I'm writing this for the people who happen to wander into this journal and wonder what it’s about. Despite its Fullmetal Alchemist nature, this journal is for writing. The following is what you’ll find here: attempts writing and fanfiction, fake attempts at poetry, and perhaps letters I'll never send if I'm feeling brave.

          I’ve disabled comments because I don’t want to risk getting any here, lest I turn into some comment whore who uses them to validate the “importance” of her so-called work.

          Edit as of 5. Nov. 2009: Due to hating the fact the date is 1910 when it's actually 1911 in the version of the anime presently running (and despite it always being 1911 in the manga anyway), I have moved to 3rd_oct_1911.

your teeth to-day are sharp and gnash against the hard rock inside your mouth. you call it life. you found it at the shore. it's no longer kissed by sea and salt but bathed by your tongue and decomposed slowly, coated in your saliva.

they will not take this away from you when you are dying but shall when you are dead. you fancy yourself best for this unrelenting chomp on life, but when they pry your jaw open they will find your teeth flat, ground to your bone, no bite left and none to be had in the last fifty years.

but to your credit, elephants have died sooner for less.

exuberance linked me to a prompt blog her friends started. Since the pictures they've chosen so far are not pictures I'd ever choose for writing prompts, I figured I'd try them.

Apparently this entry made me have a flashback to A Clockwork Orange. Not cut bc it's short.

            Boy man child hide ye womens 'n girls 'cos I gots te tell ye de walls ain't what de used te -- sum charm de once add but now all ye's see's de picture mess put some time when de Author It Ees nay Watch like day's crooks but we knows better 'cos day ain't no crooks whose made um but day's crocks. When we's de age o' ye, Eye cut te cores 'n painted red burst on de wall like de Guy's brain blown out point 'n blank by US's guns, star for 'n eye, 'n bullet 'n brick like um Kilroy Was Here.

            'N Den Times we hads styles ain't seen by ye types who ain't got none but Ums all Misser-Able hippie yippie may be hooray lie-barrels wit ye piece-filled Gene Ration gagged 'n choked 'n pacifiers 'n de all same-sing te de big joke joker clown who aint ne'er o' e'er make An Knee o' ums beg on de's knees like um prey 'n pray -- diss Godless God who ain't no nothin' in de face o' de reel God o'T'Reason, home 'n true te me heart. Ye got ye's musics 'n ye's egos ye're wont te leggo 'n ye all Cow Er 'n Shell Fish like sum Hammy Star eatin' her babbies like they's some kind o' wet foods soft 'n Ply-Able like ye sissy Pressy Dent hoo like 'n owl ain't wont te do no thing like ye red-night-fly-by-eye causes wit ye lessy No Body rebels or what e'er have ye 'n de music ye types List In te define ye X-Cyst 'n ye I Den Titties. I ain't got no interest 'cos eye ain't lookin' 'cos shrapnels took um out o' de skull one six in de mourn. I ain't got no cares'R'carries like ye gots toys'R'us so I says ye May play um so loud as ye like 'cos sounds ain't travel so good te de Hear Holes 'cos um's still bleed 'n bleat 'n beat de broken drum heard 'n de war since ye bomb.

            Who diss I-less Eye, ye ask! I guess 'n may be if ye true Lee cares I tell ye but may be it be ye Eye tell ye, Yes, even for um, No, those ye don't. Who's Ye? Ye, ye Gene Ration o' P for Puss o' witch ye mens got more 'n ye womens. I gots plenty o' names full o' Mean Inks like Hero for them's on de side o' de river logics 'n de land I call mine field. I gots Devil te strike a match four e'ery Fucker 'n two Pops, 'n one Farther, 'n won Daddy from Me Ning wide like de biggest Asia. I gots Friend 'n de ole Ruskie I. H. Eight te call me Comrade 'n de Brother he ain't e'er had X-apt once like bee four de crush 'n crunch. Eye got a bit o' Murder 'n all de pings 'n tings 'n things ye wanna no-Mommy-take-um-away when de light dies 'n crawls 'n ye hope ye Ken will stop winding um up 'n ye head 'cos it all gone way te de side from ye 'n it Ben years since de ole time ye put ye gun te Any Body's head -- long time passed. I gots Husband from de bee you tee full Lae Dee, filled te de brim o' bust 'n hands like ye criminal crock crooks X-apt no bad Meaning Less scrawls 'n scribbles ain't e'er been flung past de tips o 'er flingers.

            Ye misser ree dog day lay dee down-Basted Tards born te no-Weds. wretches who ain't know no better te know better -- who ain't feel de Terry Fy Inc. world o' de Social Lists 'n who ain't got born 'n de times o' Gone 'n Went 'n no Body's babby grew te Mens 'n WoMens 'n picked um up te scrape o'er de worlds, lost 'n lone, Thou Sand Fold miles way from de Origin All home 'n de heart 'n soles.

            What SADS half de worlds come te!

i am: Maybe
            i Can or Maybe can Not
            encompass All that Maybe
            Can and maybe Do not
maybe Will Not; maybe
Fought For naught
maybe caught Or Forgot maybe
In Drought of thought
maybe
Or not
            may be Maybe
            may be Not

Word Count: 785.
Summary: I like to focus on psyche. With a demon whose past we now nothing about, that gets harder. I just wanted to write something in the voice I imagine for the creature he was prior to Ciel. This is more like a letter than a story or dialogue.

( They will bleed shapes and slashes in the form of symbols you have never known and will never know, yet you will understand these red wounds weep your name the way you have always known who you are even before the time you could remember what it means to be an 'I.'  )

Title: Panic Switch.
Word Count: Uhhh, around 2,600 I think.
Warnings: They're actually not that happy. Kind of morbid in some instances.
Note: Eight short stories I wrote in rapid succession in this order. They all fit together even though that wasn't originally the intention. They're fragmented and out of sequence. The last one is when they're a bit older, though.

( The stitches were crude, tracking across his shoulder and neck like Stein had decided Spirit had parasites and laid some rail, because parasites needed to travel, too. )

Title: Maybe Twenty-Nine, Too...?
Word Count: Roughly 560.

( The words weren't lost in the dead air, but it might have seemed that way for the length of Stein's silence. At the end, he decided, 'You're really an idiot,' but it wasn't the kind of voice that genuinely felt it. 'If you ever get tired of being stupid, I'll look into your head and fix it for you.' )

Title: Sometimes They Fit Right.
Word Count: Roughly 520.

Written for selphish. She didn't care what it was, she just wanted someone to write something for her.

So, I wrote something. It's all hers. I wouldn't have written something like this if I hadn't been thinking about her.

( My life is like the inside of a size 8 shoe box. I'm never sure what it carries: I don't know if it'll fit tomorrow; I don't know if it'll fit today; I don't know if I'll have to layer two socks on my feet, wearing them around the house till they stretch to a point where I'm comfortable and able to wear them with ease. )

The beginning of a compilation of short stories.

( I. Who? 480 words. )

( II. We. 812 words. )

( III. I don't have vs. I have. 1,504 words. )

( IV. No Reply. 451 words. )

( V. In A Word: Martyr. 87 words. )

( VI. Terrible! 859 words. )

( VII. Arbitrary. 133 words. )