching crappy little images of what I picture in my head. Computers don’t give you that luxury. That’s why my word count on my NaNoWriMo account will probably stay at 0. And why my bin will be full to the rim of crumpled-up paper.
“Did you hear that thunder last night? I thought it was the end of the world”
“Don’t you think you’re being a little melodramatic there dad, eh?”
“Well how do you know what the end of the world sounds like”
“Well, if the prophet Cameron was to believed the end will come as we fight for our very existence against the machines as our one and only hope, John Connor, fights the good fight”
Of course that witty reply from yours truly was purely in my head. It was eight in the morning and I wasn’t going to have my father ranting his usual ’always with a fucking smart reply, that one’ rant to my mother in the kitchen. I had had it the evening before when I tried to insist the bible shouldn’t be believed. He seems to get great annoyance at the fact his daughter is a blasphemer.
What I did retort with was “well Tony McCarthy (my sister, Sinead’s psycho ex) didn’t go by my window on a fire breathing horse with 3 of his mates so I guess the horsemen of the apocalypse didn’t get the memo that the end is nigh.”
I thought a nice bible reference would suffice, turns out I was still too fucking cocky. Oh well, I shall win his love back by guessing correctly his latest pub challenge. ‘Name three songs that reached number one in the UK charts that didn’t have their titles mentioned within the lyrics’
