jazzonia: (Misc. - "I'm feeling rough/raw/in the pr)
  Aug. 31st, 2008 12:17 am
A Lie I Have Told You

Lie: I don't drink coffee

I love coffee. Have since the summer before junior year, when tall cups of iced java kept me sane through my long commutes into the city. All that caffeine makes me jittery and light, like my blood is carbonated and I have to keep moving, moving, moving, or else the bubbles will bubble their way into my brain and boomswishswish, there go my capillaries.

And you're the same way. You're worse than a venti macchiato, than an extra-large vanilla cappuccino, than four shots of iced espresso downed at once. You make me more carbonated than anything, make my blood feel like champagne as it colors my cheeks and warms my chest. You and coffee at the same time would be an overdose of goodness, such a rush that it's lethal.

Though, now that I think about it, dying of Champagne Blood really can't be all that bad.
jazzonia: (HP - Photos - Adelie (toddler))
  Nov. 7th, 2007 07:02 am
Ooh, I like this meme, taken from [livejournal.com profile] oddsbobs! They only did fic, but I have a few prosaic things lying around, too.

When you see this, post an excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around.

Fic and Prose Previews! )
jazzonia: (Misc. - Couple on bench w/ heart cloud)
  Oct. 10th, 2007 06:29 pm
Our hands are clasped on top of your knee as we watch the end of an action film. Now and again your thumb runs along my forefinger. I doubt you notice that you're doing it, but I do, for new goose-flesh erupts along my arms with every minute stroke.

As the hero of the film drives a muddy truck over the crest of a hill littered with grenade shells, you raise our linked hands and rest your chin upon them. You resemble The Thinker and I nearly smile, but then you slip the tip of my forefinger between your teeth and I forget about everything else. Deliberately you bite and release each of my fingertips, then lower our hands back onto your knee as if nothing has happened. I am reminded of a prayer, and my very skin tingles with the premise.

When the film is over we head to a tiny park not far from the theater, where the hundred feet of grassy expanse serves as my escape from dreary suburbia. We are talking, I think, but it is hard to believe that either of us are really interested in whatever it is we're discussing.

It is like a movie is playing out before us, as if somehow our detached selves are watching our hesitant bodies draw ever closer. This prelude takes much longer than I thought it would; your eyes dart from my lips to my eyes and back again, betraying your uncertainty. I bite my lip no, and you blink why; I curl my toes maybe, and you smile yes.

Your lips are softer than, I think, is normal. Our mouths aren't quite perfectly aligned and moist with nervousness, and the actual kiss is almost too transient to really count, but I savor every second of it nonetheless. Shocked by our boldness, we draw back much more quickly than we perhaps intended. But the air is cool, and my lips crave your warmth despite only knowing it for the briefest of moments. And for once, for once, I don't think before giving in to my most instinctual self's demand.

It's better the second time; you kiss my upper lip quite fully, and I run the tentative tip of my tongue over your own. The feeling is, I hastily decide, insurmountable by anything other than a retry.

I kiss you again and notice a gentle prickle against my bottom lip. The stubble clustered in the groove under your lip is nearly colorless and soft, not unlike the meager fuzz that merited your first proud shave. I never knew that you had stubble there, shadowed by the curve of your mouth. And that, somehow, is what I know I will remember most vividly when I wake up tomorrow.

Your arms encircle my waist, resting loosely on my hips like we're dancing. I trail my fingers across your cheek as you kiss down my jaw, and I find myself smiling -- for now, reality has surpassed the excruciatingly impossible dreams that plague my sleep with whispers of love.

Then the underbelly of the sky gives way, serenading us with cool October rain.
jazzonia: (Misc. - Red rose)
  Nov. 9th, 2006 06:23 pm
This story was originally written in response to a poem I wrote, then discarded. I planned to break up each memory with a snippet of poetry, but I eventually came to realize that the poetry was unnecessary -- Lily speaks for itself. I would appreciate any and all comments, because nothing is perfect.


Lily )


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