Day: October 8, 2004

I’m awake. Must munch a sandwich before seducing the dame camera. Must. Four hours sleep on no food does not good pictures make. It’s sitting there though – all black and sexy. Little marked buttons, push me baby, touch my where I like it. No! Must eat the sandwich. The sandwich is my friend. Okay – no – I’ll sit and write in my journal a moment. Distraction. Chewing and typing works. Sort of. Better at any rate.

I don’t know why you people want my sketches! I was bored! They suck! *loudly confused*
Yes, I’ll still make them, because you asked, and you’re my friends as much as the people who bring me ice-cream at ridiculous hours of night. Four of you to go at three minutes a drawing is not going to bite my day any. In fact, it will give me a reason to come away from the precious shutter/click/whirr and lift my brain gently back into my skull.

Is there anyone in town with any oddly coloured make-up?
I haven’t a stick of grease anywhere in my house.
Damn – sandwich devoured.

This is made of sex.

The latest Softer World made me laugh painfully at myself. Usually they make me happy, but this one? This one’s preciously nasty at me. Occasionally, I love it best when I find something beautiful that makes me ache. Speaking of hurtful happiness, I’m stripping down right now and setting up camera equipment. I may not actually sleep tonight. I’m in Kismet’s good graces – Alistaire‘s lending me gear. Heap praises upon his head. I’ve still a hard bitter knot of hate in my belly, but I can at least take the pictures that have been pestering me for a few weeks. Cloth and ribbons,  the best I can do in my not useful bedroom.

This is going to be tricky.

Someone is slated to die.

for Dominique, the summary by her request:

If she had it tail, it would be swishing. A feline hungry and hunting. She’s been waiting for him forever. The beat of her pulse is loud to shake houses. She needs him, she’s slick with it. The air is musky with her wanting. She hears him, her eyes fixing to the turning knob. She pounces as he’s opening the door, her nails tearing the cloth as every button is popped off his shirt. She pivots, still pulling him, and tosses him onto the waiting bed. With her other hand she slams the door behind him. The image of a cat comes back to mind. Her grace is deadly as she purrs her way up his body, cutting his slacks off with a knife she’s pulled from who knows where. “It’s been too long lover”, she says, “You’re going to pay”. It is war. It is the greatest of all battles. When he’s slipped inside of her there is blood and fire and the shrieking of raw voices. Her rocking the low tide of the moon, bright and high and primal. By the time she is done, his ribs have been bared. Her nails stripping him of flesh as her final spasm shuddered through her. There’s no life left in his body, he is done. His face is slack, his eyes glazed, his expression cloudy and stunned. She takes his flesh as an offering, a gift. Dinner afterwards, instead of before. She knows the rules, play with your food, then eat it. Her hands gracefully grip his femur before snapping it, her nails still perfect.  Licking the fluids from her skin, she thinks a moment about her now messy bed. The remains of the man need disposed of. Taking up the sheet at all four corners, she bundles the broken body into the filthy sheets and drops the resulting package out the window. Out of sight, out of mind. Mechanically, she puts new cloth on the waterproof mattress. “When will he get here?” The day is stretching on to night as she picks slivers of shattered bone from her slender fingers. The doorknob rattles and her attention flickers up, toes curling in anticipation. Soaked with it. “Next please” She’s been waiting for him forever. 

insidiouswanker, I apologize ahead of time:

the meme continues for  , (who I’m sure has a lovely name):

His tall legs were sore from climbing. “Only two flights left”, he said to himself. The elevator was out again. It always is in these dumpster places. Why does he always fall for the poor girls? Soulful brown eyes and empty pockets. Always brown, reminding him of storybook forests. He knows when he gets to her tenement apartment, he’ll have to listen for hours to her ranting about school fees and how she can’t afford both her books and food, but then at the end she’ll fall to her knees in front of him . “You can help me, can’t you?” He lives for it, like he did for the last one. He thrills with it like electricity filling a cup. She’ll do anything for him and call it love to keep her frail students honour. He shivers as he remembers her fingers on the tab of his jeans zipper. Her tongue hesitantly flicking the tip of his cock, always like it was the first time. He knows she hates herself. They all do a little. A new girl every year. Used to be every semester, but he found he couldn’t quite afford it.

They were starting to find the bodies.