Insomnia sucks.
Aug. 3rd, 2007 02:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mad_andyLike a big sucky thing. Daytime insomnia. I hope like hell it's a quiet shift tonight - last night's was, but I got an email from my head nurse that had me screaming and ranting through the damn practice, thus not much sleep or even rest was had - but at least if not I should sleep well tomorrow.
Anyway. Having soaked in a number of Lush products and slathered yet more of them over my skin, I'm going to attempt the WIP meme that's doing the rounds...
When you see this, post a little weensy excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
*Rummages through RD*
Untitled Zico Chain fic, Chris/Paul:
Chris angles his head, rolls it against the wall. He’s sprawled almost elegantly, thin wrists draped over the jut of the stained knees of his jeans, bracelets forced to hang lopsided, shine muted by the angle of his loose hands. Mud and water stain his white boots; the laces are steadily unravelling, and the greying of the leather matches the circles under his eyes. They look worn, used up, burnt out and ready to be thrown away. Flourescent light can be unkind, sometimes.
Untitled Gamma Ray fic, Dirk/Kai:
He’d tried to get a room away from them, he really had. But thus far he’d never managed it; five of them in three rooms, Kai always took the one in the middle leaving Henjo and Eero in one and Dirk with Dan in the other. And of course, Henjo always went to Kai’s room so there he was, stuck with listening to the headboard crash against the wall, accompanied by Kai’s Symphony Of Humping.
The Demon And The Wizard, Blind Guardian/Iced Earth, Hansi Kursch/Jon Schaffer:
He glanced over his shoulder, frowned. This was unexpected; from the voice he knew it was one of the support band’s guitarists, Jon... Jon something. Schaffer, that was it. So far his entire interaction with Hansi had been to take the piss about his reading material, his lyrics, his attitude and his choice of games; nobody played chess anymore, according to Jon. If he insisted on playing such a ridiculous old game he should at least get himself an electronic version, and so on and so forth until Hansi had decided that the abrasive American really didn’t like him. So what was he doing hammering on the door when he should have been out enjoying a night of debauchery with the rest of the crew?
Untitled Helloween, Andi/Markus:
Andi jerked the pillow from over Markus’ face and swore darkly. Not just drunk, but stupid drunk; the way he’d been snuffling into that damn pillow he would have suffocated himself by morning. That was all he needed. A hungover band - because if Sascha, Dani and Weiki didn’t have sore heads in the morning he would be amazed, what with the way they’d been putting the whiskey away - and a dead bassist? Not good.
Unfortunately, he’d got to the party late and so was the only one sober enough to drag Markus’ drunken backside up to the room when he’d keeled over. He was going to have words about that in the morning, too.
Untitled Metallica/Iron Maiden, Lars Ulrich/Steve Harris:
The smaller man curls himself into the corner of the sofa like a sleepy cat. “Really? Nobody? All those drunken nights on the bus... in hotels... all that shit? You never once...?”
He lets his voice trail off into a question, and Steve snorts at him.
“No, never. Mind you....”
He looks thoughtful.
“Yes?”
Steve narrows his eyes at Lars, and a grin begins to creep across his face.
“I bent Bruce over a time or two. Only way to stop him bloody answering back.”
Mandragora, Original fiction:
He stepped forward, and she was rather ashamed to note that she automatically cowered into the sofa when he loomed over her; for all her vaunted principles he was big, and looked as scary as hell. Adding to the fear was the fact that he’d broken into her flat, dammit, her home, and then had the audacity to loom at her and scare the crap out of her. Bastard. She scowled up at him, but couldn’t quite find the courage to stand up to him - not yet.
He sighed, and to her utter astonishment turned his back on her and went to the bathroom. Pulling on the little cord he switched the light on over the mirror, and regarded his reflection with a steady scrutiny she found almost as unnerving as the looming.
“I,” he said, his voice reaching her clearly, “am Mandrake.”
Ink, original fiction:
“That’s nice work.”
Grunt from the artist, the guy in the chair fidgeting a little and looking up at the fascination of the observer, cocking his head with interest, eyes fixed on the slow slide of blood and ink, a swift wipe of brutal efficiency to allow the buzzing bite of the needle to continue. Colour swirls, building delicacy upon the pain, shades of emotion transferred to skin, bought and paid for with suffering to be worn with pride for ever.
__________
Hnf. I really ought to finish some of these!
Anyway. Having soaked in a number of Lush products and slathered yet more of them over my skin, I'm going to attempt the WIP meme that's doing the rounds...
When you see this, post a little weensy excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
*Rummages through RD*
Untitled Zico Chain fic, Chris/Paul:
Chris angles his head, rolls it against the wall. He’s sprawled almost elegantly, thin wrists draped over the jut of the stained knees of his jeans, bracelets forced to hang lopsided, shine muted by the angle of his loose hands. Mud and water stain his white boots; the laces are steadily unravelling, and the greying of the leather matches the circles under his eyes. They look worn, used up, burnt out and ready to be thrown away. Flourescent light can be unkind, sometimes.
Untitled Gamma Ray fic, Dirk/Kai:
He’d tried to get a room away from them, he really had. But thus far he’d never managed it; five of them in three rooms, Kai always took the one in the middle leaving Henjo and Eero in one and Dirk with Dan in the other. And of course, Henjo always went to Kai’s room so there he was, stuck with listening to the headboard crash against the wall, accompanied by Kai’s Symphony Of Humping.
The Demon And The Wizard, Blind Guardian/Iced Earth, Hansi Kursch/Jon Schaffer:
He glanced over his shoulder, frowned. This was unexpected; from the voice he knew it was one of the support band’s guitarists, Jon... Jon something. Schaffer, that was it. So far his entire interaction with Hansi had been to take the piss about his reading material, his lyrics, his attitude and his choice of games; nobody played chess anymore, according to Jon. If he insisted on playing such a ridiculous old game he should at least get himself an electronic version, and so on and so forth until Hansi had decided that the abrasive American really didn’t like him. So what was he doing hammering on the door when he should have been out enjoying a night of debauchery with the rest of the crew?
Untitled Helloween, Andi/Markus:
Andi jerked the pillow from over Markus’ face and swore darkly. Not just drunk, but stupid drunk; the way he’d been snuffling into that damn pillow he would have suffocated himself by morning. That was all he needed. A hungover band - because if Sascha, Dani and Weiki didn’t have sore heads in the morning he would be amazed, what with the way they’d been putting the whiskey away - and a dead bassist? Not good.
Unfortunately, he’d got to the party late and so was the only one sober enough to drag Markus’ drunken backside up to the room when he’d keeled over. He was going to have words about that in the morning, too.
Untitled Metallica/Iron Maiden, Lars Ulrich/Steve Harris:
The smaller man curls himself into the corner of the sofa like a sleepy cat. “Really? Nobody? All those drunken nights on the bus... in hotels... all that shit? You never once...?”
He lets his voice trail off into a question, and Steve snorts at him.
“No, never. Mind you....”
He looks thoughtful.
“Yes?”
Steve narrows his eyes at Lars, and a grin begins to creep across his face.
“I bent Bruce over a time or two. Only way to stop him bloody answering back.”
Mandragora, Original fiction:
He stepped forward, and she was rather ashamed to note that she automatically cowered into the sofa when he loomed over her; for all her vaunted principles he was big, and looked as scary as hell. Adding to the fear was the fact that he’d broken into her flat, dammit, her home, and then had the audacity to loom at her and scare the crap out of her. Bastard. She scowled up at him, but couldn’t quite find the courage to stand up to him - not yet.
He sighed, and to her utter astonishment turned his back on her and went to the bathroom. Pulling on the little cord he switched the light on over the mirror, and regarded his reflection with a steady scrutiny she found almost as unnerving as the looming.
“I,” he said, his voice reaching her clearly, “am Mandrake.”
Ink, original fiction:
“That’s nice work.”
Grunt from the artist, the guy in the chair fidgeting a little and looking up at the fascination of the observer, cocking his head with interest, eyes fixed on the slow slide of blood and ink, a swift wipe of brutal efficiency to allow the buzzing bite of the needle to continue. Colour swirls, building delicacy upon the pain, shades of emotion transferred to skin, bought and paid for with suffering to be worn with pride for ever.
__________
Hnf. I really ought to finish some of these!
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no subject
Date: 2007-08-03 01:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-03 02:12 pm (UTC)(Now go and leave a nice little message on the new drabble. Make me feel loved.)
no subject
Date: 2007-08-03 02:52 pm (UTC):)
no subject
Date: 2007-08-03 05:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-06 07:28 pm (UTC)(if I don't sound completely up my own arse saying that)