Update and Stories that runaway from me.

Not a whole lot has been going on more than the normal mundane bullshit. I finished watching season one of Sawyer... oh excuse me, of Lost on DVD. Quite entertaining, although a bit of the awe has been rubbed away--hopefully they bring it back in season two. Timberlake is bringing back SEXY (as if Sawyer ever went out of style) and LOST is bringing back AWE.

I also wrote a few more pages on book 2.. woohoo!

This is an experiment with poetic description that got out of hand. I had no expectations of where this story was going to go. I simply thought of an image of something soft floating in the water and how to describe its beauty. And like most things I do, it got away from me.
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Floating on the time of yesterday, the honeyed locks beat against the waves of today in vain. Despite the gentle back and forth swaying, she was not going anywhere. A horrific beauty, not unlike a Portuguese Manowar jellyfish, assaulted him. He had seen her in this position many times, but she never appeared so angelic before. The rounding of her normally sharp features created a serene being where before there was a calculating hardness in her countenance—narcissism.

The warmth of the sunlight was not needed. His blood was already rising in temperature from the spectacle below him. The tightening of his nether regions didn’t startle him. No, he had expected this reaction—eagerly anticipated it. He wanted to fill in the blanks her expression left, fill it with his own release. Sexual need swarmed him, relentless on its pursuit.

He wanted more time to enjoy this, he had created a masterpiece. He had carefully arranged her, just so. Pulling the rope tied to her neck, her body created a small wake behind her as she glided toward him. Taking the tennis ball out of her mouth, her cavity greeted him with a delicious openness. Her expression, now slightly shocked, amused him, invited him in. He would replace her conceit with his completion.

Little did she know, he had planned this from the beginning. The minute she had talked to him about working on her new project—he knew. This was his chance. For greatness.

After drying his hands on her towel, he snapped pictures with his Polaroid. He would ruin this art he created, but he wanted—no needed—a record of it. He needed to recreate this exhibition for the camera next week, although she would no longer be the actress he was using. For she was one mouthful shy of being all used up.