Hugo was a cutie.
And now Hugo is back, because I am not done crisis-ing, and I love Hugo, and this blog is for me. Hugo will be living here, unless I change my mind, for as long as I can stand it, or until I get so much crap for it that I never want to write again. Because part of my purpose for doing this is that I am waiting for someone to tell me that I really suck. Because I am a firm believer in failing hard. It makes you reassess why you do things.
Sorry if you are here for outfit posts. But I suspect most of you are not. But in case you are, I'll only be posting written things with outfit posts (in "after-the-cut" LJ-style jumps). They'll be tagged as "hugo." (They'll also be tagged as "wordy," but that label encompasses non-writing-prompt writing-based posts too.)
Disclaimer: I will be following the prompts at Write One Leaf, very rarely will any of these be anything beyond proofread first drafts, I am keeping some of my old W1L's for certain prompts, and I won't be enforcing my Personal Challenges until after I finish 25 W1Ls, as before. If you want an idea of what kind of writer I am, you can either read my writing or take note of the fact that I think The Sound and the Fury is extremely overrated and my favorite books include Lolita, Everything Is Illuminated, Ender's Game, Dubliners, and The Golden Compass.
(P. S. I like most feedback. "Cool story bro" or "I stopped reading after the first paragraph" are great. "You suck" is not, unless it's followed by "because the second-to-last sentence is awkwardly constructed.")
Here's an expensive necklace:
Above, Oscar de la Renta Coquellage Necklace, $545 at Neiman MarcusAnd this post will be... the only exception to the outfit rule, assuming this jump works as I expect it to.
W1L 001: Write one leaf about starting something new.
Like the original fill I wrote for the first prompt, this one explains why I am following these prompts at all. It also has to do with my Joseph Gordon-Levitt/Crazy Cliff.
As she descended into the darkness, she closed her eyes and let the dull sound of her soles striking the limestone underfoot carry her downward toward the unknown like a siren song, soothing, lulling in its gentle unwavering tempo.
She faltered when the next step did not meet her foot halfway, her eyes flickering beneath their lids. She stood balanced, one foot on solid ground, the other poised in hesitant expectation, and for a moment she was still. Then she lowered her foot experimentally, blindly seeking purchase on the next step that she believed must have been unevenly hewn but was surely in reach, but felt nothing.
Pressing her palms to her eyes, she swung her other foot forward.
Her plummeting body was consumed by darkness, tearing through the air like a disused marionette, and with the wind rushing past, cold and thunderous, whipping her hair above her in a parody of grace, her fingers became unfeeling and her ears deaf beyond the wall of noise defining her journey.
The darkness took her, its heartbeat live and shallow and rapid like a lover pressed to her ear, pounding at her temples and coursing through her blood, pulse by suffocating pulse. She laughed into the darkness, because at least she could hear this and feel this, and with an obliging and elegant gesture, the darkness unhanded her.
Her hair and skirt billowed about her as if suspended in water.
“I seem to have misplaced my glasses,” said an old man drifting beside her. “I can’t see a thing. Can you?”
“I see nothing,” she said.
“But what do you see when you open your eyes?” he said.
She removed her hands from her face opened her eyes, but the darkness was thick and impenetrable. “I see nothing,” she said. “Not even you.”
“What do you hear?” he said.
She said, “I hear you, and then nothing.”
“But what do you hear when I am not here?” he said.
“I hear – ” she began, but the darkness enveloped her, drew the words from her lips and cast them to the wind like burning tatters of paper. Her lips grew cold, then numb, and she felt nothing as she fell in silence.
She was jolted into consciousness by the unsettling sensation of having been plunging to her death, only to find her face smothered in her blanket and her alarm not due for another hour and a half. It was still too early to be decent, but she thought she should shower now to avoid bathroom traffic when her roommate woke up.
Cowering at one end of the bathtub, she stood clutching herself until the water ran hot enough to turn on the showerhead. She stood in silence as the blue retreated from her toes and feet, and on this still-dark morning, she wept because she could not grieve.
W1L 001: Write one leaf about starting something new.
Like the original fill I wrote for the first prompt, this one explains why I am following these prompts at all. It also has to do with my Joseph Gordon-Levitt/Crazy Cliff.
As she descended into the darkness, she closed her eyes and let the dull sound of her soles striking the limestone underfoot carry her downward toward the unknown like a siren song, soothing, lulling in its gentle unwavering tempo.
She faltered when the next step did not meet her foot halfway, her eyes flickering beneath their lids. She stood balanced, one foot on solid ground, the other poised in hesitant expectation, and for a moment she was still. Then she lowered her foot experimentally, blindly seeking purchase on the next step that she believed must have been unevenly hewn but was surely in reach, but felt nothing.
Pressing her palms to her eyes, she swung her other foot forward.
Her plummeting body was consumed by darkness, tearing through the air like a disused marionette, and with the wind rushing past, cold and thunderous, whipping her hair above her in a parody of grace, her fingers became unfeeling and her ears deaf beyond the wall of noise defining her journey.
The darkness took her, its heartbeat live and shallow and rapid like a lover pressed to her ear, pounding at her temples and coursing through her blood, pulse by suffocating pulse. She laughed into the darkness, because at least she could hear this and feel this, and with an obliging and elegant gesture, the darkness unhanded her.
Her hair and skirt billowed about her as if suspended in water.
“I seem to have misplaced my glasses,” said an old man drifting beside her. “I can’t see a thing. Can you?”
“I see nothing,” she said.
“But what do you see when you open your eyes?” he said.
She removed her hands from her face opened her eyes, but the darkness was thick and impenetrable. “I see nothing,” she said. “Not even you.”
“What do you hear?” he said.
She said, “I hear you, and then nothing.”
“But what do you hear when I am not here?” he said.
“I hear – ” she began, but the darkness enveloped her, drew the words from her lips and cast them to the wind like burning tatters of paper. Her lips grew cold, then numb, and she felt nothing as she fell in silence.
She was jolted into consciousness by the unsettling sensation of having been plunging to her death, only to find her face smothered in her blanket and her alarm not due for another hour and a half. It was still too early to be decent, but she thought she should shower now to avoid bathroom traffic when her roommate woke up.
Cowering at one end of the bathtub, she stood clutching herself until the water ran hot enough to turn on the showerhead. She stood in silence as the blue retreated from her toes and feet, and on this still-dark morning, she wept because she could not grieve.
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