one of those days when the hat doesn't help

Title: Unfogging the Future
Author: harktislark
Summary: Divining the future is an imprecise art, but Lily and Severus make the most of their tea leaves.
Word Count: 2,843
Rating: PG
Characters: Snape, Lily (with brief cameos by Petunia, James, and Remus)
Disclaimer: JKR owns Harry Potter.
Notes: Much adoration for riversofthree, my lovely beta. Also, this site and this site were used as references. Originally posted at less_for_you for the Halloween challenge (prompt: "autumn").

The cup’s halfway to Lily’s mouth, burnished silver in her little, pale hand, when she sets it down.

Motor Oil Rainbows by deathjunke

Summary:
She purrs under me whenever I straddle her and I almost crashed her twice because the speed, vibration and adrenaline rush got me off. Having an orgasm and keeping a motorcycle upright is hard as hell. I’ll tell you that
Sirius/motorcycle, Sirius/Remus

Warnings:
AU, Slash, Cross dressing, and other things to be added. Rated at pg-16 for now
PS this has never been seen by a beta. Seeing as how this fic was a 'failed' rs_games fic i wrote and was going to be scrapped.

Motor Oil Rainbows by deathjunke

Summary:
She purrs under me whenever I straddle her and I almost crashed her twice because the speed, vibration and adrenaline rush got me off. Having an orgasm and keeping a motorcycle upright is hard as hell. I’ll tell you that
Sirius/motorcycle, Sirius/Remus

Warnings:
AU, Slash, Cross dressing, and other things to be added. Rated at pg-16 for now
PS this has never been seen by a beta. Seeing as how this fic was a 'failed' rs_games fic i wrote and was going to be scrapped.

The diet worked like a dream. No sugar,
salt, dairy, fat, protein, starch or alcohol.
By the end of week one, she was half a stone
shy of ten and shrinking, skipping breakfast,
lunch, dinner, thinner; a fortnight in, she was
eight stone; by the end of the month, she was skin
and bone.

She starved on, stayed in, stared in
the mirror, svelter, slimmer. The last apple
aged in the fruit bowl, untouched. The skimmed milk
soured in the fridge, unsupped. Her skeleton preened
under its tight flesh dress. She was all eyes,
all cheekbones, had guns for hips. Not a stitch
in the wardrobe fitted.

What passed her lips? Air,
water. She was Anorexia's true daughter, a slip
of a girl, a shadow, dwindling away. One day,
the width of a stick, she started to grow smaller - ~
child-sized, doll-sized, the height of a thimble.
She sat at her open window and the wind
blew her away.

Seed small, she was out and about,
looking for home. An empty beer bottle rolled
in the gutter. She crawled in, got drunk on the dregs,
started to sing, down, out, nobody's love. Tiny others
joined in. They raved all night. She woke alone,
head splitting, mouth dry, hungry and cold, and made
for the light.

Tonight
your body shook,
hurling your nightmares
back to Cambodia.

Your nightgown wisped off
into Ursula Minor.

I was left here on earth feeling alone,
paranoid about the Rapture.

Tonight
I think it is safe to say we drank too much.
Must I apologize for the volume in my slobber?
Must I apologize for the best dance moves ever?
No.

Booze is my tuition to clown college.

I swung at your purse.
It was staring at me.

We swerved home on black laughter.
bleeding from forgettable boxing.

I asked you to sleep in the shape of a trench
so that I might know shelter.

I drew the word surrender in the mist of your breath,
waving a white sheet around your body.

‘Dear, in the morning let me put on your make-up for you.
I’ll be loading your gems with mascara
then I’ll tell you the truth…’

I watched black ropes and tears ramble down your face.

Lady war paint.

A squad of tiny men rappels down those snaking lines
and you say;
“Thank you for releasing all those fuckers from my life.”

You have a daily pill case.
There are no pills inside.
It holds the ashes of people who died

…the moment they saw you.

The cinema we built was to play the greats
but we could never afford the power
so in the dark cinema
you painted pictures of Kurosawa.

I just stared at you like Orson Welles,
getting fat off your style.

You are a movie that keeps exploding.
You are Dante’s fireplace.

We were so broke,
I’d pour tap water into your mouth,
burp against your lips
so you could have champagne.

You love champagne.

Sparring in the candlelight.

Listen—
the mathematical equivalent of a woman’s beauty
is directly relational
to the amount or degree
other women hate her.

You, dear, are hated.

Your boots are a soundtrack to adultery.
Thank God your feet fall in the rhythm of loyalty.

If this kills me,
slice me julienne
uncurl my veins
and fashion yourself a noose
so I can hold you
once more.

"Because I Don't Know"
May Swenson

Because I don’t know you, I love you:
warm cheeks, full lips, rich smile,
dark irises that slide to the side,
thick lashes, thick hair, gleaming
teeth and eyes, your hand in greeting
warmer than mine, wider in blue shirt,
rolled sleeves, in dark jeans belted –
I liked your robust shoulders, wide neck and
tipped-up chin. That glow is blood
under skin that’s warm to begin with,
almost dusky, the red showing
through—of health, of youth—but more:
your open, welcome, I-could-hug-you look.
We met once or twice, exchanged smiles:
your lips curl-cornered to my thin,
crooked grin; your easy, laughing eyes
to my sharp star. Did it pierce you
there, my look of hunger, like a hook?
I wanted only a sniff, a tongue-tip’s
taste, a moment’s bath in your rare
warmth. That last night, trading
goodbyes, when we kissed—or you did, me—
my hand took your nape, plunged under
the thick spill of your hair. Then
I stepped into the dark, out of the light
of the party, the screen door’s yellow
square sliding smaller and smaller behind
me. You’ve become a dream of ripe
raspberries, in summer country: deep, dark
red lip, clean, gleaming generous smile.
Who owns you? I don’t know. I’ll hide you
away in my dream file. Stay there. Don’t
change. I don’t know you—and had better
no. Because I don’t know you, I love you.

"83%"
Ronna Bloom

My old love comes to my door
and my heart doesn’t pound.
Though I am happy.

83% happy.

Like the Mona Lisa.

title: I Like It Rough!
author: mariposa_sabrosa (linklink)
characters: Remus&Sirius
rating: T and maybe later M
chapters: seven, so far
warnings: non-graphic slash, language, generally mature themes, spoilers for book 3 and 5
era: pre-Harry, marauders-at-Hogwarts
status: incomplete/ongoing
summary: don't let the title mislead you, it isn't a smut piece. being alive is rough. even in a magical world like Hogwarts, there's still things you 'can't do,' powerful forces we can't accept within ourselves. exploratory, questioning fic about growing up and sticking together.

link to ch. 1: ...like chewing on pearls

title taken from Lady GaGa :D

Title: Remus Lupin and the Possibility of Snow White's Face Being Marred Beyond All Reason.
Author: i_dreadtothink
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Rating: R overall
Word Count: 1752/??
Genre: Humor/Romance
Chapter: 2/??
Summary: Or, why Remus Lupin punched Sirius Black in the face.
Warnings: LOTS of swearing, Quills being harmed, more angst, Sirius being a tease
Notes:I'm having so much fun with this. So. Much. Fun. I have a LOT planned. Enjoy! :)
Disclaimer: Not mine.

In Which Remus Lupin Breaks His Quill and Sirius Black is Steve Irwin

"Letter Home"
Ellen Steinbaum

I love you forever
my father's letter tells her
for forty-nine pages,
from the troopship crossing the Atlantic
before they'd ever heard of Anzio.

He misses her, the letter says,
counting out days of boredom, seasickness,
and changing weather,
poker games played for matches
when cash and cigarettes ran out,
a Red Cross package--soap,
cards, a mystery book he traded away
for The Rubaiyyat a bunkmate didn't want.
He stood night watch and thought
of her. Don't forget the payment
for insurance, he says.

My mother waits at home with me,
waits for the letter he writes day by day
moving farther across the ravenous ocean.
She will get it in three months and
her fingers will smooth the Army stationery
to suede.

He will come home, stand
beside her in the photograph, leaning
on crutches, holding
me against the rough wool
of his jacket. He will sit
alone and listen to Aïda

and they will pick up their
interrupted lives. Years later,
she will show her grandchildren
a yellow envelope with
forty-nine wilted pages telling her

of shimmering sequins on the water,
the moonlight catching sudden phosphorescence,
the churned wake that stretched a silver trail.

At 12 years old I started bleeding with the moon
and beating up boys who dreamed of becoming astronauts.
I fought with my knuckles white as stars,
and left bruises the shape of Salem.
There are things we know by heart,
and things we don't.

At 13 my friend Jen tried to teach me how to blow rings of smoke.
I'd watch the nicotine rising from her lips like halos,
but I could never make dying beautiful.
The sky didn't fill with colors the night I convinced myself
veins are kite strings you can only cut free.
I suppose I love this life,

in spite of my clenched fist.

I open my palm and my lifelines look like branches from an Aspen tree,
and there are songbirds perched on the tips of my fingers,
and I wonder if Beethoven held his breath
the first time his fingers touched the keys
the same way a soldier holds his breath
the first time his finger clicks the trigger.
We all have different reasons for forgetting to breathe.

( cont. )

HERE DEAD WE LIE

Here dead we lie
Because we did not choose
To live and shame the land
From which we sprung.
Life, to be sure,
Is nothing much to lose,
But young men think it is,
And we were young.


-- A E Housman

A brief flash of infinity
Cold hard concrete -- reality
Wind lashes face
Rasps and Howls
Dark elfin creatures
Trodden down
And I see now, leaving this gloom
Upon the Summit, the bright blue moon.

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Title: Remus Lupin and the Possibility of Snow White's Face Being Marred Beyond All Reason.
Author: i_dreadtothink
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Rating: R overall. PG-13 this part.
Word Count: 991/???
Genre: Humor/Romance
Chapter: 1/??
Summary: Or, why Remus Lupin punched Sirius Black in the face.
Warnings: Swearing, brief sexual content and implied sex, teenage angst, incoherent thoughts, overall ridiculousness.
Notes: Normally, I'm not a fan of Gryffinwhore!Sirius...but in this case, I was glad to toss aside my usual idea of Sirius for this fic. :)
Disclaimer: DO NOT OWN!!! D:

The First Journal Entry: In Which Remus Lupin Refers to Himself in the Third Person.

( You are about to view content that may not be appropriate for minors. )

"Everyone is Afraid of Something"
Dannye Romine Powell

Once I was afraid of ghosts, of the dark,
of climbing down from the highest
limb of the backyard oak. Now I'm afraid

my son will die alone in his apartment.
I'm afraid when I break down the door,
I'll find him among the empties-bloated,
discolored, his face a stranger's face.

My granddaughter is afraid of blood
and spider webs and of messing up.
Also bees. Especially bees. Everyone,
she says, is afraid of something.

Another fear of mine: that it will fall to me
to tell this child her father is dead.

Perhaps I should begin today stringing
her a necklace of bees. When they sting
and welts quilt her face, when her lips
whiten and swell, I'll take her
by the shoulders. Child, listen to me.
One day, you'll see. These stings
Are nothing. Nothing at all.

Black Iron Cage & miracles contained
us, projected the Holiest Mirror,

itself in the self-consciousness
of joy represents the spark

our own Godhood. Because Goddess is & the
entire panorama of world, all enemies

& joys & gods everything, the entire multiverse,
& we're a minuscule projection discovering,

is the strange rarity of the material suffering
to discover how wonderful & how terrible

for a tiny moment the tiniest particle, that which
inside us would in accordance with divine mathematics

Your hair contains an entire dream full of sails and masts. 

 

When I gnaw on your rebellious sea hair, it is as if I am eating memories, happiness espoused to water.

 

At the start of your tawny tentacles, follicles give way to the soft matter of your brain.  Your hair is the arm of your brain. 

 

I saw two foxes on my way through your hair yesterday. Something was in the air; the animals were stir-crazy.  Hundreds of geese were circling the pond.