momebie: (Architects Derek/Amelia Run)


Cody rounded a corner with Taylor hot on his heels. He stopped dead and she narrowly avoided slamming into the back of him. As it was she skidded to a stop a few inches from the opposite wall of the alley.

"This is weird," Cody said. His voice bounced off the brown brick walls as if they were standing in a cavern.

"The echo?" Taylor asked.

"No," Cody said, "the lack of graffiti."

At this, Taylor finally looked up to see the cages strung haphazardly across the opening between the buildings.

"Do you think it's some sort of art installation?" Cody asked.

"Oh no." Taylor took a step back, and then another, but no matter how much she tried she couldn't seem to step out of the alley.

"I guess I agree that I wouldn't call it art." Cody walked away from her, further into the alley.

Taylor continued to try and move back. "Not what I meant!" The pitch of her voice rocketed against her will and the next words that she could push out sounded strangled and high. "The cages!"

Cody turned toward her. As he did it, the first piece of her right hand pulled away and was blown, as if by a high breeze, back into one of the swinging metal cells. It was followed by her forearm and a piece of her shoulder. Cody's eyes went wide and he ran at full speed, but couldn't leave his spot. She reached out toward him with her left hand and it flew away. Cody was screaming, and then the sound dropped out. She couldn't hear anything with any of her ears, other than a high ringing.

The more pieces of Taylor that were captured, the more eyes she had with which to look upon the scene. It was deja vu. It was a nightmare. It was probably, finally, the end.
momebie: (Architects Watch)
Penultimate Nano day! How close are you!? I am not close at all! But hey, I wrote more than I would have, so I consider it a success. My last sentence last night was: She could be melded, so he would take her. Which..that sounds kind of ominous. Really, it's not like has her BEST interests in mind, but he's not going to hurt her himself. Physically anyway. There's no telling what ten or so years of thievery and neglect can do to a young mind. AREN'T YOU SO GLAD THAT ALL OF MY STORIES ARE SO HAPPY?

Today's photo is forging forward, because even if the end is in sight, the fighting isn't done. What do you have left to fight for?

momebie: (WS Bucky Watch)
Last night I wrote more terrible stuff. Man, writing terrible stuff feels so hard. Writing good stuff feels so easy. THOSE THINGS SHOULD BE SWITCHED. Or at least I should figure out how to only write good things. It would help with the time factor. And maybe keep me from posting stupid shit to Tumblr. Okay, maybe not. My last sentence from last night is already on Tumblr: How can I trust you with all the pieces of me when I know that if I fall apart you won’t know how to put them back together?

Today's picture is brought to you by [ profile] mcwonthelottery who saw it and thought of me. I have you all trained so well. *rubs hands together evily* We're in the home stretch now. Is there something you're waiting to come apart?


Apropos of nothing, I need to remember that scene I thought of late last night so I can write it out. The one with the burnt red cravat and the black gloves and the diamonds falling from the sky. And I need to remember I want to try and write up a post about the adverse affects of fandom on modern media. And I need to not watch Teen Wolf, not matter what Sara says. :p
momebie: (Batwoman Kate/Renee kiss)
I didn't write anything last night! I am so good at this you guys! I did have a pretty lengthy discussion with a room of writers in which I was very awkward and slightly hysterical over the fact THAT I CANNOT WRITE BURST BECAUSE IT WILL NEVER BE GOOD ENOUGH AND JESUS FUCK WHAT AM I DOING? But they were nice, because they are nice people for the most part, and they reinforced a lot of things I know to be true but refuse to acknowledge over this.

And then one of them said: Is there anything you can write that you think will prepare you for the thing you can't write? And I said yes VERY QUIETLY, because I can? I can work on the Lesbian Spec Fic Tattoo-verse, which is a weird mash up of science fiction and magical realism and would probably help me to better make the transition. Also, I already have about 10,000 words of that because of LJ Idol, SO. I don't know. My head is a mess. Welcome to 1982.

But, today's image is not taking any of my shit, so that's nice. Whose shit aren't you taking?

momebie: (Torchwood Gwen collapse)
TITLE: Opalescent Dinge
AUTHOR: [ profile] momebie
SUMMARY: Just because you can fly doesn't mean you can get away.
PROMPTS: Shattered glass.
A/N: A bit literal, but that will happen. The more I think about Burst the more I think I might make it YA. It's not my general inclination, but it just feels right for some reason. I don't know. I should probably come up with an actual story first.

“We’ve lost them,” Cody said.

“We haven’t.” Her voice scratched its way up her throat and sounded battered when it finally escaped.

The train shuddered to life around them and started to pull away from the station. Outside the window Taylor could see a brightly lit atrium and then more windows. It mustn’t have been later than noon--too late for the going to work traffic and too early for the coming home traffic--but there were a lot of people milling about and waiting for trains. Every one of their stray glances hit her and felt accusatory. They knew. They knew that it was her being hunted. There was a man in a black suit at the back of a group of old ladies. They wore bright colored scarves and talked animatedly with their hands, which made him stick out even more.

‘We haven’t,” she said again, and pulled her feet onto the seat, wrapping her arms around her knees and burying her face between them.

“They’re not on the train. They won’t catch us.”

“It’s not hard to find out where trains go. They’ll beat us. They’ll catch me. I can only...”

“No,” Cody said. He grabbed her fingers and squeezed them between his own. “No, don’t you leave me, not now.”


And then there was nothing to say and no voice to speak it. Her thoughts shattered with the pieces of her and every single one of the birds just wanted up and out. There was an open window three seats up. Each of the birds fought against the other to escape it and stream into the open empty spaces of the train station.

A shot echoed around her and she heard it bounce through fifty sets of tiny ears. There was another and some part of a wing twinged as the pain spread through every one of the birds. Up, she thought, out. There has to be a way out.

The flock swooped down toward the open doors, but more shots were fired. The people waiting below her started screaming and running for the exits themselves as she flitted and dodged them at shoulder level. Not there. Up, out. So the flock turned up to meet the fast approaching glass ceiling, blinded by the sunlight.

Hitting the glass hurt. It hurt more than the bullet-shorn wing. It hurt over and over and over again as she tried to apply enough pressure to just crack it. It hurt so much that soon she couldn’t think about anything else but the pain and the glare of the sun and how she needed to escape. Another bullet hit the ceiling near the edge of the flock and broke through the glass, leaving tiny bits of it to fall back down to the platform.

She refocused her efforts on the pane with the hole in it and soon the bits of her were streaming through the broken ceiling pane. She left feathers and bits of skin behind as she got caught on the sharp edges and tangled in the metal supports, but it didn’t matter as long as most of all of her escaped the station.

Once free the flock dove towards the street and then steadied out at the second floor level as it frantically beat its tattered wings towards a copse of trees peaking out from around the buildings in the distance. When she made it the flock landed at the base of a scrawny birch tree and coalesced.

Taylor’s jeans were torn and she was missing a shoe. There were scrapes all down her neck and arms and a wide gash on her left calf. Every part of her felt bruised and sore. Breathing hard she looked about, trying to see if anyone had noticed her. There was no one around. No one. Not even Cody.

She pulled her knees to her chest again, dropped her face into her hands, and sobbed.
momebie: (X-Men Charles/Erik leaving)
So there's this blog I should follow and constantly forget about. People link me to posts on it all the time and every time I see one I think 'oh, that's clever and amusing, I should follow him'...and then I don't. Because I'm me. BUT, via a post this morning on [ profile] getyourwordsout I now know that he does flash fiction prompts every Friday, which is AWESOME. This week's was based on the old 'put your ipod on shuffle and name the story after the song that comes up' bit, so I felt compelled to play along. This is what I came up with. I'm not going to post it back to his blog, but it's part of that one story about the girl who can burst into birds, so I'll put it here with no shame at all.

If you wanted to hear my voice you’d simply play back any of the hundred voice mails I’m certain you save on your phone when I leave them. I think you wanted to hear your voice. )

And for those of you NOT familiar with Murder By Death, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!? this is the song I named the piece after. (No, really, sometimes I want to kiss [ profile] sweetnovicane on the mouth for introducing me to their music.)


momebie: (Default)

February 2017

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