Planning for Nano
Oct. 28th, 2015 12:06 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
valarltdRaising the dead stands at 11430.
Needs another 40K to take it out where it should go.
The opening scene:
Fresno Blue paused at the door of the closet, sniffing deeply and very loudly. He could smell the girl’s fear: the adrenaline in her sweat and the piss in her pretty little pink panties. Fuck, he really hoped they were pink.
In a high sing-song voice, he started a grotesque parody of a nursery rhyme, ignoring the cooling blood that dripped down his arms to puddle on the hardwood floor. More, plenty more, soiled his flannel shirt.
“I love little pussy, her cunt is so warm
If I vivisect her, she’ll do me no harm
So I’ll fuck her tail and rip her tits away.
Then pussy and I very redly will play.”
He sniffed again and licked her rich daddy’s blood off the blade of the straight razor. “One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve,” he sang in a cadence familiar to anyone who had grown up with public television. “Ready or not, here I come, princess.”
Fresno opened the closet door
Shane Davis saved the chapter and closed his word processor. He stretched, rubbing his hands behind his neck to work out the kink and then around to massage his jaw, which ached from hours of being set in Fresno Blue’s trademark killing leer. It was a bad writing habit he couldn’t shake, just like talking to himself in Fresno’s voice when stuck on his dialogue.
He’d done ten pages this morning, which wasn’t bad, especially for a Saturday. It wasn’t great, not his usual fifteen-page count, but given how sick he was of writing Fresno, it wasn’t bad at all. There were days—more and more days recently—when he couldn’t face opening the files and forcing himself back into the head of his psychopathic sex-spree killer, whose only goal in life seemed to be the single-handed depopulation the United States, one raped torture victim at a time. On those days, he wrote very fluffy gay romance as S. W. Davis, or edited for pay.
Fresno Blue was very popular. He’d bought Shane the late-model Ford sedan, the Victorian house in the historic district and a secure old age. His depredations had filled the house with nice antiques, comfortable furniture, lots of books and real art. In contrast, while Shane’s lover, Victor, wrote the occasional book under the “publish or perish” dictum that governed his tenure, he seldom sold more than a few thousand copies, all to college libraries. Victor’s teaching paid the utilities and bought groceries, as well as keeping Victor’s ancient Volvo running.
Shane realized he missed Victor, who had spent the whole of the university fall break puttering around in preparation for Halloween. Shane indulged his lover, paying for all that he needed, amused at all the work he was putting in for such a minor holiday. Victor spent days preparing the pathway back to the garden shed, and more time cleaning the shed itself.
Papier-mâché pillars now lined the shed and contact-paper-covered obelisks marked the path from the drive to the shed. A hieroglyph-encrusted Styrofoam archway at the driveway pointed trick-or-treaters back that way. A second arch, this one with great statues of pharaohs, altered the shed into an Egyptian tomb straight out of the Valley of the Kings.
The musty, spider-ridden interior of the shed had become an immaculate, elaborate burial chamber filled with cardboard grave-goods and painted hieroglyphics, smelling of cassia, hyssop and incense. Sconces lit the painted walls, highlighting the picture-writing, and even Shane had to admit he was impressed with it. Victor had a fine artistic flair when he wanted it.
A wooden sarcophagus, now covered in yet more carved and painted foam and foil to look like stone and gold, stood waiting in the center of the shed. Shane didn’t look forward to spending Halloween lying flat on his back inside it. But for Victor he would.
He stood and stretched, only to smile as Victor came in. He watched his lover, enjoying the sight of Victor’s slim, elegant body, still carrying the musty air of tweed and old books of the Williams’ Boston Brahman heritage, even in the deceptive warmth of October far below the Mason-Dixon line.
When Victor came close, Shane drew him in for a kiss. It was long and slow and sweet, he tasted Victor, greeting him for the first time since they grumbled about chore lists over morning coffee. “All done for the day. Fresno talked for a good while.” He nuzzled into Victor’s hair, enjoying the clean smell of his lover.
Victor smiled. “That’s always good, love. I’ve gotten the grocerying finished, and—” Victor caught his breath as Shane nibbled at his neck and earlobe.
“And I got the trash out and ran the laundry. As well as the writing.” Shane chuckled when Victor gasped. “Out of words, doc?” he teased.
Needs another 40K to take it out where it should go.
The opening scene:
Fresno Blue paused at the door of the closet, sniffing deeply and very loudly. He could smell the girl’s fear: the adrenaline in her sweat and the piss in her pretty little pink panties. Fuck, he really hoped they were pink.
In a high sing-song voice, he started a grotesque parody of a nursery rhyme, ignoring the cooling blood that dripped down his arms to puddle on the hardwood floor. More, plenty more, soiled his flannel shirt.
“I love little pussy, her cunt is so warm
If I vivisect her, she’ll do me no harm
So I’ll fuck her tail and rip her tits away.
Then pussy and I very redly will play.”
He sniffed again and licked her rich daddy’s blood off the blade of the straight razor. “One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve,” he sang in a cadence familiar to anyone who had grown up with public television. “Ready or not, here I come, princess.”
Fresno opened the closet door
Shane Davis saved the chapter and closed his word processor. He stretched, rubbing his hands behind his neck to work out the kink and then around to massage his jaw, which ached from hours of being set in Fresno Blue’s trademark killing leer. It was a bad writing habit he couldn’t shake, just like talking to himself in Fresno’s voice when stuck on his dialogue.
He’d done ten pages this morning, which wasn’t bad, especially for a Saturday. It wasn’t great, not his usual fifteen-page count, but given how sick he was of writing Fresno, it wasn’t bad at all. There were days—more and more days recently—when he couldn’t face opening the files and forcing himself back into the head of his psychopathic sex-spree killer, whose only goal in life seemed to be the single-handed depopulation the United States, one raped torture victim at a time. On those days, he wrote very fluffy gay romance as S. W. Davis, or edited for pay.
Fresno Blue was very popular. He’d bought Shane the late-model Ford sedan, the Victorian house in the historic district and a secure old age. His depredations had filled the house with nice antiques, comfortable furniture, lots of books and real art. In contrast, while Shane’s lover, Victor, wrote the occasional book under the “publish or perish” dictum that governed his tenure, he seldom sold more than a few thousand copies, all to college libraries. Victor’s teaching paid the utilities and bought groceries, as well as keeping Victor’s ancient Volvo running.
Shane realized he missed Victor, who had spent the whole of the university fall break puttering around in preparation for Halloween. Shane indulged his lover, paying for all that he needed, amused at all the work he was putting in for such a minor holiday. Victor spent days preparing the pathway back to the garden shed, and more time cleaning the shed itself.
Papier-mâché pillars now lined the shed and contact-paper-covered obelisks marked the path from the drive to the shed. A hieroglyph-encrusted Styrofoam archway at the driveway pointed trick-or-treaters back that way. A second arch, this one with great statues of pharaohs, altered the shed into an Egyptian tomb straight out of the Valley of the Kings.
The musty, spider-ridden interior of the shed had become an immaculate, elaborate burial chamber filled with cardboard grave-goods and painted hieroglyphics, smelling of cassia, hyssop and incense. Sconces lit the painted walls, highlighting the picture-writing, and even Shane had to admit he was impressed with it. Victor had a fine artistic flair when he wanted it.
A wooden sarcophagus, now covered in yet more carved and painted foam and foil to look like stone and gold, stood waiting in the center of the shed. Shane didn’t look forward to spending Halloween lying flat on his back inside it. But for Victor he would.
He stood and stretched, only to smile as Victor came in. He watched his lover, enjoying the sight of Victor’s slim, elegant body, still carrying the musty air of tweed and old books of the Williams’ Boston Brahman heritage, even in the deceptive warmth of October far below the Mason-Dixon line.
When Victor came close, Shane drew him in for a kiss. It was long and slow and sweet, he tasted Victor, greeting him for the first time since they grumbled about chore lists over morning coffee. “All done for the day. Fresno talked for a good while.” He nuzzled into Victor’s hair, enjoying the clean smell of his lover.
Victor smiled. “That’s always good, love. I’ve gotten the grocerying finished, and—” Victor caught his breath as Shane nibbled at his neck and earlobe.
“And I got the trash out and ran the laundry. As well as the writing.” Shane chuckled when Victor gasped. “Out of words, doc?” he teased.
