Sick
Eurgh...throat infection. I think I spread my germs to five people today. But hey, it's the season of giving and all that, right? And surely 'tis better to give than to receive?
I rest my case.
Am progessing with The Gordon Series. Episode III is taking longer than I thought it would, but what the fuck. As long as it gets done. As long as I don't run out of inspiration. Whatever the hell is inspiring me to do this.
Here's the list of suspects so far: Trey Dalton, Dominic Chandler, Cody Burton, Eric Furlong, Marco Lynch. For starters.
But it's not any of those. Adam's barking up the wrong tree. And from his seat in the corner of my room, he knows it. I can see it in the way he folds his arms, chews thoughtfully on his lip. The faint touch of humour in his eyes as he watches his inkblood self travel in circles.
this one's longer than the others
They're getting longer. The first was fourteen pages. The second sixteen. This third promises to hit twenty and still have the murderer not in custody. This one is serial, you see. This one is five girls, one after the other. Raped and then killed with electric guitar strings. I know, I'm morbid.
and you call me crazy
He's not crazy, though. So his father was an alcoholic. Not a bad parent in the classic sense of the word, not abusive. Just indifferent. Half the time I wonder whether he knew he had a son at all. And his mother a killer...married his stepfather - a sweet man, really, and they say he really loved her - and stabbed him so he bled to death on the kitchen floor. Adam was ten. She's in prison upstate, she'll be up for parole in a couple of years.
i don't want her out, he whispers, and it breaks my heart.
I'm sorry, Adam. I really am. But you know I don't write these stories. I close my eyes and summon the muse, and the words flow from my fingertips. Writing is second nature to me. If I cannot write I may as well die.
no happy ending
For you? Never. I love you too much to see you happy. Because you see, when one is happy one becomes constant. And without emotional upheaval, without change, there is no drama. Without drama, there is no interest.
a high price to pay for interest
I don't write your story, Adam. You did this to yourself.
"No," he says, claiming his voice, and I start bolt upright in my chair. He turns his head to look at me, and I know I am the reason his eyes are dark as if with secrets and his skin is pale as if with death. "We did it to each other."
I rest my case.
Am progessing with The Gordon Series. Episode III is taking longer than I thought it would, but what the fuck. As long as it gets done. As long as I don't run out of inspiration. Whatever the hell is inspiring me to do this.
Here's the list of suspects so far: Trey Dalton, Dominic Chandler, Cody Burton, Eric Furlong, Marco Lynch. For starters.
But it's not any of those. Adam's barking up the wrong tree. And from his seat in the corner of my room, he knows it. I can see it in the way he folds his arms, chews thoughtfully on his lip. The faint touch of humour in his eyes as he watches his inkblood self travel in circles.
this one's longer than the others
They're getting longer. The first was fourteen pages. The second sixteen. This third promises to hit twenty and still have the murderer not in custody. This one is serial, you see. This one is five girls, one after the other. Raped and then killed with electric guitar strings. I know, I'm morbid.
and you call me crazy
He's not crazy, though. So his father was an alcoholic. Not a bad parent in the classic sense of the word, not abusive. Just indifferent. Half the time I wonder whether he knew he had a son at all. And his mother a killer...married his stepfather - a sweet man, really, and they say he really loved her - and stabbed him so he bled to death on the kitchen floor. Adam was ten. She's in prison upstate, she'll be up for parole in a couple of years.
i don't want her out, he whispers, and it breaks my heart.
I'm sorry, Adam. I really am. But you know I don't write these stories. I close my eyes and summon the muse, and the words flow from my fingertips. Writing is second nature to me. If I cannot write I may as well die.
no happy ending
For you? Never. I love you too much to see you happy. Because you see, when one is happy one becomes constant. And without emotional upheaval, without change, there is no drama. Without drama, there is no interest.
a high price to pay for interest
I don't write your story, Adam. You did this to yourself.
"No," he says, claiming his voice, and I start bolt upright in my chair. He turns his head to look at me, and I know I am the reason his eyes are dark as if with secrets and his skin is pale as if with death. "We did it to each other."
posted by Ariana at 5:58 PM
4 Comments:
Hey
I will be posting soon.
The internet is hard when travelling...
I am enthralled by this story/life you are creating.
Every posting you suck me in.
Nice work again you shit.
Soon I will throw my stuff up as well. (Throw up on a blog)
He's angry about what you do to him in your writing...
From the sound of it, I would be too.
ps: what the fuck are those weird underline things?
Nice to know you haven't fallen off the face of the earth. I think this world needs what we have to offer.
Adam's learning to live with it. He's still a work in progress and he understands that. He just doesn't understand that he writes his own story as much as I do.
What weird underline things?
Nothing, I was imagining them...
Or maybe I have a virus (not your kind, the computer kind).
/s/ Andrew
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