... When caffeine is consumed past 7 o'clock at night.
I write scenes for books.
Usually about murder, or something to that effect.
Such was the case last night! My high-rev mocha had me jittery, knocked me out for a few hours, then I woke up out of my coffee-induced sleep/coma and wrote 4 paragraphs about a murder that played out in my subconscious when I woke up. At about 1 AM, give or take. Here's what I came up with:
...
The heavy, old fashioned door swings open on it's hinges quietly, revealing a tall, statuely figure in it's shadows.
Padding across the floor silently in stockinged feet, the man slowly makes his way to his destination, a large mohogany four-poster bed, the occupant, a woman, visible under the covers in the moonlight. She slumbers stretched out with one arm under her head like a painting, each careful, precise brushtroke making up the fine, high cheekbones and brow, the sharp angle of her defiant chin, the soft brown curls of her hair spilling out over the silk pillowcase.
He bends down and gently kisses her cheek, his fine brandy loving lips barely touching her flawless skin for an instant before he jerks away, as though shocked by some invisible electric current. The woman turns over in her sleep, whispers of some meaningless word playing on the edge of her rosepetal lips. His name.
Stealthily, he reaches under the fold of his dressing robe, extracting a long stiletto knife, polished blade reflecting both his frenzied, mad, yet still handsome face, along with her peacefull one. The freshly sharpened edge glints in the half-light almost hungrily, mimicing it's masters eyes. He grasps the smooth cherrywood handle tightly with his strong, calloused hand, a meeting of wood and flesh that has taken place so many times before. The same amount of times the shining blade has met blood.
Icy cold silver presses into the woman's warm, unprotected neck, the frigidity and sharpness of it causing her eyes to fly open- bloodshot grey eyes, eyes that don't want to register what is about to happen, that are struck dumb despite their obvious intelligence. They travel up the man's body, taking in the dishreveled richness with vauge, sleep disoriented recognition. Their eyes meet, grey seeing green, storm cloud seeing forest.
From his lips comes a small, sad smile, from hers, one last insignificant word. A name. His.
"James"
...
I left it just as is, leaving in my poor spelling and sentence fragments! I swear I know how to spell "vague", and the rest of those words- just not in the wee hours of the morning! Reading back on it, I sound rather drunk. I'm not. Cross my heart. Just sleep deprived.
-EQ and Spirit signing off!
P.S. I am not neurotic. I just enjoy writing dark, morbid things! And I haven't the foggiest idea where I got the name "James", especially seeing as how I don't even know a James.
P.P.S. Not sure why the rest of the text turned black... I presume the first part was black because I copied it from Open Office... I detest it when computers think they are smarter than I!
I write scenes for books.
Usually about murder, or something to that effect.
Such was the case last night! My high-rev mocha had me jittery, knocked me out for a few hours, then I woke up out of my coffee-induced sleep/coma and wrote 4 paragraphs about a murder that played out in my subconscious when I woke up. At about 1 AM, give or take. Here's what I came up with:
...
The heavy, old fashioned door swings open on it's hinges quietly, revealing a tall, statuely figure in it's shadows.
Padding across the floor silently in stockinged feet, the man slowly makes his way to his destination, a large mohogany four-poster bed, the occupant, a woman, visible under the covers in the moonlight. She slumbers stretched out with one arm under her head like a painting, each careful, precise brushtroke making up the fine, high cheekbones and brow, the sharp angle of her defiant chin, the soft brown curls of her hair spilling out over the silk pillowcase.
He bends down and gently kisses her cheek, his fine brandy loving lips barely touching her flawless skin for an instant before he jerks away, as though shocked by some invisible electric current. The woman turns over in her sleep, whispers of some meaningless word playing on the edge of her rosepetal lips. His name.
Stealthily, he reaches under the fold of his dressing robe, extracting a long stiletto knife, polished blade reflecting both his frenzied, mad, yet still handsome face, along with her peacefull one. The freshly sharpened edge glints in the half-light almost hungrily, mimicing it's masters eyes. He grasps the smooth cherrywood handle tightly with his strong, calloused hand, a meeting of wood and flesh that has taken place so many times before. The same amount of times the shining blade has met blood.
Icy cold silver presses into the woman's warm, unprotected neck, the frigidity and sharpness of it causing her eyes to fly open- bloodshot grey eyes, eyes that don't want to register what is about to happen, that are struck dumb despite their obvious intelligence. They travel up the man's body, taking in the dishreveled richness with vauge, sleep disoriented recognition. Their eyes meet, grey seeing green, storm cloud seeing forest.
From his lips comes a small, sad smile, from hers, one last insignificant word. A name. His.
"James"
...
I left it just as is, leaving in my poor spelling and sentence fragments! I swear I know how to spell "vague", and the rest of those words- just not in the wee hours of the morning! Reading back on it, I sound rather drunk. I'm not. Cross my heart. Just sleep deprived.
-EQ and Spirit signing off!
P.S. I am not neurotic. I just enjoy writing dark, morbid things! And I haven't the foggiest idea where I got the name "James", especially seeing as how I don't even know a James.
P.P.S. Not sure why the rest of the text turned black... I presume the first part was black because I copied it from Open Office... I detest it when computers think they are smarter than I!
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