wellownedbkup: (genius)
001.Beginnings. 002.Middles. 003.Ends. 004.Insides. 005.Outsides.
006.Hours. 007.Days. 008.Weeks. 009.Months. 010.Years.
011.Red. 012.Orange. 013.Yellow. 014.Green. 015.Blue.
016.Purple. 017.Brown. 018.Black. 019.White. 020.Colourless.
021.Friends. 022.Enemies. 023.Lovers. 024.Family. 025.Strangers.
026.Teammates. 027.Parents. 028.Children. 029.Birth. 030.Death.
031.Sunrise. 032.Sunset. 033.Too Much. 034.Not Enough. 035.Sixth Sense.
036.Smell. 037.Sound. 038.Touch. 039.Taste. 040.Sight.
041.Shapes. 042.Triangle. 043.Square. 044.Circle. 045.Moon.
046.Star. 047.Heart. 048.Diamond. 049.Club. 050.Spade.
051.Water. 052.Fire. 053.Earth. 054.Air. 055.Spirit.
056.Breakfast. 057.Lunch. 058.Dinner. 059.Food. 060.Drink.
061.Winter. 062.Spring. 063.Summer. 064.Fall. 065.Passing.
066.Rain. 067.Snow. 068.Lightening. 069.Thunder. 070.Storm.
071.Broken. 072.Fixed. 073.Light. 074.Dark. 075.Shade.
076.Who? 077.What? 078.Where? 079.When? 080.Why?
081.How? 082.If. 083.And. 084.He. 085.She.
086.Choices. 087.Life. 088.School. 089.Work. 090.Home.
091.Birthday. 092.Christmas. 093.Thanksgiving. 094.Independence. 095.New Year.
096.Writer‘s Choice--California. [nix] 097.Writer‘s Choice--Drowning. [sin] 098.Writer‘s Choice--Song. [alex] 099.Writer‘s Choice--Styrofoam. [nisha] 100.Writer‘s Choice--Flyer. [louise]
wellownedbkup: (geekery)
Death by Murder, My Dear Watson
A Sherlock Mini-Bang fic on Tumblr. Co-authored by singthestars
Find it at AO3, here

John, on the other hand, still tastes metal. When he sleeps, it is no longer the harsh grit of sand and rock that fills his mouth, no longer gunpowder and sun-cracked lips. Instead, he tastes blood.
Special thanks to johnwatsonsass and the-sass-of-the-ass for getting excited about this story and for the 2 cow.
Very very dark. Gory. Seriously, incredibly dark. Death and gore and violence and m/m sex.

Chapter 2: Howlin' For You
Read more... )
wellownedbkup: (chicks)
Death by Murder, My Dear Watson
A Sherlock Mini-Bang fic on Tumblr. Co-authored by singthestars
Find it at AO3, here

John, on the other hand, still tastes metal. When he sleeps, it is no longer the harsh grit of sand and rock that fills his mouth, no longer gunpowder and sun-cracked lips. Instead, he tastes blood.
Special thanks to johnwatsonsass and the-sass-of-the-ass for getting excited about this story and for the 2 cow.
Very very dark. Gory. Seriously, incredibly dark. Death and gore and violence and m/m sex.

Chapter 1: Baby Did A Bad Bad Thing
Read more... )

tin men

Mar. 8th, 2014 02:45 pm
wellownedbkup: (so full of shit)
tin men

We are not to be held at fault or our birth
Circumstance's victims inheriting ruins
As the world crumbles beneath our newborn feet
Never let it be said we were unaware

Time turns and grows wickeder apace
A coin toss between morality and sin
And watching best efforts to secure a future
Slipping like sands through grasping fingers

Whoever asked to be brought into this world
Dying, failing long before we began
At war with itself, and we, reluctant soldiers
Outdated maps clutched against clear and present danger

It's no wonder we're afraid to grow to a full adult
Responsibility latched on since we were young
But how can we all be held to blame
When facing dragons with no sword, no armor?

written on a windowsill in my bedroom, march 8 2014
wellownedbkup: (chicks)
hell has made its home in my belly
and i don't know how to finish this sentence without
the silent screaming, the muffled shout
this fire raging inside while i wait for something to happen

hell curls hot and sickly in my belly
with nighttime fires that consume and leave me
awake and empty shell of bitter meant-to-be
the taste of copper in my bitten shut mouth

hell burns home fires in my belly
slack-jawed yelling for a lack of things to say
so lonely that i push any other people away
for the fire that burns on inside without warmth.

wellownedbkup: (chicks)

the haze of heat and dust after summer break in classrooms too long in disuse
the state fair outside: raucous and disappointing
smell of animals in their stalls and lowing as the city gives way to country.
long days of sitting and staring at whiteboards while the world still bakes...
you come, predictable, a half forgotten memory
kisses under flickering streetlights that meant nothing at all
and your promises that fell apart like we'd fallen in love
another day staring out windows
dismal fluorescents buzzing like a sickly bee
full circle to where we began.
wellownedbkup: (Default)
i think i've had seven different restarts on this post. i tried writing it in Word, as if forcing myself to capitalize would endear me to.... anyone. (by the way, i apologize if my lack of capitalization, or infrequent capitalization, bothers you.)

it just... hurts my pride to do this. i don't know what else to do, but i thought maybe this would be a good start.

i'm morghan. i'm currently drowning.
at the moment, i'm $1000 in the red in my bank account. i have a car that needs a new motor and is currently being held at the shop until i can come up with $1500 to replace it, and a job that is getting into jeopardy because i can't always depend on a ride. i'm narcoleptic, and can't afford the two medicines i need to keep going (xyrem for nights at $60, nuvigil for days at $100)--- i've cut down to half doses to stretch as far as i can, but it'll run out in the next week or so. i'm having trouble coming up with the money for my rent, and the only thing saving me from getting kicked out is that i'm splitting the rent with my brother and mother.

i'm trying to keep my job, which i only got in february. i'm still in a probationary period and could lose my job by the start of september if i miss any days for lack of my car. the mechanic's willing to work with me, but it's....

in short, i need to raise like... $2000. just a little something to get me out of the hole and some of the money for my car. to get me back on an even keel. i know everyone has rough times, but i feel like it's all going haywire.

so, i thought i'd....... i'm selling myself. lol

i have an etsy store that i'll be updating with hats, scarves... things i crochet. feel free to check it out.

i would sell the things i bake there as well, but it's easier to sell them via google. i'll make anything within reason, as well. :D

i also write. most of my writing is found at [livejournal.com profile] shadows_of, and if you commission me, i'll write whatever you like. i can't put a price on it because it's more like whatever you think it's worth.
but i'll stick this PayPal donation button on my writing so that, in case you take the notion, you can make a contribution for the work.

i feel liike i should be suffering through something bigger than suddenly finding myself broke, with a broken car and a job that may fire me by the end of next month if i don't prove myself 100% to them. if you can help, i'd greatly appreciate it.
wellownedbkup: (so full of shit)
i remember them in lines of poetry. strange, isn't it? that they should fit so neatly into journal entries or memoirs as lines of poetry.

he was "when reading between your unlined/a4 pages".

he was "where i can't whisper...//"sweet dreams, trezo"/into digital ears".

he was "the darkness that curls on pillows left empty by lovers".

he is "we no longer love, but stare out windows/to old skeletons, the bones we expose".

i would try to explain it more, understand it more, but all i can see is loss and anger. is struggling to see something in them that i cannot see in me. unwanted and wanting. loved and unloving. desperate for something more than real.
wellownedbkup: (Default)
the end of a fling
... a terzanelle

we no longer love, but stare out windows;
not speaking for fear of what we could say
to old skeletons, the bones we expose.

ragged edges of self began to fray,
rag-doll threads that unraveled and were lost
(not speaking for fear of what we could say)

as structure built without counting the cost,
with lies and wishes for a better life--
rag-doll threads that unraveled and were lost.

thinking that one day you could call me wife
leaves you as love's fool, choosing to be blind
with lies and wishes for a better life.

empty phone calls where i struggle to find
quiet words: only what you wish to hear,
leaves you as love's fool, choosing to be blind.

if i could just speak! not tongue tied by fear-
quiet words. only, what you wish to hear...
we no longer love, but stare out windows
to old skeletons, the bones we expose.
wellownedbkup: (Default)

of what use to me is the thought of love?
wearied with words and acts of derring-do,
i scoffed at the foolish idea thereof:
of what use to me is the thought of love?
it's more like a curse than a gift from above
i, in this fight, am decided: i'm through--
of what use to me is the thought of love,
wearied with words and acts of derring-do!
wellownedbkup: (writing)
i don't write anymore.

i've tried. believe me, i have tried to write. i've tried to be bigger than myself, be more than the sum of what i know. and even now... i don't write anymore.

i read something i wrote a year and a half ago. half truth, half wish series of vignetts for a night at a wedding. i wrote it over a year ago and i was in love with it then. saw in it some flaws, but figured it was ... mostly whole. i read it again just today, and i wanted to cry with how lonely it sounded. wistful, hopeful... then crushed and lonely.

i've a year of stupidity and experience under my belt. have been loved. and though it did not last, i know i loved in return. i've broken hearts and had mine broken... and even now i am basically alone.

so why is it that i wrote a story about love, about being loved and quiet crushes... only to see it end with dialogue that means everything and nothing:

"i'm not brave."
"it doesn't have to mean more than it does. you looked pretty tonight."

it ends with a rosebud in her plam and him walking away, no resolution other than that the night ended. and i cannot believe how alone it sounds. just tone and atmosphere crashing from a dewy dreamer's high.

that's one of the last things i wrote, i think. something that worked well at the time and then life started to interfere. but i don't write anymore.

i don't write. and i wonder if it's because i don't have the time, or if sex has conquered my wistfulness, my longing. because, when it boils down to it, what i write lingers heavily in a romantic strain. searching for the one to make the world a bit less insane. and one of the last things i still felt like writing is... heartbreak and loneliness.

i should throw in the towel. maybe writing isn't for me. i love it, but i don't long for it like i used to. i don't feel compelled and i don't.... i kinda don't care anymore. maybe i am tired. or maybe my obsessions have changed. but i just...

i don't write anymore.
wellownedbkup: (Default)
I'm not saying that the sum total of me lately is sex. But... if that's the way the cookie crumbles.

My name is Morgue. Or, at least, that's what I'm answering to at the moment. It varies. I like writing, though I haven't done as much as I wish I'd done. I love poetry especially. I spend more and more time quoting spoken word poetry in my head than I do much else, lately.

Like the other night, lying in his bed, I was caught between "head butts on a motel bed our bashful maid made badly; we only had ice cubes to snack on, but i would've bitten the label off your apple if you'd let me..." and "...because this lovemaking is no less perfect than the moon rising in you, and this lovemaking is the gospel music made by the rhythm of flesh and blood and flesh and blood, and this blood is the closest I will ever be to making love to your insides, sailing through your veins and arteries." Because there's nothing like thinking about spending the night in his bed, followed by thoughts and actions of period sex.

My sum total is not simply sex, the situations I get myself into notwithstanding. No... I am more. I'm a geek with a love affair with gadgets. I'm a shoe-holic, with an obsessive desire to buy lots of 4" heels. Including the last two pairs I bought which are completely impractical ankle boots (one red suede with cut outs and peep toe and pyramid studs... the other brown and furry) that are gonna be less than useless if there's actually snow or ice. I listen to the wind against windowpanes and hear symphonies in my head. Watch tv or read books and see my life in footnotes and along margins.

I make random notes in textbooks that may never relate to the story again (Song of Myself by Whitman turning into disco rejects of how "I'm every woman..."). Bad French grammar in Nietzche and a raised eyebrow about how I could totally write better porn than the Marquis de Sade.

I create so much drama in my life that I can barely see straight, just so I don't go to bed feeling tired and alone. I miss my friends. I miss affection and touch. So I reach out to men who are easy to take from and rub up against them for a moment or two. Satisfy the way my skin hunger translates to my brain's need for attention and affection and lie back in bed at night thinking

"I bet I could come up with a good journal post for this...."

Oh. Crap.

Nov. 29th, 2010 12:38 am
wellownedbkup: (Default)
Hey anyone who reads this journal. Sorry about that whole... LJ Idol bail I pulled. I forgot my dates so much, and didn't get my head in the game. I had an idea for Week 2 that just... didn't work out right. Then I completely blanked and didn't remember to write anything for the next two topics. Life has a strange way of getting in the way right when you need it not to.

November must just be my Fail Month. November is my birthday, so I tell myself that 24 was the Year of Living Dangerously; 25 must be the Year to Be Drunk, Always. Baudelaire wants me to embrace my inner lush. That was going well for me... until old drama returned. Until I found myself in old habits again. Until, like this weekend, I found myself in someone else's bed after a really, really good time, wondering whether now would be a good time to put my pants back on and if anyone can smell his cigarettes on me when I get to where I was supposed to be all along.

November is NaNoWriMo, so I write... precisely 1100 words of a novel that I've been kicking around in my head all year. The premise is good, I think -- everyone needs a Western from time to time. Faery getting involved is just bonus. I have it all sorted in my head. I just can't bring myself to focus enough to write it. Life getting in the way, as I said before. So even all the prompting communities that I have stored up (mini_nanowrimo, brigits_flame, origfic_bingo, etc), I only have a little bit written, and almost nothing to show for it.

And even for the holidays I don't celebrate, for the days at work where everyone's disappeared to say goodbye to a guy that I don't really think I met... I'm still here, entryless and trying to figure out if anyone is really paying attention out there in the ether, or if I'm like a tree falling in the forest with no one to hear.

So much for the Year to Be Drunk, Always. Somehow, I seem to have traded my alcohol back for furtive touches and a lack of purpose, for secret relationships and a lack of sleep. I hear bad decisions offer up good stories later on, at least.
wellownedbkup: (Default)
"the undiscovered country, from whose bourn no traveller returns"

sex was not what i expected. that's a silly thing to say, i'm sure. but when i look at my past in regards knowing about sex? yeah, it fits.

my mom's one of those people who HATES sex. )

* - names abbreviated because i have to stop talking about him eventually.
wellownedbkup: (Default)
it's been a year of living dangerously.

my life previously consisted of nothing but quiet. life at home with the parents. school, work, etc. a little travel. but nothing else, really.

then this year.... this year, there was the flumonia for january. the crazy D/s relationship in february. falling in love and getting too close to someone whose heart i broke and who broke mine in return. then.... a month of flirting insanely with dozens of wrong guys. falling back in love with someone i'd waited for years... only to have my heart shattered again because he was a coward. i lived dangerously, recklessly under my parents' radar.

i got myself into one bad situation after another. and through it all, i kept foolishly going along, believing that... someone out there actually loved me back and wanted me. that there was something good out there. so i gave up things precious to me and now i sit at the end of a year of living dangerously and all i have to show for it are long stares into the distance and a map of scars inside where i used to be whole.

it's a shame i'm so reckless with my heart.
wellownedbkup: (Default)
i'm going to go for this a second time! lj idol is pretty cool. i love all the writers.

i promise not to be a debbie downer at y'all. :)

So. Yes. This is my formal announcement of participation. go season 7!

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