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Look what I found,

Mrs. Ross finally got my Farm Writings back to me and my goodness am I fond of some of them. Not so much about others, but, you know.

So this one is not so much with the publishing at the gallery opening, for definite, because it is kind of a fanfiction. By which I mean it is a fanfiction. But I like enough to at least post it here... aaaand ideally use it as a jumping-off point for something more like real fic and less like a discourse on the subject. :/

So so so I am nervous about this. Because this is technically my first fic. I've started millions of others, but this is really the only one I've ever, like... finished. For a given value of finished. Um.

So it's RosnGuil. RaGAD. Guildenstern's POV, takes place on the boat to England. LOL SPOILERS >>. Doesn't really count as slash imho, but maybe you will think so. My Jesus, all I want to do is write RosnGuil porn, I really do; there is just not enough existential porn in the world. Mmyep. Also rampant abuse of italics.

My God, this is a flawed piece. My excuse is it's in the works. Concrit= I will adore you eternally.

Bah, enough. Here you are.

He’s never felt this alone before.
    The other is just there across the cabin, but he is like the dead: unseeing, unhearing, and rocked to sleep by the ocean.
    “All I ever,” he begins, but purses his mouth closed because, God, all he’d ever wanted has never, will never matter, and he’s so small.
    He thinks ‘It has been written.’
    –Written and sealed, in fact, with the heat of a candle and the press of a coin.
    He weighs the gold in his hands and wants dearly to sob and rage and wants it to mean something, but this coin is stuck on heads over and over again, no matter what because it is written.
    Trapped and alone—flipped and flipped and flipped—and it’s always heads. The outcome was decided at the beginning of the universe and written in stone or air or atoms or into the human mind; inexorable.  
    “God,” he says “God is an improbable event,” because he wants to say something no one’s ever said; to escape the Order, the Plan, plodding ever onwards, steady like the ocean.
    He thinks of black water and wonders what it will be like to die, but mostly only wishes his thoughts were his own, or that he could do something, but it’s heads every time and it has been written.
    He wants to be held, like a child or a lover, wants to tear the blindfold, the earplugs from the other and tear him from soft sleep and soft dreams and the predestined rock of the waves on the hull. Just be with me, he thinks, just touch me and let me close my eyes—I don’t want to be alone with, with this, in this—I hate it, all of—God, God, aren’t you scared, aren’t you frightened? Please, be frightened; please don’t leave me all alone—I’m going to die, why have you left me, why is this happening

    And the sea breathes “hush, hush,” only to become “heads, heads,” endlessly.
    He thinks that the ocean has been predicting the outcome of coin flips for ages and ages before men or coins or idle games.



Mar. 4th, 2010 04:50 am (UTC)
I miss rping too! I'm actually online a lot - slow, but online :) So if you're ever on feel free to message me!

Perhaps we should try starting Wittenberg up again? Maybe expand it to a Shakespeare multiverse or something.


words in the heart
I, I, I, I should listen to the broadcast

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

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