angelgazing (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
angelgazing) wrote2005-08-16 07:10 pm
angelgazing) wrote2005-08-16 07:10 pm
it's always better on holiday.
I hate cleaning. I hate cleaning a whole goddamn lot. Clearly I need to be wealthy, because forget lower gas prices or world peace or everything my heart desires at my fingertips (including, but not limited to, Wilson, Chase, Rusty, Carmine and a shiny new laptop with wireless DSL that never drops out) what I really need most in the world is a maid. ::eyes Shoe Hill wearily:: It's gotten to the point where the mountains of clothes cannot be breathed near, for fear of avalanche. It's gotten to the point where I can't find a pair of shoes, because all 20 pairs of shoes are piled up in front of the shelf that holds my TV. I got a new VCR a little over a week ago. I can't plug it in because I can't move the shelf because of the shoes. I'd put them in my closest, but I'm honestly a little afraid of what might happen if I were to open my closet. The CDs near my computer are all on the verge of falling off the desk and I cannot be arsed to move them, because the CD holder is full and I've got jewelry piled high as the sky on the other side.
Clearly, the solution here is to post drabbles that I wrote ages ago. Because my desire to not do a thing should not be underestimated.
So: What was supposed to be the start of the Duncan/Logan![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
slashfest fic, but turned into a drabble:
untitled - Duncan - R - 100 words
He rocks, to himself, alone, in the dark of his bedroom with the curtains closed on midday, late afternoon, and his eyes heavy and dry with lack of sleep and too much alcohol. The stale, bitter aftertaste of sweet smoke and drunkenness is thick on his tongue, a heavy ghost in the back of his throat, with strawberry lip-gloss and salt water and guilt. He rocks, into his hand, against the sand gritty sheet, against the mattress, his eyes screwed tightly shut and gasping, quietly, into the thin, salty skin of his wrist where his pulse beats fiercely, angrily, wildly.
And: What was supposed to be the beginning of a drabble series, until I found a new OTP, the series was Places They Aren't, only had I gotten around to finishing it I probably would have come up with a better title:
Home - Numb3rs - Charlie - PG - 100 words
Charlie walks down the hall.
The carpet is worn down, well tread upon, it's faded from red to pink and the original color of it lines the walls, cradles the floorboards like it's holding them up. It pads his footsteps, but each one still echoes too loudly in his ears.
The lights are too bright for this time of night, for the amount of alcohol he has had to drink. They make something hurt sharply just behind his eyes. He squints against it.
He counts steps his takes like there are more than twenty. His fingertips slide along the wall.
Bed - Numb3rs - Don - PG - 100 words
Don closes his eyes, leans his head back against wall behind him. There's a warm beer going stale in his hand. He wrinkles his nose slightly at the thought of the taste.
He presses his fingers into his eyes until lights flickers in the darkness. He thinks about going to bed, but it seems like a long walk. Don drops his hand with a sigh.
The room feels like it's getting smaller, like the white walls are closing in on him.
He opens the window to the street below and smells something fried.
His stomach rolls, sharply and he inhales.
Clearly, the solution here is to post drabbles that I wrote ages ago. Because my desire to not do a thing should not be underestimated.
So: What was supposed to be the start of the Duncan/Logan
slashfest fic, but turned into a drabble:untitled - Duncan - R - 100 words
He rocks, to himself, alone, in the dark of his bedroom with the curtains closed on midday, late afternoon, and his eyes heavy and dry with lack of sleep and too much alcohol. The stale, bitter aftertaste of sweet smoke and drunkenness is thick on his tongue, a heavy ghost in the back of his throat, with strawberry lip-gloss and salt water and guilt. He rocks, into his hand, against the sand gritty sheet, against the mattress, his eyes screwed tightly shut and gasping, quietly, into the thin, salty skin of his wrist where his pulse beats fiercely, angrily, wildly.
And: What was supposed to be the beginning of a drabble series, until I found a new OTP, the series was Places They Aren't, only had I gotten around to finishing it I probably would have come up with a better title:
Home - Numb3rs - Charlie - PG - 100 words
Charlie walks down the hall.
The carpet is worn down, well tread upon, it's faded from red to pink and the original color of it lines the walls, cradles the floorboards like it's holding them up. It pads his footsteps, but each one still echoes too loudly in his ears.
The lights are too bright for this time of night, for the amount of alcohol he has had to drink. They make something hurt sharply just behind his eyes. He squints against it.
He counts steps his takes like there are more than twenty. His fingertips slide along the wall.
Bed - Numb3rs - Don - PG - 100 words
Don closes his eyes, leans his head back against wall behind him. There's a warm beer going stale in his hand. He wrinkles his nose slightly at the thought of the taste.
He presses his fingers into his eyes until lights flickers in the darkness. He thinks about going to bed, but it seems like a long walk. Don drops his hand with a sigh.
The room feels like it's getting smaller, like the white walls are closing in on him.
He opens the window to the street below and smells something fried.
His stomach rolls, sharply and he inhales.