I was in Bournemouth last Friday, with giaan and Sam, and -
tinted_glass did an amazing Fight Club storyboard, and asked us to guess what the story was. Her answer's here. And because she will always be my fluffy cloud, I wrote. This is clear evidence that I should stick to photograph-spams and not to writing fic.
Each time the human heart beats, it pumps a cupful of blood through the body.
You know this because Tyler knows this.
Bent double over a chipped sink in a house on Paper Street, the chill of the new day cooling the tiles in this shithole of a bathroom, watching your blood swirl down the drain, you realise this is nothing.
You and the rest of your disenfranchised, disenchanted nation, were raised on television to believe that you’d all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars.
But you’re staring down the bathroom sink you’re bleeding into and your name isn’t Keanu fucking Reeves.
Humans possess an extensive internal piping system. A cardiovascular network of tens of thousands of kilometres of blood vessels, in a human body.
You’re in the heart of the house on Paper Street, ensconced in a network of twisting pipes. Sometimes, in the still of the night, after Tyler and Marla have finally shut the fuck up, you think you can hear that heart beating.
I am Jack’s twisted sense of jealousy.
You stare at the stained mirror before you, and don’t see the man who walked into his office every day, preoccupied with recall statistics, out-of-court settlement rates, and his insipid career. You don’t see the man consumed by the Ikea nesting instinct. That went out of the window a long time ago, along with unbleached paper wire lamps, Strinne green patterns, and yin-yang coffee tables.
You see the man who knocked out the Office Park’s maitre d’ in five minutes flat. You see the man who now strides into his office, sizes up everyone in a heartbeat, and realises none of them would last a second in the basement of Lou’s Tavern.
You hear the bathroom door creak and you see Tyler Durden in the doorway, as light from the hallway spills in over you.
He’s smoking again, and that makes you smell unmistakeably of cigarette smoke, winding its insubstantial fingers through your hair, your clothes, and over your skin.
It makes you feel claimed.
Tyler’s face falls in shadow, but you know the look on his face as well as you know your own.
</center>aingeal_isilme, I got your parcel! And whiteravensong, I got your postcard! *grin* It was so pretty I thought it was an advertisement! *hugs to kanekoichi for being incredibly sweet* Also, moonythestrals, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA, SPEAR OF DESTINY INDEED. And you can kick me all day long if it'll make you write fic like this.
Yen is now reading Fake next to me. *evil grin* She hates me for bringing her to Forbidden Planet, and for somehow unearthing her John muse when we started talking about my Constantine plot ideas, all of which have plotholes you can drive a taxi through, as kannazuki finds very amusing. *evil grin* I'm afraid I regret nothing.
Our London household went to watch Hitch today. I did not squee the cinema down. But moonythestrals is right when she says the slash is so wasted on that movie. Also I dragged Yen to watch Constantine again. ohmygodandIlovethewayshethinks.