It's like a forehead flick.

Annoying tic.

Blitzquik, is that what it was called? Batter running down my face and almost on my sweetly-ironed shirt. You bastard, it's your workload at the end of the day and am I okay, no because there's a red light and-

Road rage. Red is rage, red is stop and go ahead and a bitten tongue with spots of saliva that do not know where they become clear because they are-

Starwhite. Not starlight, star white, because that dwarf is dying, exploding like pleasure at the pit of the chest and a heart burning with intense pink love and why is there a

Rainbow. Pleasure rainbow, acceptance rainbow made of blue and lies and why do people claim to accept everything when they push the other group aside because their pain is more important. Like the blue, blue sky which is grey

Because the rain won't go away and neither will the bloody murder from a smirk of a blond-haired brother and a messy forehead flick.

Dearly Beloved

A song of mourning, meant for singing, drinking, dancing. Or is it really? Isn't it more of a peaceful song, a lullaby for a baby, a sweet thing like a light ice cream?

I wonder.

That brings me to my next idea. Do most people listen to music while they write? I do, I love it. I tend to use instrumentals when I'm actually writing and vocal pieces are better for when I'm editing. They each let the words flow out differently. Though sometimes it can't be helped when your iPod is on shuffle and certain things just happen.

I find instrumentals good for drafting a piece because they tend to be less distracting from what's already trying to be said. I'd rather just let the writing speak for itself. Vocal pieces influence how I'm typing (and sometimes WHAT I am typing) which is rather inconvenient.

Vocal pieces are good for editing, at least to me, because they influence it. They help to think of new words or turns of phrase and all of that. Thinking of it like that, I guess it would be more useful to listen to vocal music while revising, not editing. They are not the same thing.

Some people can't do either though. They need this incredible complete silence or they can't focus.

That does make me wonder... why do people think talking while someone is writing is good? Every writer I've talked to gets furious whenever someone is trying to hold a conversation. I agree with them there, it's infuriating. One or the other guys. Pick one.

Fantastical-Character muse

A red-rimmed eye, blackened sky.

I hate rhymes.

I hate old language spoken in rough voices. It sounds splintered, brittle. It's the rock that sinks instead of skips, the roughness of the raw carrot that takes your tooth.

Heavy tome, musty smells, the library has all that it could have but it doesn't. There is no more excited laughter, none of the giggling of slipping silkworms into book covers and making a book dance with a gust of wind. There's too much peace and quiet, barring the sound of clashing metal and wood below her ears. It's cold in the library, making the musk burn her nose.

The whine is louder now that she's turned the page.

"You don't like it when I read here, alone?"

Another whine, and she closes the book to stroke behind the creature's ears. "You're a sweet child, to worry. But we all need the peace."

He licks her palms, eager, loving, placing his head in her small lap like it's the only thing he has ever needed in his life.

She smiles. "You can be such a naughty child too."

The wolf merely snuffles, not even despondent, just seemingly content with the fact that her hands were on his head, and he had her attention. It was almost cute, in a solemn sort of way. She continues to stroke his fur, humming a nursery tune. There is a loud shout from below and she looks to see a broadsword soar to stick into the earth. Someone laughs, another panics, and her wolf sniffs.

"I can't take you seriously when you look like that."

Cain whines and she laughs a girlish laugh, tweaking his snout. "Behave and I'll read to you." He curls at her feet, and she lowers herself from the chair to rest against his fur. Like that, they sit until it's too dark to see and someone finds them sleeping with the light of a candle.