a fool's musings

Fool, said my muse to me, look in thy heart and write...

Warning: Adult Content achromatic unfinished fic graveyard recs journal new stuff recent stuff my back pages January 2004 December 2003 November 2003 October 2003 September 2003 August 2003 July 2003 June 2003 May 2003 April 2003 March 2003 February 2003 January 2003 December 2002 November 2002 October 2002 September 2002 August 2002 July 2002 June 2002 May 2002 April 2002 March 2002 February 2002 January 2002 December 2001 November 2001 the five Ws, or, all about me profile e-mail victoria my livejournal the original P&R comments current mood: "pathological and unbalanced" Items of Interest People LiveJournal folks Baraita bishclone claritylit Jintian Kat Allison Kit Mason metablog mix-tapes Neil Gaiman Nestra Sarah T. Seema Shrift Sundry Mourning zendom Music Walk On - U2 Thunder Road - Bruce Springsteen If I Can't Change Your Mind - Sugar Sick of Myself - Matthew Sweet Town Called Malice - The Jam One - U2 The Space Between - DMB Books Lord of the Rings Catch-22 The Neely Trilogy Absalom! Absalom! Possession: A Romance Foucault's Pendulum Dreamhouse LA Confidential I Capture the Castle Sandman Waking the Moon Shows Angel Buffy the Vampire Slayer (in reruns) Alias West Wing The Simpsons webrings < ? fanfiction ! > < ? writers ! > diaryreviews.diaryland.com NYC Bloggers Comments by Haloscan.com all links, if I haven't screwed up somehow, should open in a new browser window

2001-12-07 - 5:11 p.m. whinge My throat hurts, my skin aches, and I can't seem to get my eyes to focus. I have 20 minutes left of the work day and all I want to do is go home and crawl in bed. I've done no writing today whatsoever. I hate that. I have to figure out how the confrontation with Magneto is going to go, especially if the X-Men arrive at Times Square before the bad guys. Because Mags has to get Rogue up there so Logan can save her. If anyone's got any ideas on how the fight can be prolonged enough for that to happen, please share. ~victoria whingy [current mood: ] [current music: ] [random quote: ] ~*~ 2001-12-07 - 12:57 p.m. Robin! Ack! I'm upset. The Mets have apparently traded Robin Ventura. This is why I try not to have favorite players. He's a Yankee now. ::shudder:: Adam Graves is on the San Jose Sharks. What is a girl to do? Waah! [current mood: ] [current music: ] [random quote: ] ~*~ 2001-12-07 - 10:17 a.m. Motels, money, murder, madness Odd little ficlet I came up with yesterday. I was bitching about idiots who post unbetaed fic with a note "This is unbetaed. I know I screwed up XYZ but please read and review anyway." If you know you fucked up, why are you even posting it? Hello? Beta readers aren't *THAT* hard to find. Slipping from third person to first person IN THE MIDDLE OF A PARAGRAPH [and yes, I AM shouting] isn't the sort of "mistake" I'd let slide. That fic got deleted immediately. Come on, we all post unbetaed fic from time to time. We all make mistakes. Hell, I've had stories that have gone in front of three or four sets of eyes, in more than one draft, and there have still been typos that got through [and one HUGE gaping plot inconsistency, which I still need to fix. I think that's what's holding me up on the sequel to BLood Wedding - the idea that I have to fix the whole Kenuichio/Shingen motivation-relationship over Mariko thing]. But basic basic things like going from third to first, there's no way you should EVER post something like that, especially if you KNOW it's a problem. That's what rewriting is for. There's this mindset, I think, that once you've put a story down on paper, or in electrons as the case may be these days, that it's set in stone. It's not. You're the author. Take control. Admittedly, I have rewritten things only to end up at the same place each time, which tells me that that's where the story needs to be [and in the case of Caveat Emptor, it means that that part gets axed, because it weakens the rest of the fic, though I was a wimp and put it on the website anyway]. But I'm not talking about plot or even characterization. I'm talking basic writing skills. Sticking to one POV, either first or third. If you have problems with that, you shouldn't even be attempting more than one narrator, either, because that means you'll be in and out of everyone's heads all willy-nilly, and that sucks. Yes, I break POV sometimes. I do it *knowingly*, though, which, while still not technically sound, at least I know I'm doing it. It's for effect, usually. Or I'm experimenting with different segues between narrative voices. But people, come on, have some respect for the craft of writing, even if you haven't got any for your audience [and let's face it, unspellchecked, poorly written work IS disrespectful to the people in the audience]. It's *hard*. It's not all "lalala, moon, sppon, June, the crushing weight of loneliness crushes me as he presses the turgid man-rocket of his love against my womanly center." Anyhow, I didn't plan on ranting, but there it is. So I'm telling Jen about this unbetaed business, and in my sig I quoted LA Woman - "motels, money, murder, madness," which is my favorite line in the song. She asked, "Was that the summary?" i.e., the summary of the fic I was ranting about. It wasn't, but I started thinking, damn, that *would* be a cool summary. And so this fic was born. And how weird is it that Q-104 is playing the Doors as I type this. Serendipity, baybee. So, the ficlet: Title: Jim Morrison's Dead Author: Victoria P. [victoria_p@att.net] Summary: Motels, money, murder, madness Rating: R, for the ever-popular mature themes. Disclaimer: All X-Men characters belong to Marvel and Fox; this piece of fan-written fiction intends no infringement on any copyrights. Archive: Lists, Muse's Fool Feedback: gets Mr. Mojo rising. Notes: Thanks to Jen, Pete, Dot, and Meg. This is for Jen, who asked, "Is that the summary?" ~*~ Jim Morrison's Dead She looked at the messy bed, the splintered furniture, clothes strewn about the room. The smell of sex and blood permeated the air. "He's been here," she said tersely. "No shit." "What the hell was he doing?" Logan eyed the room with distaste. "This was fun, maybe revenge. Not business. That's one reason he's being so sloppy." They had watched the police take the body out several hours earlier, then he and Rogue had meticulously gone over the crime scene. Logan might not have remembered much of his past, but someone had trained him well. "They all think it's me," he said abruptly. She nodded. "But you don't." "No." "Why not?" His lips curled in disdain. "It's possible." "You said it wasn't. That's good enough for me." "You have no reason to believe me." She tapped the side of her head. "You're not a rapist." He nodded, noticing that she didn't say, 'You're not a killer.' She was carefully searching the sheets, leather gloves replaced with latex, looking for things the cops had missed. Looking for something to prove he wasn't the psycho cutting up young women on the hot, dry LA nights. He'd been waking up from vivid dreams of blood and sex, different from his usual nightmares. He hadn't told her his fear was that they weren't dreams at all. He hadn't been this shaken up in years, and he didn't like it. She was staring at the bed, brow furrowed in concentration, biting her lower lip. "Got it," she muttered, tucking something into her pocket and easing off the bed. "Let's get the hell out of here." "What'd you get?" She pulled a small, glassine bag from her pocket. It held a miniscule metal triangle. "He hit bone," she said. "He had a cheap knife." He drew a deep breath, then regretted it, his nose and mouth filled with the foul stench of fear, blood and death that hung in the air. "Told you it wasn't you," she said, taking his hand and leading him back to the care. "I don't know why you were so worried." "How did you--" he broke off when she turned and raised an eyebrow. She shouldn't be able to read him like that. Not after so many years apart. "Find it," he finished, and they both knew that wasn't his original question. "Erik left me with some skills," she said, walking around to the passenger side. He nodded. He still couldn't believe she was here. When, in desperation, he'd called Xavier for help, he'd expected Scott or Storm or even Jean. When Rogue had walked into the bar, greeting him as if it had been five minutes instead of five years since the last time they'd met, he'd been blown away. Up close, he could see that she was older, harder. Her eyes didn't have the same innocent glow they'd had when she was seventeen, or even twenty-one. He cursed under his breath, knowing he'd been the one to put that light out. "That's why they sent you," he said now, breaking the silence. "Because you believed it wasn't me." "One reason," she said. "There are others?" "I'm damn good at this, Logan. I'm not the same girl you knew." Five years, he thought, easing the car into traffic. She'd insisted on renting the white Cavalier. "White is the most popular color for cars these days," she'd said. "And your bike stands out too much." He'd allowed her to take the lead, still too surprised at her presence -- and how it made him feel -- to object. They stopped at a coffee shop and he wondered when she'd lost the tendency to chatter endlessly about anything and everything. He found he missed it. After ordering coffee and burgers, she pulled out a notebook. "Okay, we've got a white male, likes to cut. Uses inferior knives, possibly with limited knowledge of anatomy, since he hit bone when he was working on her." "Or he got so excited he screwed up," Logan commented. She made a moue of disgust. "He gets off on it, you think?" Logan nodded. "The pain, the fear. He feeds off it, I bet. He fucks them while they're still alive." He thought for a moment. "Creed's still in prison, eh?" "Yeah." Killing Mystique and capturing Sabretooth during their attempt to break Magneto out of prison had been one of the triumphs of Rogue's career with the X-Men; it had gotten her a leadership position on the team. He'd trained her well, he reflected, watching as she scribbled in the notebook and munched on fries. She was together professionally, even if he'd fucked up her personal life. "Five girls in two weeks, Logan. This guy's crazy. He's looking to get caught." He snorted. "Marie--" she shot him a hard look. "I mean, Rogue, don't buy into that whole Profiler/Silence of the Lambs bullshit. He's doing it because he needs it now. He's addicted to the rush, the power it gives him." He thought about how it felt when he unloosed the animal in him -- the freedom and energy, the sheer adrenaline high -- it was addictive. "That's why he's getting sloppy." He ran a hand over his face, through his wild hair. "I knew there was a reason I hated this town. Bunch a freakin' psychos." She laughed and he felt his chest tighten. She was still the only one who could do that to him. He suddenly couldn't remember why he'd left her. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask when she said, "Did you get his scent?" He shook his head. "Not good enough to track. Girl's blood was all over." She didn't ask, and he didn't volunteer, that he could probably find the guy if he got a hard-on in the vicinity. "What are we gonna do?" She looked at him in surprise. "Find the bastard and --" she stopped and he nodded once. They understood each other. Or he thought they did. They went back to the uncomfortable silence. He felt himself getting antsy under the steady gaze of those deep chocolate eyes. "What?" he finally said, irritated that she could do this to him. He'd always had the upper hand in their relationship and now -- well, now he didn't know where he stood, because they had no relationship at all. "I figured you'd be outta here by sunrise," she drawled. "None of your business. Let the cops handle it." He opened his mouth and then closed it slowly. That had been his first reaction, once he knew he wasn't guilty. But the smell of fear in that motel room, and the sudden, vivid image of Marie's body being carried out of a random motel room in a similar state had chilled him to the bone. He was going to kill this guy, and Marie -- no, Rogue -- was going to help him. They headed back to the flat he was renting, and she outlined the plan to use herself as bait. She simply ignored all of his arguments, told him she was going out to buy supplies, and left. She came back two hours later with a number of shopping bags, which made him a little queasy. When it got dark, she got ready. She stepped out of his bathroom and he had to work hard to keep his face expressionless. Rogue was gone. In her place stood some odd, exotic creature with short black hair and long black boots. Her dress was short enough to expose the tops of her stockings, and he felt the growl rise in his chest. This was a very bad idea, he thought. "Let's go. The papers say the girls have all come from the Strip, so that's where we'll start." And for the next four nights, they drove the city, searching for the killer. They were careful to avoid the cops in cars, patrolling the streets, and Logan took care of any pimps and other street toughs who wanted to get involved in their business. On the fifth night, Rogue stood outside a topless joint called "Jiggles", long slim neck and perfectly carved face reflecting light in the shadows. He never saw a woman look so alone, so vulnerable, and yet so achingly strong. She easily dealt with the johns and the losers who came out of the bar and hit on her. Logan waited nearby, all senses on alert for some sign that their guy was near. And that night, they hit pay dirt. He was, as Rogue surmised, a white guy, mid-thirties, Logan guessed. Glasses, thinning blond hair, slight beer gut, and perfect teeth. He looked like a frigging dentist. He leaned into Rogue and as they talked, Logan could tell the guy was excited. When he moved to put an arm around her and she resisted, he pulled a large, serrated-edge hunting knife from his jacket pocket. Logan thought as he lunged out of the car and tackled the guy. Used his own knife on him. Left him dead in a dumpster off Sunset, and then he and Rogue took off separately, agreeing to meet later, at the coffee shop. She was lounging at a table, sipping coffee and reading a book when he walked in. "Hey." "Hey yourself," she replied, looking up. "Saved you a seat." She pushed the chair out with her foot. He turned it around and straddled it. "You all right?" "Never better. You?" "Marie--" "I'm taking the six am flight back to New York," she said. "I'll take you to the airport." "You don't have to." "I know." "Let's get the hell out of here," she said abruptly, rising and throwing some money on the table. She held out her gloved hand and he took it. At his apartment they had sex, hard and fast, nothing like how it had been between them five years before. No words of love, no gentle caresses or cuddling in the afterglow. And he knew that whatever they'd had was gone. He'd killed it; she was giving him what he'd told her he wanted -- a good fuck and no strings. He made her eggs around four, and then drove her to the airport, cigar clamped between his teeth like a stopper in a bottle, keeping in all the words he knew he'd never say. How could he tell her he'd been wrong? In the car, they sat staring at each other for a moment before she picked up her bag. It was early yet, and no one was honking at them to move. "Stay out of trouble," she said finally, turning to get out of the car. He took hold of her arm and she faced him. "If they say I never loved you, you know they're all liars," he said, wanting her to know that truth. She took the cigar from his hand and brought it to her lips, taking a deep drag off it. Then she leaned in and kissed him quickly, blowing the smoke into his mouth and retreating before her skin could react. She smiled fleetingly, sadly. "Jim Morrison's dead, sugar." She got out of the car and walked into the terminal without a backward glance. End *** You know, if anyone's actually reading this, you can drop me a line and let me know what you think. <-- shameless begging for validation... ~victoria [current mood: ] [current music: ] [random quote: ] ~*~ 2001-12-06 - 10:27 p.m. Truffles and Tiffany I just ate two truffles. Not just any truffles, but Godiva truffles. There's something wonderful about them. I only ever have them around Christmas, really, because they're sort of like the gift for people you have no idea what to get, until you think of the perfect gift, so you end up with a box of truffles in the fridge. At least, that's what I tell myself. I mean, let's face it, I'm a simple girl ::stop snickering, dammit!:: and I'm easily satisfied with a nice Hershey's with almonds, but damn there's something rich and decadent about Godiva truffles. Meg would like the one I just had - it was minty fresh and chocolatey. Oh, I was walking on Park Avenue this afternoon, to pick something up at the lawyer's office, and I noticed a few people carrying Tiffany boxes, with red ribbons. I want a little blue box with a big red bow on it. It's a strange thing, because I don't wear much jewelry. I wear the two Tiffany bracelets I've got, plus earrings, a watch and a claddagh ring. Hell, most of the time I forget the watch and don't change the earrings for a week. yet I want jewelry. Expensive jewelry. It's all about *having* for me, not flaunting. I like owning things. I find comfort in it. My own books, my own CDs, my own videos and DVDs, shoes, boots and handbags. And I really don't like lending things out to other people, because I know they're just going to mess up my stuff or never give it back. I wonder if that's got anything to do with my whole need for creature comforts and a secure environment. At NEO, in the Saturday morning session, they do [or they used to. For all I know, they've changed the agenda again. CAn you believe it'll be a year since I've been to Denver next month? Woohoo!] this character assessment test, and I scored high on autonomy and achievement, but I'd swear I should have a higher security score than I did. I mentioned that to Diann and Nancy and they laughed. They could easily see me as an achiever [ugh. underachiever, if you ask me, but I've learned to not care], but not as having high security needs. Yet I'm a textbook Cancer. I don't believe in astrology. But I find it interesting how this character description, based on something so ephemeral and non-influential as the alignment of stars that aren't even *there* anymore, could so accurately nail so many of my salient characteristics. When I did my chart, I was amazed. [don't laugh. it's a fun way to spend a rainy Sunday afternoon in that short span of time when there's no football and no baseball, and the Rangers are sucking ass as usual.] I'm moody, introspective, "creative", prefer my own company, like tradition, family is important... I'm like freaking June Cleaver, except for the misanthropic tendencies... Anyhow, I covet jewelry I'll never use, perhaps as an overt symbol that someone cares enough to spend an insane amount of money picking out something they think I'll love? I mean, I *LOVE* my Elsa Peretti earrings, but *I* picked them out. Enough of this navel-gazing. I think I need to brush my teeth. Those two truffles I ate were very rich. ~vic [current mood: ] [current music: ] [random quote: ] ~*~ 2001-12-06 - 10:08 a.m. black thumb So we all got these lovely poinsettias at work -- all the admins. Mine already looks like it's been dead for two weeks. I don't understand how my mother can just, like, breathe on a plant and it blooms and blossoms and perks up, all green and leafy and ALIVE, while I look at one and it withers and dies. It's not fair. It's not right. I'm a loving person. I like kids and dogs. Kids and dogs like me. And you know, they're the best barometers of character, 'cause kids and dogs smell bullshit from a mile away. Not like cats, who'll string you along, even if they don't like you, because they think they can bend you to their will. But I digress. More on the evilness of cats later. Three jobs ago, Sue never left her plants with me when she went on vacation, after that first time when I killed them all [that was actually four jobs ago - I worked for her at two different places, after all, and *god* my "career" is ridiculous]. Everyone else's poinsettia looks fresh and new and healthy. I've definitely got a complex about this. I'm probably the only person in this city who doesn't have at least one plant in her apartment. Not even a cactus. And hell, who can kill cacti? You got it. Me. I've got a black thumb. I'm resigned to the fact. I do really well with cut flowers - can keep 'em fresh-looking for a couple of weeks. YOu just trim the stems at an angle and give 'em warm water every day. I think I do all right with them because they're already dead. Le sigh. Le heave. ~vic, the plant-killer [current mood: ] [current music: ] [random quote: ] ~*~ 2001-12-05 - 12:11 p.m. Platelets okay, the lettuce on my sandwich is rather aggressively green. Why am I sharing this with you? No reason, except that I tend not to eat green food, outside of lettuce and fruit. I especially dislike weeds masquerading as salad. Why am I eating lunch so early? I'm donating platelets in about 15 minutes. I'm actually very nervous about it. I mean, I give blood fairly regularly. I'm O-. I actually get solicitations for my blood. But this time they asked for platelets, and how, with Victor's experiences, could I not? But the whole "we take the blood, separate it, and PUT IT BACK IN" thing is freaking me out. Plus the fact that it takes at least 90 minutes, they told me. So yeah, I think I've covered my nervousness, and I tend to babble when I'm nervous. Since there aren't any people around for me to babble *to*, this will do. Will let you know how it goes, in all the gory details. *g* ~victoria [current mood: ] [current music: ] [random quote: ] ~*~ 2001-12-05 - 10:27 a.m. Lex, meet Logan Could you tell I was thinking about Lex last night? *g* I was talking with a couple people on AIM about him, and his similarities to Logan. Think about it - there's a definite me-first amorality to both men, though Logan learns to put it aside for the sake of the team and those he grows to love. Lex will eventually embrace it fully in his quest for power and autonomy from Lionel. At least, that's what I'm figuring will be his two main driving forces. Lex wants to KNOW, and knowledge is power, to trot out an old cliche. I don't think the reference to Nietsche in the pilot was simply to get a good Superman joke in. In movieverse, we tend to have Logan playing fast and loose with societal rules - he's not a remorseless killer, but he doesn't have qualms about doing what needs to be done. He has his own code of honor and lines that he won't cross, and while they don't coincide with most middle-of-the road versions of morality in America today, he's not *immoral*. He just has little regard for strictures that make no sense to him. I also tend to think of him as a samurai/soldier type, which carries its own ethics. Lex, on the other hand, is a scientist and businessman. Forgive me for thinking that there aren't many professions as unethical as either of those. I've worked with researchers, I've typed up and proofed grant applications for NIH - I know how they fudge numbers etc. to make sure they get their funding, how they write their subject admission guidelines to weed out candidates who won't conform to their theories. And I work for a huge evol megacorporation now. While I don't think anyone I work with is evil, as a whole, I do think that large conglomerates tend to have only one goal in mind, and that's survival and profit of the conglomerate. Organizations, at their most basic level, *organize* to survive. Lex, whatever his intentions, is a businessman, and he's going to make some unpopular decisions in order to ensure LuthorCorp's prosperity. That's fine. It's when he crosses over into knowingly hurting people in order to profit that things will become ishy. Especially if he uses henchmen and refuses to get his hands dirty himself. Probably more on this later. Hmm... ~vic [current mood: ] [current music: ] [random quote: ] ~*~ 2001-12-05 - 12:55 a.m. Napoleon song of the night: Napoleon, by Ani DiFranco: they told you your music could reach millions that the choice was up to you you told me they always pay for lunch and they believe in what i do and i wonder if you miss your old friends once you've proven what you're worth yeah i wonder when you're a big star will you miss the earth and i know you would always want more i know you would never be done 'cuz everyone is a fucking napoleon yeah everyone is a fucking napoleon and the next time that i saw you you were larger than life you came and you conquered you were doing alright you had an army of suits behind you and all you had to be was willing and i said i still make a pretty good living you must make a killing a killing and i hope that you are happy i hope at least you are having fun 'cuz but everyone is a fucking napoleon yeah everyone is a fucking napoleon now you think, so that is the way it's gonna be that's what this is all about i think that that is the way it always was you chose not to notice until now yeah now that there's a problem you call me up to confide and you go on for over an hour 'bout each one that took you for a ride and i guess that you dialed my number 'cuz you thought for sure that i'd agree i said baby, you know i still love you but how dare you complain to me everyone is a fucking napoleon yeah everyone is a fucking napoleon [current mood: ] [current music: ] [random quote: ] ~*~ 2001-12-04 - 3:18 p.m. anticlimactica Okay, so here's the ending for the CLex fic... it's a little more hopeful than I expected, and possibly highly anticlimactic. I dunno. I tried rewriting it and came up with pretty much the same thing, so I'm thinking this is what I want the ending to be... Hmm... Disclaimers: Not mine. Don't sue. *** He ran over to the castle, desperate, ready to beg forgiveness, plead for absolution. He found Lex in the driveway, gloves on, getting into his new black Porsche. "Lex. Lex!" Lex turned, and he could see the purply-black bruise on his jaw. It brought him up short. "You're remarkably chipper this morning," Lex said. "I'm so, so sorry," Clark began. "I, I can't even--" "Then don't." "What?" "Don't. I don't want to hear it." Lex's voice was cold, devoid of emotion. "I was wrong, I--" "No, you weren't. I got what I wanted. So did you. It was business. That's how it works." Clark closed his eyes against the pain Lex's words caused. "Not with us." "So you'd think, right? But in the end, when you're a Luthor, everything is business," Lex said, and he looked older than his twenty-four years at that moment, old and tired. "I'm not a Luthor. I don't accept that." "You got what you wanted. And really, what did it cost you? You should be thanking me." He shook his head and turned to get into the Porsche. "I am. I do. Thank you." Lex didn't look up. "Lex, please," Clark said, aware that he was begging and not caring. "I just, I didn't believe it, not really. But you --" "It doesn't matter. In the end, we're always exactly what people think we are, even if we try not to be. So," an elegant shrug, "why bother trying anymore? I'm a Luthor. That's what I'll always be, no matter how much--" He stopped, and Clark could tell he was shaken at revealing so much of himself. Joachim came out of the house before Clark could say anything. "Mr. Luthor, the movers are ready to go." Lex nodded. "Movers?" Clark asked. Another nod. "This is goodbye." "No." "Yes. I owe you a thank you, as well. At least for a little while, I could forget who and what I am." He pulled the car door closed. "Good luck with the farm." "Lex, please--" Grasping at straws, he said, "I'll come see you in Metropolis." "Don't. You won't be welcome." That hurt even more. "How can you say this didn't mean anything?" "I never said that. It means a lot. It just can't go on anymore." Lex stared straight ahead, to the horizon. "I learned something last night. You and I -- we're not meant to be together. We're natural enemies, and it's about time we realized it. You help people and I, I just--" "No. No, Lex. You helped my family. You can help other people, too. Lansing -- that was your mother's name, wasn't it? You're not all Luthor. There's more to you than that, don't you see?" Lex smiled sadly. "I see a lot of things now, that I didn't see before. So, if you'll just let go of my car, I can be on my way out of this miserable town." Clark leaned in the open window and pressed his lips to Lex's forehead, his ear, his cheek -- any part of him that he could reach. "How can you say this isn't costing me anything? I'm losing you," he said softly. Lex swallowed hard. "Clark," he whispered. "Oh, Clark." And they were kissing, desperate, trying to stave off the foreshadowing of doom hanging over them. Clark could taste the pain and hurt in Lex's mouth, feel his resolve in the set of his jaw. Lex pulled away first, as they'd both always known he would. "Goodbye, Clark." Clark could feel the tears burning his eyes. "I'm coming to see you in Metropolis," he repeated. And this time Lex said, "Yeah." He ran one long, slim finger over the curve of Clark's cheek, sweeping it down along his jaw before tracing his lips one last time. "You do that." Then he gunned the engine. Clark backed away and watched Lex pull out of the driveway and speed along the road. He watched until the Porsche and the trucks following it disappeared into the haze, stood staring at the horizon, gazing at his future, driving away. End *** This is making me wonder if Stephen King is right -- he says that a story isn't something you make up, it's something you uncover, like a fossil. It's a process of discovery, not creation in the end, and I do like that idea -- the story is there, and it's the writer's job to shape how it's viewed - highlighting certain areas, downplaying others, leaving some things unexplored or unresolved, while others are scrutinized deeply and plumbed to their very depths... Or it could just be the caffeine kicking in. ~victoria [current mood: ] [current music: ] [random quote: ] ~*~ previous - next DiaryLand Disclaimer: Reading this diary is not required by law. If you do not like or agree with the contents herein, or find them to be offensive on more than one occasion, please go elsewhere and don't come back. Management is not responsible for any adverse reactions to content within. The painting is "Boreas" by John William Waterhouse. Again, not a muse, but I like her. She suits the color scheme. The quote is from Sir Philip Sidney. This site is best viewed with IE4+ | 1024x768 | true color | verdana | tables