it's 6:16 a.m., on 2001-06-20 - oklahoma.
~
I read 'Oklahoma', thanks to Ashlan, and I got bloody scared. It's a good story, full of dust and, and, dry heat, and rock, and religious metaphor, and TS Eliot.
The first three parts rocked my world.
Thing is, it started dragging, a lot. I think, I would have preferred it as a simple serial killer case, and forget the Mulder-going-really-insane bit. I love the setting; didn't like the characters.
I think I would have much preferred it as a Profiler fic, as well. What can I say.
Once they knew what they were looking for, the path was simple to find. A rustling, baking trail through dusty green, brushing bugs from their eyes, tasting the dirt that flavored every breeze in this hot, dry place, where soil created the fog instead of water. The crushed grasses and ripped-up plants of two weeks ago lay sere, marking where Ericka Jones' murderer pulled off the road. No Eliot here, no poetry to this land. It was too dry for such things to survive. Fantasy curled up and died in this heat. Or it should have. One person's fantasy had been unloaded right here, thrown away once he was done with it.
Mulder didn't know what to say. Averman could see his throat working, swallowing convulsively, although no spit survived and the dust was thick in his nose and mouth. He was glad he couldn't see the hazel eyes behind those glasses. The two of them looked. You could always hope for something dropped in the dirt, some miraculous error. You could also hope to win the lottery, it still never happened, but you had to try.
Cooke showed up eventually, looking over the sight and loudly declaring it useless.
That is gorgeous scenery. I needed to drink, they made me so thirsty, throughout this whole story.
~*~
In other news... there is no other news. Young MC is on winamp, telling me to busta-move. I'm deeply considering reading the Invisibles; maybe, going downstairs, putting some laundry in, because I don't have any clean, and I hate having a shower when I don't have any clean laundry. The house'll be up in an hour or two... and I'm hungry, so let's eat.
I keep waiting up for River, but she never shows. Huh.
Last night, I dreamed that all the characters of Buffy were hanging out in this house. Buffy was in charge, but everyone had to stay in one room because the rest of the house was public, like a warehouse, and Angelus and Dru would kill us in our sleep. And Spike was chipped, so he was on our side... and Dawn was there, in the end, and Xander and Riley too. It started out with just Buffy and Spike, and Riley I think, and I. Because I think there was a bit of Spike/Riley innuendo.
Angelus and Dru were in the rest of the house at night... and Dawn and I were sleeping on top of a dresser. Spike was sleeping on top of the other dresser.
For some reason, we were all together, villain and hero. Maybe it was the end of the world outside, something unrelated to vampires. Maybe, maybe, I don't know.
Anya wasn't there.
~*~
I wrote nothing tonight. But I did html a story that I've sorta had saved up from a while ago. I think it steals from poi, and from Grant Morrison, even though how I could steal the idea for an introduction, I don't know.
mostly, it's just my fetish for the biographies of writers showing through. It's here, though that in no way suggests you should read it. You probably shouldn't. It kinda sucks. But it sucks a lot less in my head.
I also thought about writing Bobby/Kitty/Remy tonight. And those slashes are for sex.
See, picture it. In another universe, Kitty and Remy are semi-together -- or Bobby and Kitty, even. Either way. And Bobby, he's interested in exploring his sexuality, and Kitty and Remy are either dating or friends, so kitty tells him, 'Remy is discreet, what people think of him or not', and then, so they all go out dancing, and then for burgers, just talking and stuff... and then in the taxi home, Remy kisses Bobby shyly.
So Bobby can't take it, of course, because as Dycy put it, Bobby likes to panic. A few weeks'd go by, and they'd all admit that it was a fun night... Kitty would ask the two of them out for burgers again. Bobby would decline. Bobby and Kitty would have talks about sex, and about what Bobby should do. And Bobby's main problem would probably be, 'even if I *am* gay. Even if-- I don't know if I can say I'm attracted to-- but anyway. Even if. I'm not likely to have my social life change much. I'm not likely to suddenly start hitting gay bars, wear pink, and get dates. Jean-Paul is an asshole. I don't see the point in making a point of it."
And Kitty would tell him, 'But it's who you are, right?"
And he'd shrug.
So eventually, Kitty would drag Bobby and Remy back out... and maybe, just maybe, they'd start fooling around, all three of them. Remy, being so skilled, would be the one to hold the two of them together. And maybe Remy would be a little upset, and Bobby would get him alone and ask why.
So remy would answer, 'I've done a lot, over th'years, Bobby. It's very rarely turned out good.'
And Bobby would frown. 'How is this-- I mean, I'm sorry.'
So Remy would answer, 'see? You're sorry. Ain't good. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come b'tween you'n Kitty.'
Bobby would chuckle. "Kitty enjoyed herself, I'm sure. I--" he'd go red. "I don't think I've ever made her that... happy."
"Takes practise."
"yeah."
"--did you enjoy y'self, Bobby?"
Bobby would look out the window or something dumb, and go red some more. "I-- if I say no, are we still gonna be friends, or whatever?'
"Yeah, course, mon ami."
"Then yeah. I did."
~*~
Or something. And sex between all three of them would ensue, because I've been wanting to write a threesome for a while, and Bobby, somewhat gay, and Remy, mostly straight, and Kitty, in delight, is just... kinda good. Um.
Bets/Emma/Warren would be pretty cool, too. A lot hotter, a lot less sweet.
Maybe I'll more than a scene eventually. Maybe not. When I start writing a conditional story, it rarely turns into something more. *g*
--This is an 'I'm alive' post, if y'all haven't noticed. I have proven my twat-ness, and I have proven my hearbeat, so I'm going to go and read Pratchett and eat fake waffles, now, with jam.
~
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