Archive for the ‘Storytelling’ Category

Virus   Leave a comment

It
Grows,
Teeth
Clenched,
Fury
Rising,
Burning
Hunger.

It breaks into a million pieces,
It seeds in your flesh,
It seeps and it weeps as it creeps.
The better to eat you with, My Dear.

Posted April 24, 2015 by veggiewolf in Poetry, Storytelling

Dreaming Depression   1 comment

There are words, but they don’t fit.

No one prepares you for the number of ways you can’t explain what goes on in your mind,
or how the turmoil bubbles up like the ocean after SMACKING against the rocky shore…
or how the anger can engulf and turn you into a sandstorm, grains whirling fast enough to cut to the bone…
or the endless flood of tears and empathy…

When CRY LIP makes sense, and is more real than anything you’ve said before,
and you float in the dark places, serene and content in the emptiness…
there are words, but THEY-DON’T-FIT.

An ellipse is a device that hints at what we do not see in front of us,
but I’d rather an eclipse to hide the things I’d prefer not to see when the light is
TOO BRIGHT.

To dream the dream of empty rooms with rounded walls and no corners ever
is to paint the picture of the shadows in your mind and hang it high facing the wall
and hope no one remarks on it.

Sometimes, we’re only what we seem to be.

Posted December 2, 2014 by veggiewolf in Depression, Poetry, Storytelling

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The Hopefulness of Stars – Mass Effect Fanfic   Leave a comment

I’m a Mass Effect fan, and ever since playing ME3 I’ve focused a bit on what the characters did between the end of ME2 and the start of ME3.  I mean, we know what some of them did – Garrus went back to Palaven; Liara worked as the Shadow Broker and ended up in the Mars Archives; Tali rejoined the quarian fleet.  But, in all this, aside from one brief message on Shepard’s private terminal and a couple of unread messages that turn up later on one of Liara’s terminals, we don’t really know what happened during this period to one of my favorite characters: Morinth.

After obsessing over it, and writing several scenarios in my head, I decided to try and get it down “on paper” and see where it went.  So far, I’m up to over 6,000 words in 600 (+/-) chunks.  I don’t know where it will go, but I thought it might be time to share a piece of it to see if anyone else is interested.

Below is the first 600 word chunk I wrote; it’s what really spurred me to keep going.  Take a look and, if you like what you see and want to find out what happens next, please let me know by either “Liking” this post or leaving a comment.  If you don’t, I’d be interested to hear why you don’t – feel free to leave those comments too.

*A warning: I’ve tried my best not to step outside canon so far, but I can’t promise where it will go.  I never really bought what they did to Morinth in ME3.*

****************************************************************************************************************************************

The Hopefulness of Stars

I

Asari were not as rare on Earth as, say, krogan, but she could taste their curiosity on the air as she strode the concourse that led away from the docking bay.  She knew it would not be safe for her to linger, but this planet felt like a feast in the making – the scent of frustration and longing for release was thick, and her pupils dilated even as her lips curled into something like a smile.

She focused her gaze away from the people she passed, careful to keep up the persona of the justicar even this far outside asari space.  The armor helped; even as it restricted her natural movements, it molded her into something that appeared to travel with the purpose of a higher calling.  At this point, any impossible-enough-sounding cause would do since humans rarely saw beneath the surface if the facade was smooth enough.  In fact, it was her experience that all people, regardless of species, preferred to believe their first impressions and that suited her needs quite well.

And yet, as she made her measured escape, she felt drawn back the way she’d come as strongly as if she’d been tethered.  Drawn back to the comfort of the observation room with its endless view of stars, and lack of prying eyes; drawn back to having a purpose beyond survival; drawn back to the sounds of people talking, and laughing, and loving right outside the door.  Drawn back to Shepard…she shook her head to dispel those thoughts.  Later she’d have time to ponder the pull of Shepard, but right now she needed to focus on getting off planet as quickly as possible.  One thing she wasn’t willing to leave behind with the Normandy, and Shepard, was the knowledge that the Reapers were coming and that Earth was, most likely, a target.

Concourses converged into a central seating area in front of her, and screens flashed with arrival and departure information for various ships and destinations.  She paused to allow a family group, complete with infant-in-arms, to walk in front of her, and then made her way to the closest screen with an individual interface.  Entering the sequence for privacy, then the code of one of her alter-egos, she requested information to help her leave Earth as quickly as possible.  Dozens of routes begin to fill the screen, and as she took them in her heart sank; most of the routes listed included a stop at the Citadel, or on one of the Council home-worlds, and neither was a good option for her.

She’d deliberately avoided the Citadel for hundreds of years, even while traveling with Shepard – to hunt there was risky, as what she was, if not who, would almost certainly be discovered the first time she struck.  Thessia was an issue for the same reason, along with the added problem of asari being all too familiar with her condition.  She couldn’t count on Palaven being safe either – asari-turian bonds were common – and she didn’t much care for the militaristic bent of turians in any amount larger than an individual.  Sur’Kesh could be used as a temporary measure, but the thought of being surrounded by groups of salarians in what she liked to call “full flight” was not appealing.  Besides, as a Council home-world they were as likely to be a Reaper target as the others.  And so, as she knew she’d have to, she requested routes that went directly from Earth into the Traverse.  One route appeared on the screen before her.

Six hours later, she found herself occupying a cabin on a ship headed to Eden Prime.

Posted November 21, 2014 by veggiewolf in Fanfic, Storytelling

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Moving conversation   Leave a comment

He said that he didn’t know where to go from here,
and the topic was fraught, and shouldn’t have been brought up.
And we both said, “No.”
It was not his fault that things grew out of proportion and s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d until they touched the ceiling without tiptoes.
Truth is, I am short and you are short and we are short together, but not together in this.

And so I write, and I think about the last two days and where my mind is, stringing words together on screen without edit.

To place each.word.just.so is usually my way,
but not today.

Today I will let the words flow like the conversation – emphatic and strangely stressed.  Today, I will let the words carry me where they may, and not gather
rosebuds.

And when it’s time, I’ll crawl into the darkness beside you and nestle down, soft soft, and slip in     to    the   rhythm    of    your   breathing
and sleep.

Posted August 14, 2014 by veggiewolf in Poetry, Storytelling

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When you love…   Leave a comment

When you love…
and the words cut like knives,
and you see between the shrugs of shoulders and the splash of water
in the sink;
and every ever after flashes before you…

When you love…
and the whisper of the fan is solace,
and the droning of the voices from the glowing screen is just another
background hum;
and every fit and start is frozen in time…

When you love…
and into mind’s dark reaches you must go,
and pulling on the tethers tying you together is the only path
you find;
and every endless story pauses…

and every endless story pauses…

and every endless story pauses…

Waiting for an ending that will never come,
When you love.

Posted August 14, 2014 by veggiewolf in Poetry, Triggers

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Telling of the Bees   1 comment

For the Weasleys…

Lie in the grass, beneath the murmuring fervor;
The bustling mumbling movement harkens to your blood.
It’s easier to dam the river when it’s in full flood.

The endless humming of a million-million wings,
The sour sweetening tang above your head,
These things remain unbroken if the news is spread.

Catch your breath and wait; sun upon your cheeks is shining.
Marvel at the peace when buzzing thrums,
And know, deep in your heart, tomorrow comes.

Though nearby days will not be lived with ease,
Recovery nears with telling of the bees.

Posted July 28, 2014 by veggiewolf in Poetry, Storytelling

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They   Leave a comment

Just another garden party.

The grass is soft beneath you as you kneel in place, head bowed, arms clasped behind you and nestled into small of your back. The air is sultry with humidity, and feels thick against your skin, and as you take a breath your lungs feel as though they’re filled with moisture. Everything is slowed here – you have all the time in the world to contemplate the scent of the gardens around you, mixed with the earthiness of the leather collar around your neck. You move your head slightly, and the chain attached to the collar makes a gentle clinking sound, the perfect counterpoint to the sounds of laughter and glassware from somewhere behind you.

Your lids are lowered, but your eyes open; you see the stripes of setting sunlight cross your legs and the grass beneath you. For a moment, you forget yourself and admire the way the gold sets off the skin of your thigh…and then your mind snaps back and you close your eyes against the thought that you make a pretty picture against the backdrop of greenery and sunset. You sigh, and the links of chain clink again, softly.

Eyes closed, you focus on keeping position as best you can, making sure each knee is positioned firmly on the ground, that your neck makes a graceful arc from your upper back to the base of your skull, that your arms are clasped just-so. You tighten and release each muscle in turn: first, your ankles, then your calves, then the muscles in your long, lean thighs. You clench each buttock, then try to gently hunch your back against any kinks that might have developed. You work each arm by slight movements of your shoulders…and then freeze, suddenly certain that someone sees what you are doing. You hold your breath in anticipation…

…and…nothing. There’s no break in the conviviality behind you – cutlery continues to sound against china plates, and you hear the unmistakable ringing of wine being poured into crystal. Someone taps a foot against the flagstones of the terrace and you imagine a high-heeled shoe, perhaps a stiletto, pushing against your back until you fold forward over your knees. The image sends a surge of emotion through you, and you break out in goose bumps as a trickle of sweat runs from beneath your collar down your spine.

You’re in a haze, a fever-dream from which you don’t want to wake. All eyes are on you…or not. What does it matter? You are sculpted beauty – hard on soft on hard – and in perfect place; you can taste the rightness on your tongue as surely as anything you’ve known before.

What more do you need than to be a piece of the whole?

A sound nearby breaks your reverie, and you realize that someone has approached you. A hand traces along the back of your neck, just under the edge of your collar, and your breath catches. A click and a snap, and the chain attached to your collar is gathered up into someone’s hands and you are pulled down onto all fours and led across the grass. All you can see as you follow is a pair of black shoes walking briskly in front of you. You don’t realize that you’ve slowed down to examine them more closely until a tug on the chain nearly yanks you flat onto the ground, and you concentrate on trying to keep up.

And then, the shoes slow and stop, and you are gathered up and the chain attached to a ring on the garden wall. You’re arranged quickly but gently; legs tucked under you, hands clasped at the back of your neck. Your hair is brushed back from your forehead, and your lower lip pinched firmly. You shudder, and lean forward into the hand that is now cupping your cheek. A gentle caress, and then the shoes walk away.

Just another garden party.

Posted June 8, 2014 by veggiewolf in Erotica, Storytelling

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