Drafts

Right then..

Here's a place to vent what clogs that creative system.

We all have those times, as writers, where a certain small idea or paragraph or piece of a sentence or phrase is clogging up your mind, or driving you mad. It doesn't fit into a story and it doesn't do anything else other than sit there becoming a dead weight on your mind. or you have a paragraph or so that you think is brilliant but barley counts as a drabble, but you think need's to be posted somewhere and needs to be shown to the world.

So this is a place to post them, to clear your head or to just post what you feel needs to be posted. It can be a few sentences, a phrase or a paragraph. Just drafts, meaningless bits of creative fluff really. We're not here to compare, or comment or rate, we're here to vent kiddos.

No excerpts obviously and don't use this as an excuse to advertise your story .That's not the point or the idea here.

[Post story excerpts in the WIP Excerpts thread.]

So I guess I'll start then with something that's been stuck on loop in my head for days,

Folding limbs into scuffed patchwork suitcases

don't even ask..

Yay Ruby! ace idea.

This might go into a one shot but I'm not sure. We'll see....


For the past year he had felt cold, such cold that he couldn’t seem to shake off. The cold sense of fear had rooted itself firmly into the base of his stomach and it refused to move. Nothing he did could shake the deeply rooted insecurities, cold and panic that had begun to spread inside him during that year. The fear was like another disease that he had to battle.

This is kind of long to Ruby's and Nina's, but I wrote these for a drabble/shot I don't think I'll ever complete, even though I kind of like them.

--

The sun is a tangerine bursting up over the hills, lacing his cloudy eyes and hay-stack hair with vibrant streaks of orange. His pupils ache from staring at the silhouetted mounds of earth that block his view of the entire star before him, and his feet are frozen lumps of flesh and bone that feel nothing. A soft wind strikes up and ruffles his hair affectionately, doing the same to the grass-blade city beneath him, and his mouth almost twitches as individual strands lick the skin between his toes.

“How long have you been out here?”

A head littered with chocolate-shaving curls peeks over his shoulder, but he does not turn.

---

He’s been standing in the same spot for three hours and fifteen minutes, Danny calculates. That’s longer than last week, but he puts this down to his own elongated sleeping patterns. He yawns and kisses Tom’s shoulder, hand trickling down his bare arm to nestle their fingers together, brushing the chilly cotton of his companion’s outfit.

“C’mon. You can’t stand out here in pyjamas all morning,”

“I wanted to catch the sun.”

“I know.”

This is such a good idea. :cheese:

-

I thought of this in the car today. :shifty

Spencer and Ryan were in love. Not with each other, of course, but they had both found something that held their heart. Spencer loved his dogs, seeing as they seemed like the only thing that wanted to be around him, and Ryan loved old books, with the yellowing pages and black-and-white photography. Spencer was in love with that girl, too, the one he had known forever. The one that didn't know that he existed.

i love this idea :]

-

and theres the moon and the stars outside where they should be
and the grass descends on dew drops (or is it the other way around)
and morning comes from dark to gray to light to gray
and everything is where it should be

and the coffee hums with sweetness and a bitter tang
and the post arrives to take shelter in the mail box
and hair dye smells track on the punk girl's head
and everythings where it should be

but in every little corner in every half deserted bar
is a voice behind shitty acoustics and drunken yells
and a song from a shrill mic and a desperate heart
and it is singing it is singing

is anybody listening
is anybody listening
if you are listening let me know
if you are listening let me know

and the voice returns to that old theater
and the voice that lives in the back of the chorus
and the voice thats been heard but never heard heard

and hes asking again
is anybody listening
is anybody listening

and a crowd screams
and a singer dreams

and they say, they say
we are listening
somebody is listening
i am listening to you
everybody is listening now
to you

and after all this time
you are what we've been looking for

-shitty adam-inspired poem paragraph thing
so sue me

That night we sat there and we said it all. We said everything without holding back. We told about that first time, that first night, when everything is supposed to be perfect and nothing goes to plan. We admitted things we'd never told anyone and we never spoke of it again.

I loved it with this story I'm currently working on, but it wouldn't match it at all. But I loved it. I came up with it around 4 a.m. this morning.

[Love this thread.]

I think this will soon become my new favorite thread.

He ignored her the best he could, instead focusing the most of his attention on the traffic. It was rush hour, and on this crowded street he didn't want to cause an accident.

She sat in his backseat - sometimes. That was to assume she was capable of sitting still for more than a few seconds. She was a bouncing, bubbly gathering of white-dyed hair and blue eyes and white teeth, her camera capturing everything she deemed important enough for the moment. She leaned over his shoulder when they were at a stoplight, showing him her latest snapshot; a storefront they passed half a block back.

"This one makes me think of you," she said, her smile growing wider and pulling slightly chapped, yet delightfully pink lips over those blindingly-white teeth. He nodded, swallowing his spit and numbly hunching down in his seat. His fingers, stark white and gripping at the steering wheel as though for dear life, felt as though they would splinter. She leaned in closer, her hair brushing against his ear. He shuddered when her voice, soft and mockingly seductive, added, "Naked."

Thank God for car insurance and tow-trucks.

I don't know if I'll ever use that, but it amuses me.

all the times he ran away from her
he loved her, that much everyone can tell

he couldnt imagine losing her
and he did

he didnt cry then

but just because theyve never seen him cry
doesnt mean he doesnt

when no ones watching
except mom

-

he regrets the times he put the phone down on him

and makes imaginary phones call in the night

and sometimes he wonders why

no one picks up and he

doesn't realize he'd

forgotten

'Kiss the colour back into your lips, rub the blush back into your skin and pretend you never shivered, never shook as my eyes poured down on you like yesterdays ice water rain. '

i cant even remember what one shot i wrote this for. :file: but i like it a lot

swivel-hipped and pillow-lipped.
like a dancer (danger)
like singer (fiery)
like a dream.

^^that's it.

This thread is like my new 2nd home :file:
I have so many things I start and never finish...
--

I hope he knows that he looks pathetic.

A cigarette dangles suavely between blistered fingers, tendrils of smoke rising from the burning tip as lazily as the man holding it. An ashtray waits on the table to collect the remnants of the habit I still turn my nose up at, and with a vicious tap the grey flakes scatter amongst their fellow pieces of charred skins and tobacco. The cigarette is lifted and the owner puckers his lips round it, cheeks hollowing as they channel carbon monoxide down what must be a blackened throat, before the stick is removed and offered to him. He takes a drag, amateurishly; a small-town thespian jumping onto the west-end stage on opening night, only just remembering his lines, stumbling through actions and expressions - but the audience here doesn’t bother to tell him that they can see right through him. He doesn’t even smoke.

Something I never found the momentum to finish.... Maybe, someday, I will.
---

How can one be lost, and found, all at once?

I walk these darkened streets with my hands in my coat, shivering and huffing in the winter cold. Has it really been so long since I came here last? Now that I’m here, I have to wonder why I had to run in the first place.

Was it really so long ago that I was only a boy, wondering and just dying to get out of here and see the world? I had thought I was a man back then, but I never realized that all young people who leave home are still children at heart. It’s only after you go out on your own and start dying inside that you really grow up and harden. I had so many dreams as a child. I thought I’d leave these quiet streets of suburbia and make a name of myself. In such a stifling town where everything is the same, why did I feel I would suffocate if I just became like everyone else?

I have a whole notebook dedicated to these kind of things.

-

They wore the expressions of lobotomized rabbits.

Songs that sound like sex put into rhythm.

"Look at me, Sampson. I started out as a big shot model, my face on every magazine, and now look at me. I look like a goddamned whore."

Let's be melodramatic in the most realistic way possible.

-

There aren't many thoughts that go through your head while someone is pounding there fist into your cheek. You don't have many musings as grating chips of porcelain teeth prick your gums. The only thing you think about as rusty blood trickles down your throat, the only voice whispering in your head, is Kill him.

Perhaps it's just our animal instincts. You know, the ones that make us claw off our clothing and love each other in passionate sweat. The ones that makes us vomit sobs and cry until our eyes have squeezed dry.

And when someone with sour, spoiled milk breath and unshaven stubble is beating his pussy knuckles into her face senselessly, you want to kill him. So you kick him in the nuts. Hard. And when he's got his hands on his crotch like he's going to puke, you pick up a drainpipe that's cold and wet and mossy. It doesn't matter if you cringe when you see algae. The only thing on your mind is Kill him.

Unposted, for obvious reasons.

Llygaid fel soseri, ddisgwyliais amdano.

"Dwi'n caru ti, slebog."

I like it, but there's nowhere I can put the damn thing because it's not even in english.

Best idea ever!

. . . And as your deceitful lies bury you deeper into the rabbithole, you drown and choke upon the misery and hate you've brought to this world, it's your fault!

Don't steal :shifty

The air smelled like tension and sweat, and the silence was punctuated by Kiba's sunken breaths and Shino's hardened glare. Blood the color of his clan tattoos seeped from the cut on Kiba's lip, and Shino's vision was impaired into windshield cobwebs from the crack in his glasses. Kiba bent down, one hand gripping a knee for support while the other wiped at his mouth, smearing red across his cheek. His head snapped up abruptly, swift to capture Shino's iceberg eyes that were ever-so cold with apathy.

"You know what?" He half-growled, half-rasped, oxygen still yet to fully circulate in his lungs. "I'm going to bed."

The blades were so evident in his voice that anyone who knew him could have interpreted it; and Shino, who knew him better than most, did not miss the 'I hate you' forced between those letters.

He proved his point by turning around, footsteps heavy with anger, and slamming the bedroom door before Shino could follow, much less speak another word.

Shino, with the subject of his rare fury gone, bowed slightly and caught his shattered glasses in a waiting palm, its twin massaging his forehead in lieu of the upcoming migraine.

-

"I held him as his lungs ached and burst. I held him as his throat dried up and his voice abandoned him. I held him as he shook and sobbed. I held him as his world came crashing down. I held him when he had nothing left."

All my one shots end up with the main character dying/commiting suicide. I have no idea why this happens. :(

Disposed of in a rubbish bin that the press seems to be scavenging in constantly. I’ve had so many microphones and lenses jammed in my face over the past few weeks that I can’t bear it anymore. They think I have the answer to all their questions, those gabbled invasions of privacy that lack empathy – well, I don’t. You appear to think the opposite though. You don’t tell me anything, and it seems like you just assume I already know what you’re thinking.

My beer’s warm now - bitter, repulsive and tasteless. Do you know who that reminds me of? I shouldn’t giggle, but I am doing, so loud that anyone walking in would think I’m a nutcase. But hey, I’m known for doing crazy things. Remember when I pulled Tom’s pants down on stage and his boxers nearly went with them?

Here's such a waste of time:

“I’m sorry I wouldn’t be there for you like I used to… well, I might never be there anymore,”

Her whisper lingered softly yet it hit me severely. And there was so much truth in it, and I could tell it killed her inside to admit.

“Shh,” I touched her lip lightly with my finger. “Everything is going to be okay soon.”

I closed my eyes gently as I said it, knowing nothing was ever going to be alright.

---

I remember fall, when her smiles were wide and her laughs ringing, when she let the colorful leaves lay across her lap carelessly, when she told me things which wouldn’t have been special if it were from somebody else.

I remember her, and the way she let her hair fall lazily and incompletely tied, how she dropped her foot on the brake pedals suddenly and cause me to fall off my seat, and how I knew she did it on purpose but when I feel like punching her, I couldn’t help but keep a smile on my face.

I remember the song with which we sang along together, the way we argued about whose favorite artist was better, the moments we had shared just arguing against each other.

---

Jealousy.

I watched her figure as she sat frozen, her bloody-red lips were like poison-ivy, her eyes looked innocent against the sunlight.

Sunlight,

… tore between the shadows which were cast by the walls around me, and the bright luminescence of the white marble ground on which she sat peacefully, right now, but absolutely not for long.

Tick tock.

In a little while, she’ll wake up from her short-termed innocence and transform to who she really is. I could now see her villain eyes looking back at me, as if telling me I had no escape. Her presence alone steals the living soul out of me, let alone her next move, her devilish disguise, and her very purpose of taking it all away from me.

---
oh my. I never realized it was that many. o_o

I couldn't ever explain anything. I found it difficult to voice my opinions and often kept them to myself, opting to sit on the fence. I found it incredibly hard to explain what I wanted to do and where I wanted to go. To everyone else, my future was very up in the air, people generally made their own asumptions about what I would do. It infuriated me, because I honestly had no idea of what I wanted to do.

It was difficult. I'm the youngest of four children. My eldest brother, Nicky, is twenty four. He's my mother's son. A year ago, he was arrested and jailed for death by dangerous driving. He got drunk and accidently killed someone's father. It never phased me. I never liked Nicky all that much.

My older sister, Zoe, is my dad's daughter. She's twenty one. She's a self confessed gold digger, and she's currently engaged to Alan Brooker, a sixty two year old, childless millionaire. I bet she plans to push him down the stairs after they've married, so she can run along and claim his fortune for her own.

Then, there's my only full blood sibling. My twin brother Issac is older than me by half an hour, apparently. We actually don't know if this is true, it's just what everyone assumes, so we go by it. Issac is a drummer in a band. He knows his future lies with music, but he's single handedly fucking that dream up by taking drugs and drinking.

Bit longer than some of the others here. It was supposed to fit into a story I decided to ditch and delete after the first part.