The first and last time you'll see me write het. For serious.



I swallowed the key to the door of your bedroom. It was the one you had given me years ago, slender and toothy and that rattled in the creaking brass lock whenever I slipped it in. When I looked in your eyes I no longer saw my face written there, your profile painted orange by the lick of candlelight dying quietly on the corner table. It was then that I knew your heart now belonged to another.

Your mouth no longer fell open in wine-red whispers when I curled my fingers around your throat and kissed your brow. Your breath had already been stolen as I peeked through the keyhole to your bedroom, to see you sleeping and found you awake instead. You were sitting at your vanity, humming another nightingale’s song as you brushed your hair by the light of your bedside lamp, readying for bed in silk stockings. So I took your key and hid it; first in my pocket, then the drawer of my bedside table where you could give it away to no other man.

Soon I could hear them at night as I slept. The memories of kisses stolen from your accepting breast and the coy play of lashes like weeping willow branches or Siamese twins. They are the whispers of your deceit, like the seeds your bitter fruit settling in the ridges of my anxious brain, in roots and gnarled knots. They are the confessions of your infidelities spreading broad boughs above my bed as I dreamt of burning houses and your white silk stockings. They fan out in fingers limp with ripe foliage as though at summer’s height, to poison my mind as I slept.

You say nothing of it, in this old creaking house of keyholes and corridors. You dance with well manicured fingers and your pristine white party dress, skirt spinning, rising and falling above your stockings in quiet promise. But I know this promise is empty as your eyes of your love for me.

Your hair is like smoke, tumbling in ringlets like endlessly spiraling staircases. They are the coiled black pathways that I climb to touch the crown upon your head and kiss your brow before you sleep. As have the other suitors whenever they call for your embrace outside your bedroom door, of which I am now certain. You do not speak of it now and if you did I would not hear, save these poison whispers. I swallow your key and its seed with it.

I will have my revenge. I will wait for you to cry, black mascara running down your face in trails like ink, leaving only my love letters behind on the apples of your cheeks. Instead the key takes seed within my belly. It sprouts twisted limbs that grow amid my bones, my sinew, ligaments and joints. They jut in the spaces between my ribs and spine and creeping upwards inside my throat. The branches thicken and age with every breath of my lungs now punctured by burrowing roots. I do not scream.

I wait for you to speak or to shout, but you say nothing. Your tree is poison. It bursts from my mouth, peeling my flesh apart with its broad trunk and outstretched arms. There is nothing left of me now but the tree and the silence of the empty house. Only then do you smile.

PS. Name the myth (and the sculpture based on it) and win a dollar! Except not really. But you'll be super cool.

Characters from my original project.

Elliot hides the scars. It gets just a little bit easier every few years, he finds. After a time he rarely even sees them, let alone feels them, in some abstract way, like a brand on his skin to mark him for the sickness in his father’s family.



( These blessings and burns. )

Characters from my original project.

The only thing in New York that made Noam think of London was the sunrise. The dusty pink light came between the spaces where his curtains did not touch, to stretch across the ink-blue dark of his bedroom in wispy, soothing fingers. Urging him back to sleep despite what the digital clock said, that cynical blinking red display, just as they had in Ravi’s flat and the six months Noam had spent sleeping there when he should have been sleeping alone.



( A thousand miles of wire. )

Elliot is always the first one to fall. Noam is always the last to leave the ground. One is desperate to leave the city and the other doesn't know where else to go, and all it takes is an accident to bring them into one another's headspace.

Everything is about to change.

From my original queer comic project.



( I want to take you far from the cynics in this town. )

The 47th rewrite of some original science fiction. Nothing good, I'm afraid. Ryu Aogiri gets out of prison. Comments appreciated.

( Ryu had only been five miles passed the barbwire fences edging the boundary of Isora State Penitentiary when his small mammalian brain began to tingle with visions of fire. )

In a perfect world, the adventures of Andrew "Lucky" Farferello would be a serial, beginning with this story. A serial what, I have no idea. But for now, just consider this part two.

( My name is Andrew Farferello, but my father always called me Lucky. )

Exactly two people will look at this, but whatever.

It’s about timing. Something you don’t think about when the elevator doors slides open with a forgettable electronic chime. You don’t think about the black tape over the camera installed above the wall panel when you press the button for the twelfth floor, the glint from your heavy gold watch reflected back at me tenfold. You don’t think of me either, looking like another trust fund baby or nine-to-five yuppie in a nameless black suit.

I’m counting on it. Like I’m counting on that smile, oily-slick as you spare a glance at me from over your shoulder. “Hey, kid,” you rasp through the crowded rows of teeth, “nice suit.”

Andy Farferello. He's a gay hitman. A fashionista. A crack-shot. A mafia heir from a broken line, turning for the only game left in town. But most of all, he's just Lucky.



( The setup. )

( The soundtrack. )

You ever get the feeling your friends suddenly find you boring? Not so much the feeling actually as them pretty much saying your life is boring? Yeah, good times...

I'm too hungry to think properly right now but I'll try this anyway. Went to the culinary academy with my mother today and spoke with the people there about getting enrolled in the spring. I've also been playing Okami, which is a really good game. Oh, and since I'm still on a self-imposed break from fanfic, I have more Andy Farferllo.

This is part of an ongoing series - did I mention that? Anyway. Takes place several days after "Business" - after a stake-out gone awry Andy finally has his man. Long story, maybe I'll fill in the gaps another time.

Title: Saturnalia
Rating: R. Talk of male/male rape and flagrant abuse of noir-style dialogue
Fandom/Character: Original/Andy "Lucky" Farferello
Summary: Andy angles his head; with a gentle slap against the meat of bruised cheek his stern visage cracks into a grin. “So you gonna be a good boy and tell me your name, honey pie, or are is daddy going to have to play rough?”

( Baby is it sweet the sting? )

So...yeah. Everybody in this story is convinced they're in a bad 60s crime drama.

It's probably just hormones, but I am filled with so much loathing for my writing right now. So in a moment of thoughtless haste, I'm going to publically announce that I'm essentially retiring from fanfiction. Just until the urge to pull everything I've ever written offline and destroy my computer to erase the evidence leaves me. Which - judging by the aggressive, potentially sexual fantasies I'm having right now about taking my computer outside and beating it into oblivion with a baseball bat - might take a while.

Until then, I have some original fic. It's about Andy, a gay hitman from Dallas.

Title: Business
Rating: R. I mentioned it's about a gay hitman, right?
Fandom/Character: Original/Andy "Lucky" Farferello
Summary: This was just business; something Andy Farferello took very seriously, no matter what his prick had in mind.

( I took a bullet and I looked inside it. )

So, uh. There you go.

Also, am I the only one who finds this song terribly romantic? In a hokey sort of way...

I don't know why I haven't linked here before -- The Lost Cosmonauts. A favorite site and quite a fascinating look at the Russian cosmonaut program during the space race...

And now for something completely different.

I found this sitting on my hard drive at 2am, because unlike a normal person I was up writing all night. It's the rough draft of the first chapter to a cyberpunk novella that I'm never actually going to write. Decided to clean it up a bit and post it anyway.

Title: Solitary
Rating: R
Fandom/Characters: Original/Ryu Aogiri
Summary: With a twitch in his fingertips he knows it is sex his brain now requires.

( And in Mao City Ryu Aogiri was home once more. )

Because I do write more than just fanfic and smut. Not very often, but still...