Cimorene

"Justin was at a party once, some sort of reception for yet another escaped nobleman who'd arrived in the city bearing nothing but a now-worthless title, and oranges were served. Everyone exclaimed over them, and the air was full of their smell.

Justin didn't touch them. "

""Fine, don't move then. I was just--" Lance broke off, cleared his throat. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. "Will you ever tell me about him?"

The two of them were in Lance's kitchen. Morning sunlight was streaming in through the windows, hitting the icon that hung over the sink. Justin could still only bring himself to look at it briefly, and mostly not at all.

"No," he said."

proschai, by amber. a shimmering, glowing star in the nsyncau firmament, to mangle a quote from my favorite movie.

sequel to ledischka.

just, oh, god

<--wordless... my mouth is open and i haven't finished the story yet. haven't cried but my eyes keep stinging. i keep fidgeting and the skin on my back keeps prickling, the way it does when a plot-story-character has me by the throat. i can't move, pinned in place and if i struggle i bleed.

e, let me go. *soulful hobbit eyes.* why didn't you tell me you had stories up???

the beauty is overflowing. you write the kinds of stories that i turn my eyes away from, that make my face feel foreign to me, and lips heavy with suspense.

and there are just--flashbacks. justin. why isn't he really like this? and chris, and the snow imagery, *whimper*--you keep shaving closer and closer to the bone of the essence of the themes you're writing about, leaving the edges and the parts that could have been there out so it's blindingly clear. few people come so close to expressing an idea so thoroughly and so indirectly and--gulp.

whew.