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When the meadowgrass is turning brown
First, the meme, as seen with ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
matociquala, truepenny, and knowing_carrion: post the first sentence or two of all your works in progress. Since my life has been eaten by teaching and studying, I have only a handful of stories properly in-progress at the moment; I work on them when I can steal the time. Still, here they are:
Blood to Blood
Their faces, after all the scars and centuries, were still the same.
The Hounds of Spring
She killed the first under the suspension shadows of the bridge, and washed her hands in the river's cold shallows until they ached.
Remember What You Say In Dreams
The drowned man bobbed at the foot of the jetty, pale as dead fish, splayed like seaweed to the rocking of the tide. In the shallow water, matted with olive clumps of seaweed and clouds of grey mud as fine as silk when the waves withdrew and left the model of a bald, abyssal plain for terns and herring gulls to mark as they hopped and took flight, he did not drift far from the sea-wall's mortared slates; the waves tugged, but he remained. In a few hours, the tide would pull him back, out to the depths that fell away from the sunlight into cold, and dark, and the backwash intimations of vast shapes passing in the lightless gulfs. For now, at this scant hinge and flux of high tide, he hung as close to the land as his new element would allow; as near to life.
Hell's Red Roses
Grania was curled into the windowseat, watching the rain fall. Where the panes coursed with water, dry streaks of refraction slid from her face like tears, cloud-shadow chase across her throat and her knees drawn up tight against her chest, all her limbs like puppetry inside worn-soft jeans and a blue-black sweatshirt easily two sizes too large.
The Fall of Azazel
Most nights he woke screaming, because of the dream, because the dream was ending.
Secondly and perhaps more significantly, my story "On the Blindside" is now online at Anna Tambour's Virtuous Medlar Circle! It's an autumn story, written last October; it was originally published in Flytrap #4 and I thought way too much about it here. Hope you like. It has Tom Waits, too.
matociquala, truepenny, and knowing_carrion: post the first sentence or two of all your works in progress. Since my life has been eaten by teaching and studying, I have only a handful of stories properly in-progress at the moment; I work on them when I can steal the time. Still, here they are:Blood to Blood
Their faces, after all the scars and centuries, were still the same.
The Hounds of Spring
She killed the first under the suspension shadows of the bridge, and washed her hands in the river's cold shallows until they ached.
Remember What You Say In Dreams
The drowned man bobbed at the foot of the jetty, pale as dead fish, splayed like seaweed to the rocking of the tide. In the shallow water, matted with olive clumps of seaweed and clouds of grey mud as fine as silk when the waves withdrew and left the model of a bald, abyssal plain for terns and herring gulls to mark as they hopped and took flight, he did not drift far from the sea-wall's mortared slates; the waves tugged, but he remained. In a few hours, the tide would pull him back, out to the depths that fell away from the sunlight into cold, and dark, and the backwash intimations of vast shapes passing in the lightless gulfs. For now, at this scant hinge and flux of high tide, he hung as close to the land as his new element would allow; as near to life.
Hell's Red Roses
Grania was curled into the windowseat, watching the rain fall. Where the panes coursed with water, dry streaks of refraction slid from her face like tears, cloud-shadow chase across her throat and her knees drawn up tight against her chest, all her limbs like puppetry inside worn-soft jeans and a blue-black sweatshirt easily two sizes too large.
The Fall of Azazel
Most nights he woke screaming, because of the dream, because the dream was ending.
Secondly and perhaps more significantly, my story "On the Blindside" is now online at Anna Tambour's Virtuous Medlar Circle! It's an autumn story, written last October; it was originally published in Flytrap #4 and I thought way too much about it here. Hope you like. It has Tom Waits, too.
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But On the Blindside is lovely, and offers me a fine metaphor for what is going on here: the effort of seeing through that brick wall is richly rewarded!
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