oracne - Victoria Janssen (oracne) wrote,
oracne - Victoria Janssen
oracne

The first lines of works in progress. Some of these have been sitting for years.



A WWI thing, not for the new novel unless I can find a way to include it:
Rain was fogging up his specs and Max Carter couldn't see what he was writing. He gave up and took them off, shoving them into an inner pocket of his coat. "Go on," he said, though it hardly seemed necessary. This particular Tommy Atkins had not stopped to breathe since Max had fallen into his trench two hours ago.

"He was mangled I tell you, mangled like dogs had been at him," the soldier said, with relish. Another shell exploded, high above, and for a moment Max could see the white page of his notebook clear as day--clear as a day when he wasn't wearing his specs, anyway. His pencilled notes seemed to be holding up to the wet, though he supposed it didn't matter much; he had a sinking feeling this story would be censored.

First, though, he had to get the story. He could worry about the censors later. "Had--had he been blown apart?" Max asked, trying not to think about his question too hard. What was he doing out here, anyway, Four-eyes Carter, sliding around in the mud with the Heroes of the British Empire? He hadn't yet seen a corpse that had been blown apart, and frankly, he didn't want to.

"No, no," the Tommy explained patiently. "This fellow I found, there wasn't a shell had been near him. Something had gnawed him up proper. Wild dogs maybe. There are some here."

"Yeah, and Fritzie likes 'em cooked up!" called a voice from behind Max's shoulder. There were at least thirty men here, all of them so ripe that Max would have been able to scent them a rifle shot away. The idea of eating anything at all in that atmosphere turned his stomach, but he supposed one got used to it or died. He was planning to be out of here by morning, back at the safe distance foreign journalists were supposed to keep from the lines, however rear those lines might be. And if he wanted to get anywhere, he had to get Mr. Chatterbox to move along. "So maybe dogs had gotten at his body," he prompted. "And then you found it? The--thing you found?"


The River Land:
Imperial masters never scarred their slaves if they could help it, but beating with a rod instead of a flail didn't hurt the victim any less.

"The Forest People":
Kesi would gladly have exchanged every iota of her magic to be allowed to travel forever. It was a pity she could only go as far as the forest and her mother. Also that she had to be accompanied by her father Bapoto and her brother, Jelani. Jelani was no fun. He thought of nothing but spells to keep off grain mildew and didn't talk about much else, either, saying it was good for her. Her father had not let her magic drills slip, not even for a day, no matter how often she tried to explain she did not want to be a mage and soon it wouldn't matter if she trained or not, because she was going to become a caravaneer. With her own string of camels.

"Free Cell":
We played a game, Octavius and I, but while we played he didn't know it was a game.

Untitled smutty thing:
I came home early one day and found out my girlfriend Amber was having some fun on her day off.

Baseball story:
She likes old men. Their skin is thin and soft to the touch, like a crumpled, featherlight silk scarf, their bodies dry and light, like winter leaves. Their eyes are wise and bright with longing.

"Hoochie Mama":
The first time I saw you, you caught my eye. You wore a red dress that clung to everything, with a frill on the bottom that flipped flirtatiously from side to side as you gyrated to the Department of Spanish’s idea of party music, every part a moving part, from deep cleavage that looked soft as fresh white bread to an ass that would fill my hands and then some, an ass that vibrated like your breasts with each swing and rotation of your opulent hips. And your belly: that dress left little to my imagination so I imagined myself pillowed on your soft belly, my face buried in your bosom while my hips thrust deep into your lush warmth and you threw your wild red hair as you did now to reverberating drums and guitars.

tentative title "Like a Whale":
Juliette stared up at the ceiling. Her belly full of twins blocked the television at the foot of the bed unless she bent her neck at a ninety-degree angle.

"Telepath":
Telepathic sex isn't all it's cracked up to be. You'd think, from reading science fiction, that it would be the best, you know? Somebody getting inside your brain and giving it a good blow job, while you did the same for them and you both--or you all--some of that sci-fi is really kinky--felt each other's pleasure, and knowing how well you were doing would jack everything up exponentially, and pretty soon you'd be exploding.

another miscellaneous smutty thing:
You crouch on the futon in your fourth floor walkup hovel, poring over messages like they're drug warning labels. Everyone else you know prowls for sex online but that's too sterile for you: little keys going click click click, plastic and institutional carpet. Photoshopped digital pictures and coy MIDI greetings are masks you scorn.

"Golem":
Elama studied the Torah with her father, and she went to a man in the desert and studied magic, but she finally settled on electrical engineering because she could make good money doing that and make a good marriage because her classes would be full of eligible candidates. By the time she was near graduation, though, she'd finally realized that she was a lesbian and wasn't going to marry a man any time soon, if ever. It depended on what her parents thought about having a grandchild come out of a turkey baster.

There're a couple of other things that are farther along. I'm pretty much discarding the first draft chapter I had, since the book is going in a different direction now that someone with money wants it.


Tags: writing progress
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