I've just finished putting together the beginning of a project on the writing domain, Halflit. It's an open ended collaborative story-writing endeavor called Carousel, and anyone who's interested in participating can wander over there and register whenever.

[x posted to a variety of places]

Moving House.

I'm moving my writing blog, at least for the most part, to here:

Also, the Halflit ( domain is becoming active again. There are challenges in the members area and I will be launching an open project in the next few days (just as soon as I can find my TABLET PEN where the hell did it go arg...). If you're interested in looking into it and joining up, just shoot me an email - crows /at/

Loves <3

The Chant of the Sibyl; True Life.

“Ho there! What's that!” a voice nearer to him cried out in curious alarm, drawing the snap of his attention out of his swirling thoughts. He stopped and looked down the hill, watching the collective of his brethren bewilderedly drop their their skids and turn, raising their hands to mitigate the indistinct glare of the sky.
His senses honed to a sharp enough focus a few moments later to perceive the sound, and the black mass in the sky, at the same time. An ungainly flying shape angled its way through the petticoats of the cloudcover, which was low over the ground but so featureless that it offered little depth-perception to the eye. The staccato of its blades slicing the air to keep it aloft struck Caleb's ears unfettered by the haze that made its shape inconstant in the sky.
Caleb narrowed his eyes for a few moments at the helicopter as it moved inland and then burst into a run back down the slope away from the base. He paused on his way down, skidding to a stop that almost sent him tumbling to grab a bewildered compatriot's shoulder.
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The Chant of the Sibyl

[And so it begins again. For NaNo this year, I'm writing more chunks of last year's story, and chunks of its sequel, called True Life. This is from the kickoff last night, between midnight and 3 AM; picking up where I left off before. Fragments. It is not spellchecked.]

Jadany sat on her knees, feeling her feet go numb against the cold concrete floor of the compound. The stone, the air, all felt warmer than Witch's gaze curiously down at her from where he sat across her, their knees only a hand's bredth apart in the half-darkened room. She breathed in once, laboured, and breathed out again.

“You don't have to,” his voice came, as if from beyond a great distance, the low rumble of thunder that might call one's attention to a stormy horizon.

“No,” Jadany breathed slowly out, letting her eyes fall finally shut to the heaviness that pressed them. “I do.”

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APv2.0: Nightmare salts

The stairwell I raced down terminated in a slightly more expansive platform of raw concrete with an unkind looking metal door. Pushing my way out, I turned blindly onto the sidewalk and moved against traffic, away from the light of the apartment community and into the tangerine glow of the street lamps. My shoes slapped against the rain-glazed street, my only company, and my thoughts could not decipher any reason. I clutched the paper dampening in the cold sweat of my palm. I did not know where to go.
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Amber Poe v 2.0

[19 weeks? Really? It's not that there hasn't been work; just... haven't... posted anything. But I'm starting a sincere effort to get back to this story (I know, I know), starting with the thorough re-write it deserves.]

Amber Poe.

“For the third time, I don't know.”

My words echoed across the telephone line, crackling out of an emergency call center headset into the harried ears of an overworked woman who didn't believe me. Having received all the warnings about how it was illegal to impersonate an actual emergency call, I stood finally at this impasse with this stranger; how could she believe a story that I didn't have to tell, anyway? I felt the stoniness of my own silence bearing down on me. My knuckled whitened on the telephone. This is what 911 is for!

“Ma'am, are you in danger?”

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Scrub scrub

Alright, commence editing on 'A Bottle Full Of Blood'. I'm to post it in sections as I get the changes typed in; part of the process, however, is finding a proper title. I'm considering 'The Bone-Paved Way' so far, but that's all that's come to me.

I've started a community for writers. It will include not only a community for fun, workshop, and support, but also hosting for people who are interested. I'm UNBELIEVABLY EXCITED.

Check it out, let me know if you're interested.


The weight of the glass in my hand.
The heat of the fire in my throat.
The ring in the sound of my voice.
The loose ground upon which we stand.
The hollow words of the old toast.
The feeling of losing a choice.

The hand that I grasp in the dark.
The desperate gasping for air.
The taste of the wine on your lips.
The searching in vain for a spark.
The lie that no one can compare.
The things I don't think I can fix.

The sad morning ache in my bones.
The dishes that wait in the sink.
The hesitant close of the day.
The message that you won't be home.
The wandering eye that I blink.
The telling myself you won't stray.

The more time we're spending apart.
The realizing that I can breathe.
The things that we once thought were true.
The still-dimming ache in my heart.
The old, broken things that I leave.
The things that remind me of you.


The Glassblower

[Written originally in the Same_Oh! community. I'm very on-the-fence about the word 'until' in the third stanza. Keep it, ditch it? The line would otherwise stay the same.]

He lived next door to
Our apartment in the Projects.
His equipment was loud,
Studio of smoke and

He caught dewdrops,
In quiet midair. Every
One like a

Until we moved away,
Now the diamonds no
Longer sparkle, impressed
On empty

Forty-five now, among
My own children, magic
Still washes
My memory in the
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