- wow... i can't really think of anything besides WOW...
i really am hopeful that you will turn one of these into a full story... i know its hard to maintain the intensity, especially on the topics that you pursue... but if you ever braved a novel length story, it would be truly wonderful
Author's responsegrins Heh, that's flattering. I'm going to do it one of these days, but I'll finish writing it before I post. I know I hate it when stories I love go untouched for ages, and I procrastinate when people expect things. Thanks!
Not what i expected, but so much more. I agree with Nautilus, but personally, I'm not sure i could stand a novel-length fic in this style. The intensity would burn out my neurons.
I mean, I've seen her, met her so many times. It's not a comfortable thing to consider the little pastry as a human, a feeling entity. It's easier not to, as she's impossible to resist.
I saved this with the subtitle "Lav lies bleeding." The title was, as i said in a PM i hope you got, most apt.
Author's responseI know what you mean - she is unforgettable and unkeepable, no matter how much you want to do either. She is confused and hurt and hiding it, but she doesn't understand what she is and why she is unkeepable.
Dammit. I hadn't connected Lavender with her until now. Thanks. slams head against wall You know that my girlfriend will kill me and then kill you for reminding me if I start something up with her again, right?
slams head against wall
I didn't get a PM - actually, I didn't know Ficwad even has that feature. Cool. But can you tell me what it said?
And you're welcome. I had fun writing it. ...and I really liked it until I realized it's about HER. That means things that I wish it didn't.
- Whoa, that's quite the emotionally intense story. I do feel sorry for Lavender and the situation she's gotten herself into; she's definitely boxed herself in and is acting more as a cardboard characture of herself than as herself.
The title is Swedish and translates as cardboard, esp. a cardboard box. Interestingly enough, it's also the name of a well-known costal village in Gambia which appears to have excellent beaches and quite an internationally-known music festival.
Author's responseYes, you got it. Who/what would you like your fic to be about?
- Great story. I'd have tried for the contest, but it seems that Cateagle snatched my answer right outta my brain (great minds and all that lot). Oh well, I'll just have to wait till the next one.
Author's responseThank you! Yeah, Cateagle is pretty quick on the draw. If there's an author alert on Ficwad, Cateagle has me on it. ^-^ It's flattering.
Anyway, I hope you manage it next time.
You know what, I don't recognize your name from other reviews, so I could give you a request anyway. As a one-time thing. I already have a zillion requests waiting, but you may inspire me like Vanir's did. What do you want?
- I believe the PM's arrive as mail to the address you registered, but as you asked, I'll repeat myself.
So, what did I read, then?
I read about a girls I knew. That was not a typo. Once upon a time, even this old man went pubcrawling, hunting, drinking less that he appeared to have done, therefore being a bit harmless, but able to see what the right phrases might be. Studying, learning planning, calling it gut-feeling lying like crazy, like a dog, like a horny dog determined to nab that hot bitch, and that's who she was.
Knowing all the words, the moves, the little touches that does a man in, down to cinder, then ashes.
A pastry, the ones the doctor say you shouldn't eat, full of artificial sweetener, strange numbers that begins with E, but oh so tasty. Delicious even. Once, maybe twice. A guilty pleasure.
Not because it's degrading to the pastry to be eaten. That's what they're there for, but guilty that I touched it, tasted it and revelled in the perfect flavour, the tender texture, the sheer calculated joy a man can achieve by putting his teeth into it.
The pastry isn't really human. It only exists between leaving the pub and leaving in the morning. The pastry has no dreams, no hopes. It exists in a pocket universe, ready to be chewed and swallowed. It never, ever cleans off the dark make-up. It was born in heels, and her body was actually made for a push-up bra. Nothing is inconvenient for her, except maybe kissing. You never bring a pastry home to Mum. You love it, of course. You say so, but it doesn't matter. Pastries forget.
Some pastries are so good you actually make a small habit of them, until the guilt adds up, and you cut it out. It's not good for you.
It wasn't her. It was me.
Author's responseO.O That's gorgeous. Your prose is so elegant and the metaphors lovely. It only exists between leaving the pub and leaving in the morning. Do you write? Because I need to check you out.
She's bad for you. She clogs your heart and lingers in your mouth, and her smile is a perfect bait becasue she smiled when you worshipped her.
- Once again, I'm reminded that reading HOWL, drinking whisky and reviewing emotional pieces is a bad, bad combination.
Your style reminds me strongly of Howl.
Just in case you hadn't read it. Bet you have, though.
Author's responseNo, I've never read it. I love it, though! Thanks so much for giving me the link!
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