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Title: Chasing Starlight
Rating: G
WC: 771

Summary: Sakura copes with being left behind.

Notes: Several years ago, I was going to write a Sakura-centric fic about what happened to her during the time skip, and I started this story. It would have involved her adventures talking to comatose Jiro, and then one day he'd wake up and sort of mentor her (along with Tsunade). Then I fell into other fandoms. When I might have come back to it, TW happened to me sooooo.

I could have sworn that I posted it, but nope. I didn't, so here you go.

Read more... )


Jan. 11th, 2017 04:12 am
malapropian: (ampersand)
Ha, so I haven't talked here in forever. And I've been sort of ignoring the Naruto fandom while I licked my wounds over my ex partner cheating on me with a cosplayer of some notoriety. (And even though my ex is aware of this journal, I hope that they've got better things to do than read my personal shit.)

Then I tumbled into MCU and Hobbit and finally Teen Wolf in 2014... where I wrote almost 170k over the last two years. Who knew I had that in me? Definitely not me.

So over the last few years, I've written a lot, made friends, lost friends, started drama, moved houses, and gotten engaged to someone wonderful. (And I'm working on some personal things like changing my name and presenting as male, so there's that.)

It was sort of on a lark that I decided to finally post what I had of that old kakasaku apocafic. When I checked out the old comms, there hadn't been activity in forever. But I should have had faith. :P When I looked today, there were posts! It's a shame that I'm too late to do the LFS challenge, but ah well.

Hmm. I guess in a few minutes, I'll crosspost my Naruto fics here... for no one to find because who the fuck uses DW anymore?
Well. I've done things! Stuff. I've posted 33.8k words of fic on ao3. None of it is for Naruto. I am a sham.

But I've done a bit on the apoca-fic. Yeah yeah. I know. Trust me. Three fucking years it's sat around. I want it finished more than anybody at this point. (I think I'm the only person who remembers it).


This is my ao3. I write a lot of problematic shit and rarepairs for Teen Wolf. Fight me. (No, really. Please don't. I've only ever had one fight in my comments, and that's how I learned about the magical line of acceptable and unacceptable underage).

I'm alive!

Nov. 19th, 2014 04:08 am
malapropian: (Default)
And somehow I have rediscovered some love for Naruto.

I've been writing a lot of Steter (teen wolf tv), but they're all WIPs... but so are my Naruto fics?



This is the important part. I did some writing on the Kakasaku Apocalypse AU! I know. I'm talking crazy, but it happened. I won't promise it'll be finished soon, but I've been writing this maybe 2k story for 3 years. It's not like a few months will make much of a difference.
Remember that post-apocalypse KakaSaku thing I've been trying to finish for two years? (It's not even that long).

Well. Maybe I have another idea. For another post-apocalypse story. It may or may not have things in common with The Road. It may or may not have Yamato/Tenzo.

Why am I doing this to myself? I need to actually finish something before starting new and exciting projects.

But ugh. Sakura living in the forest by herself. Sakura reuniting with a half-dead Kakashi when she's 14. (She totally manages to save his life with the barely there training she had before the world went to shit). Sakura and Kakashi find Yamato on a supply run a few years later. Kakashi is shocked and sort of happy to see someone he knows who doesn't want to kill him, so he has to talk down an over-protective, slightly feral Sakura from murdering Yamato and taking all his stuff. Maybe once Yamato is over the attempted murder, he makes them a house with beds. Then after a lot of careful circling each other and awkward attempts to express their stunted emotions, they have the happiest ever after possible in the end of the world with dwindling resources and almost no live people. But a cabin! Furniture! Ninja dogs! Threesomes!

Sweet baby Jesus. I will never finish this. I'm not even sure that I'm starting this. /despair

Why are people letting me make blog posts at 5am? I don't even know if I managed to English up there. Send help.

(no subject)

Feb. 4th, 2014 06:06 am
malapropian: (Default)

The past four months have been busy and weird. That's about all I have to say about it right now.
So there are versions of this. I wonder if there are more. I guess I should check his website.

When she gives up on you,

ask a friend to hide all the knives not because
you will attempt suicide—you know
too much to kill yourself—but because
you will carve her name into all of the food
in your refrigerator. Draw her
in your family photos. You cannot draw,
so you will draw stick figures into all of your
family photos. Your dinner plates
will smell like her so you will not eat
and this will make your friends believe
you are anorexic. You will wonder
if maybe that would have made her stay.
Four times you will start to burn her
just-in-case clothes that are still
in your dresser. Sew a quilt
from those clothes, the ones
she abandoned to awkwardness. You will sleep
under the quilt only when it is above
eighty-five degrees and it will
make you sweat like her legs
thrown over your waking body.
Open the windows because she would have
wanted them closed. Turn off the radio;
she cannot sleep without noise. You cannot sleep
without noise, but noise
will sound like her whispering you into the world
of lights and breakfast. Make the rain
sound like nothing. Make the rain
sound nothing like her voice. Stop scratching:
relief will remind you of her. You will stop washing
your sheets because Saturday
was laundry day. When it is dark
it is easier to remember her so you will not
pay your power bill. Sit there
in the empty and tell yourself
in second person what you know
is going to happen.

~ Neil Hilborn

When your fourth love leaves you, you will want to kill yourself
but you won’t because you no longer think of suicide as a house
you will build one day. Your fourth love, your first real love,
who brought you peace when your whole body was a gun, when she leaves
you, stop showering. Warmth and relief will remind you of her. Masturbate
in public. Hope someone catches you just so you can
feel exposed in front of anyone else. At night, open all your windows:
the hum of the city will sound like her in the next room. When
it’s dark, it is easier to remember her, so don’t
pay your power bill. Sit there in the empty
and lie to yourself. Tell yourself it’s better.
It’s better that she’s gone.

~ Neil Hilborn
For the first time in my life I am reading poetry and it doesn't mean a thing.

Even before you there was poetry. Should I blame our dysfunction? My depression? My lack of sleep? Perhaps all of the above.

I read things that I know I love, and it had all the meaning of a strange language I'd never seen.

This is an intolerable state, and I'm not going to the doctor until next week. It won't even be for all of my crazy - just this insomnia.

I'm leaving this poem here in the hopes that it means more to you than it does to me right now.



The light has changed;
middle C is tuned darker now.
And the songs of morning sound over-rehearsed. –

This is the light of autumn, not the light of spring.
The light of autumn: you will not be spared.

The songs have changed; the unspeakable
has entered them.

This is the light of autumn, not the light that says
I am reborn.

Not the spring dawn: I strained, I suffered, I was delivered.
This is the present, an allegory of waste.

So much has changed. And still, you are fortunate:
the ideal burns in you like a fever.
Or not like a fever, like a second heart.

The songs have changed, but really they are still quite beautiful.
They have been concentrated in a smaller space, the space of the mind.
They are dark, now, with desolation and anguish.

And yet the notes recur. They hover oddly
in anticipation of silence.
The ear gets used to them.
The eye gets used to disappearances.

You will not be spared, nor will what you love be spared.

A wind has come and gone, taking apart the mind;
it has left in its wake a strange lucidity.

How priviledged you are, to be passionately
clinging to what you love;
the forfeit of hope has not destroyed you.

Maestro, doloroso:

This is the light of autumn; it has turned on us.
Surely it is a privilege to approach the end
still believing in something.

~ Louise Glück
The Blur Between Fingers

He buries his face into my hair and inhales.
If I live anywhere in his body,
I live in his lungs. There are better organs
I'm sure, but it’s warm here too,
and most of the sound stays away.

Sometimes in the middle of the night,
I wake up to feel my spine against the wall.
I don't mean to make this all about bodies
but we are the sort of people whose faith is
Tangibility, and there is little room
for dreamy motions or romantic confessions.
Some mornings, I don't even stay for coffee.

How do I explain then, the nova in my stomach,
and the bird in my throat who, as time passes,
beats his wings more furiously. I have to keep
my mouth closed to prevent feathers
from bursting out. And oh, what trouble it would be
if a song escaped. What beautiful trouble
it would do to our small little worlds.

~ Cassandra Warren
I managed about 1000 more words on the apocalypse au while listening to The Jezabels. Go me? I wonder how much of it will even be usable once I've slept and can look at it with a mostly neutral eye... (not enough of it). Looks like insomnia is good for something, at last.

Somehow I wrote a second ending to it, when I've known for months that it was going to end a particular way... now I'm not sure if I should pick one or include both. I suspect that the story will have about another 2000 words before I'm done (making it around 6k), but I could be completely wrong. I could even have a third ending by then (dear hell, I hope not).

I suspect, that one of the themes has shifted out of focus with the latest addition. I'm not sure it's entirely a bad thing, but I swear that I'm never starting another story after watching The Road. Never again. I just can't do this bleak apocalypse thing with the grimdark future. (Okay, that's a lie. I love grimdark, but I still like a happy ending).

Someone please stop me from thinking about Shisui/Hinata au or otherwise. The faint beginnings of a plot are trying to come together in the back of my head, and I don't even need that a little bit. Anything I'd write would be worthless because it would have too much in common with "Some Words on Memory" or "Spectator". Self, stop reading things that are similar to what you want to write. It's terrible for your creative process (and your self-esteem).

Also, Self. Please stop abusing the parenthetical statements.
Ugh. Well. The air conditioner works again. You have no idea how wonderful that is. This summer has been terrible - full of rain and disgusting heat. Cooking in my house no longer makes me want to cry. I don't live in a sweat lodge anymore! Best. Thing. Ever.

I've been trying to find out if my external drive is completely dead, or if I can still pull the files from it. :/ Hopefully, I will not lose everything on it. Some of it is (stupidly on my part) irreplaceable. Yeah, yeah. I know I should have made a backup. Seriously though. It was hundreds of gigs. I needed another external drive, and that was money I still don't have.

-_- <-- That's my face about the whole ordeal.

Sadly, I lost the notes and scenes I'd written for the 'Sakura talks to coma patients to work out her problems and feel better about life' thing. My End of the World story (8 months late) is chugging along painfully. While I did have it on a cloud, it's not the latest version... I'm tempted to just edit the thing to vaguely flow together and throw it online. I'm that tired of looking at it. Several key scenes have failed to take shape, and I'm pretty frustrated. It'd be nice to have someone to look it over, but I don't have that type of (Naruto) fandom friends anymore. Okay, I might, but it would feel like an imposition. Most of them read a lot of godlike!Naruto and crack!adventure stories, so... I don't think they're the kind of audience that would give me valuable feedback.

I've been playing too many video games. Send help.

(no subject)

Jun. 10th, 2013 04:13 am
malapropian: from Wonder Falls (cow of pain)
Last Friday, I was about 8 feet away from a lightning strike that happened outside my friend's house.

It was pretty exciting with the complete frying of electronic devices and siding blown off the house and the feel of electricity running through my body.


That was my weekend. (Obviously, I'm fine now. It was a little fucked up, but I self-medicated with a judicious application of schnapps and soda. Because alcohol covers a multitude of inadequacies!)

(no subject)

Apr. 23rd, 2013 12:43 pm
malapropian: (Default)
I guess I'm done feeling sorry for myself and forgetting my woes with The Hobbit (film) slash. I've reached the point when certain words just don't look real anymore.
So. Yeah. It's been a long winter.


Because sometimes one can taste the salty certitude of ruin.
Because each footstep is a promise of loss.
Because the molehill dreams of the mountain and the quick,
chill shower of rain that arrives tonight to break the heat wave
is like a lazy lover who will do a poor job of loving
and leave before dawn with a cynical sneer, moving onward.
Because my landlady says she can tell I am dying by looking at my hands.
Because there is a dove at every corner disguised as a pigeon.
Because the document I read on the day of my uncle's funeral
read "bi-polar disorder," which did not surprise me; because I found
it somehow brave of him to ensconce himself in a bottle and to allow the vodka
and rum to eat his liver and mind and because I recalled the jaundiced hue of his skin.
Because the metaphors about dark clouds and deep valleys seem literal.
Because the medications do not work but I tell everyone that they do.
Because the image of a hole in the ground so perfectly cut, the mere size
of a small box only large enough for one young man's ashes, harasses me
as I walk from here to the mailbox, or as I spend the afternoon rearranging
the piles of notices and bills and essays and photographs on my kitchen table.
Because I envision all my belongings boxed and bagged to be sent away.
Because I haven't the fortitude to answer the phone or to shower.
Because a poem is no therapy, and to speak of the reasons is not
to negate them but to empower them, such that they become birds
one cannot shoo away, such that they nest in the corners of the bedroom
or above the refrigerator, or here, in my stomach, and at the back of my throat.

~Paul-Victor Winters

(no subject)

Mar. 3rd, 2013 09:56 pm
malapropian: (Default)
I'm tired of being sick all of the time.

I'm also tired of being lied to, but that has nothing to do with being sick. It's just annoying.

I seem to have lost the knack of writing even when my world is falling down. Okay, falling down is gross hyperbole, it's more like my world has experienced a few pokes that I expected but didn't want.

Dear Brain,

Feb. 7th, 2013 11:41 pm
malapropian: from Wonder Falls (cow of pain)
The time to think of all the stories you could write based on music isn't now. Unless it happens to be the song from the challenge you've signed up for.

Stop listening to songs and being perversely inspired by them instead of the song you received.

If you don't have something resembling a story (or part of one) written in the next few days, then you'll need to hope for good luck on your re-draw.

No love,
Your flaky attention span
I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to think of anything for my song lyric prompt, but I've had a few inklings. Soon I'll try to put some of it down on paper. Ugh.

In the mean time, there's always more depressing poetry that I didn't write.

For My Lover, Returning To His Wife
by Anne Sexton

She is all there.
She was melted carefully down for you
and cast up from your childhood,
cast up from your one hundred favorite aggies.

She has always been there, my darling.
She is, in fact, exquisite.
Fireworks in the dull middle of February
and as real as a cast-iron pot.

Let's face it, I have been momentary.
A luxury. A bright red sloop in the harbor.
My hair rising like smoke from the car window.
Littleneck clams out of season.

She is more than that. She is your have to have,
has grown you your practical your tropical growth.
This is not an experiment. She is all harmony.
She sees to oars and oarlocks for the dinghy,

has placed wild flowers at the window at breakfast,
sat by the potter's wheel at midday,
set forth three children under the moon,
three cherubs drawn by Michelangelo,

done this with her legs spread out
in the terrible months in the chapel.
If you glance up, the children are there
like delicate balloons resting on the ceiling.

She has also carried each one down the hall
after supper, their heads privately bent,
two legs protesting, person to person,
her face flushed with a song and their little sleep.

I give you back your heart.
I give you permission --

for the fuse inside her, throbbing
angrily in the dirt, for the bitch in her
and the burying of her wound --
for the burying of her small red wound alive --

for the pale flickering flare under her ribs,
for the drunken sailor who waits in her left pulse,
for the mother's knee, for the stocking,
for the garter belt, for the call --

the curious call
when you will burrow in arms and breasts
and tug at the orange ribbon in her hair
and answer the call, the curious call.

She is so naked and singular
She is the sum of yourself and your dream.
Climb her like a monument, step after step.
She is solid.

As for me, I am a watercolor.
I wash off.
I did a bit of work on the apocalypse AU. It's still not anywhere approaching ready. :/ In the past, I was much faster at writing, but I also didn't care as much about the quality of my work. It's possible that I'm too paranoid, but the act of writing is going better than it has in several years.

Because I am afflicted with analysis paralysis, I'm pretty sure that I've changed a huge part of the premise (exploring the progression of the relationship from their sex without love and then sex without happiness and then just having sad, almost happy sex to all the sex being implied or off screen).

All of that aside, have a poem I didn't write.


Urban Love Songs (after Tzu Yeh)

You stop to watch the Mandarin ducks.
The rest of us continue on to the flamingo lagoon.
I would like to ask what attracts you to them.
But my feet keep walking, I don’t look back.

* * *
From a piece of cloth I cut out a heart.
In the Laundromat it is washed and dried.
I can spend whole hours watching it toss and tumble.
I wonder if you feel the same way as I.

* * *
I wave as you enter; you take your seat smiling.
This same coffee shop now feels crowded.
We whisper to each other:
all eyes have noticed something’s changed.

* * *
I’ve bought a new phone and an answering machine
because I know you will be calling.
Here’s the number, which only you will have.
I plan to change the tape every hour on the hour.

* * *
Our friends are laughing.
They say we sit so close in your old Buick
it has become second nature for me
to exit on the same side as you.

* * *
Pinocchio’s back!
Let’s relive that night at the drive in
when I whispered that his nose was giving me ideas
and you got into my pants for the first time.

* * *
You drop the laundry off going to work.
I bring the bag back when I come home.
Neatly folded, your underthings are left on the bed
- I wish to respect certain cabinets as yours.

* * *
You shut the window rushing to your covers
complaining of the cold night.
I need fresh air, but am willing to compromise.
Let’s just pull up the sash halfway, okay?

* * *
We hunt for photos in my parents’ storeroom.
Look how young I was and full of dreams.
On the way out you brush against a cobweb.
Your flailing arms make me afraid.

* * *
A firetruck screams through my heart.
Douse the flames! Douse the flames!
I awake to find my pillow soaked with sweat.
For a moment I thought it was my tears.

* * *
You’ve stacked your boxes neatly by the door.
I find atop one Chinese poems I had bought for us.
Quietly I take the book out.
I resolve to tell you this after you have moved.

* * *
For my clogged sink I called a plumber.
When my cat got ill I took her to the vet.
My heart is broken
- I will not ask you to come to mend me.

* * *
Last night you made me so mad.
I’ve resolved never ever to speak to you again.
I regret having to put my foot down so.
I’m sending you a telegram to let you know.

* * *
One friend I know cut her hair short.
Another shaved his beard without regrets.
I would walk this city naked and bald
if ever I thought I could be free of you.

* * *
After you, I took up jogging.
I wore through my running shoes in no time.
One night I chucked them down into the trash chute.
See how trim I am these days!

* * *
Once I bought a single chrysanthemum on a stem.
We watched it blossom, red and full.
Those times now bring a smile to me
finding its brown petals as I sweep the floor.

~ Wing Tek Lum
I was reading poetry, and this made me have a pang in my chest. Maybe it made me feel like writing something. I'll have to get back to that feeling.

And Nothing Is Ever As You Want It To Be
by Brian Patten

You lose your love for her and then
It is her who is lost,
And then it is both who are lost,
And nothing is ever as perfect as you want it to be.

In a very ordinary world
A most extraordinary pain mingles with the small routines,
The loss seems huge and yet
Nothing can be pinned down or fully explained.

You are afraid.
If you found the perfect love
It would scald your hands,
Rip the skin from your nerves,
Cause havoc with a computered heart.

You lose your love for her and then it is her who is lost.
You tried not to hurt and yet
Everything you touched became a wound.
You tried to mend what cannot be mended,
You tried, neither foolish nor clumsy,
To rescue what cannot be rescued.

You failed,
And now she is elsewhere
And her night and your night
Are both utterly drained.

How easy it would be
If love could be brought home like a lost kitten
Or gathered in like strawberries,
How lovely it would be;
But nothing is ever as perfect as you want it to be.