May. 4th, 2010

othereyes: (lens-mug)
In His Dreams
(50 words)

"I only dream of people from my past," he says. He rolls to his side, clutching the blankets, drawing them up to his chin. "Last night, I dreamt of you."

Eyes closed, he waits for sleep to return him to solitude, and hopes that when he wakes she is gone.

othereyes: (Default)
Was It Animal Instinct?
(50 words)

On the morning of the earthquake, she sat in her pajamas at the computer wasting time. A sudden bout of laziness weighed her down.

Then the ground roared, the door-frame jolted, the floor leapt out of sync with her steps. She hurtled forward, thankful she wasn't naked in the shower.

othereyes: (fic-lie)
Today I'm having yet another self-confirming "you need to write novel-length literary fiction that confronts the disaffected, alienated, and estranged aspects of (post)modern life and how people cope or fail to cope with it, so just stop fussing with ideas that try to mold themselves into popular genres that all of your friends read because you're mashing a square peg into a round hole every time you try. So stop. Just stop."

I know this sounds sort of stupid, but, realizing that many, most, or all of my friends and family might NOT be my story audience is, probably, the most important realization evah.

Please pardon my blunt little rant )



othereyes: (Default)

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