czedwards

I am mourning a couple of writing fragments I know I need to abandon because there’s no way I will ever finish them. I never wrote fic (there’s a story) in any meaningful way. My one attempt has some lovely language I will salvage and nothing else worth any further investment of my time. The parent media are just too toxic.

Unattributed lines:

You sent her into a city where the idea of a traffic law failed to get traction under Julius Caesar?

I did not, I realize, seek my soul for her. It's my soul. I wanted it. I wanted my actions -- good, bad, indifferent, apathetic, active, progressive or reactionary -- to mean something. If I must kill, I want a consequence. When I love, I want to know that I have something to give and everything to lose. I want to live on that edge, to tremble on the cliff of ecstasy that divides nihilism and existence. I want the joys of self-restraint when I resist temptation and I want the divine wonder when I let myself fall.
I completely understand Lucifer choosing to rebel.

The Pacific Northwest is nearly devoid of vampires now; I have been a busy boy. I admit I took an entirely unseemly joy in eliminating a --herd? Coven? Murder? What is our collective noun? -- of prattish, cultish stalkers down the coast who were preying on both high school girls and the local endangered species, having decided farm animals were beneath their tastes. Weird, too; they apparently had quite the penchant for body glitter. Took me three weeks to wash it completely out of my hair... Worse than herpes, glitter.

(Feel free to treat this as an open thread)