A weblog by Hao Lian.
A terrible secret guarded by golems.
A note that thanks you for being born, all those years ago.
Last time on FanFiction Fan Fiction, things—hot things—happened. And now: more things.
jark1821 closed his eyes and leaned forward. xli’s love vessel quivered with anticipation and controlled sexual epilepsy. Their fingers entwined and their flesh turned to jelly, grape jelly, not the chunky apple jelly the cafeteria serves when it’s out of regular grape jelly that everybody likes, real jelly that you could spread on hot love bread, the kind, you know, that’s delicious.
jark1821 closed and locked the door. They disrobed as parts of their jelly bodies plopped to the floor. They stepped closer and closer to each other until their jellies were one, and it was impossible for the up-until-now innocent bystander to tell the two apart from the single, purple writhing mass of unspeakable romance and contraception and perhaps a little peanut butter sandwiched, heavenly sandwiched, between the yeasty carpet and roof.
Their love started as an exposition. Characters were introduced, like notes on a blank staff on a music sheet sitting on the piano of an elderly woman waiting for her cookies to finish baking in the oven her grandson bought for her so that he may, also, enjoy cookies, if only he had visited more often before the car accident. Characters were given backstories; the notes were given melodies. Relationships were established; notes were converted from C to C sharp. A racial slur; a musical slur. Conflict!; crescendo! Metaphors!; leitmotifs! Character development; waltz accompaniment. The plot builds and builds into a trill, shrill and high and unwavering. There’s a burst of staccato violence—the bass peaks—and then an adagio denouement. The stench of literature and music filled the sandwich room as the meat of the sandwich breathed and punctuated and composed itself. And only the twinge of regret could be felt-seen-tasted-heard.
- Ethane: This is the game where we take things literally.
- Me: i.e. the game where we start killing pairs of birds with rocks.
- Me: “Thanksgiving”
- Me: some call it.
- Ethane: I call it revenge.
Ethan of exploding houseware fame
- Me: Kool-Aid Man says, “Oh Yeahhhhhh.”
- Me: and hits a woman
- Ethane: misogyny yayay
- Me: Now in cherry flavors.
- Ethane: Comes in an easy abuse pouch.
So a Cinnamon Crunch cereal goes like this these days: An inspector from a police arrives at a homicide scene amid a crowd. He quickly deduces the twist is that the murder was committed by two people. He does a good job; he’s a good guy. Then three kids, who are at a homicide scene for some inexplicable reason holding a cereal bowl, yell, “Can you see why we like Cinnamon Crunch so much?” First of all, bringing cereal everywhere you go is a great way to get beat up. Compounding that by yelling “Why the hell do I like this so much?” every day is Free Concussion Day. Anyway, the inspector is pretty confused as you might imagine because three of the most annoying tween kids just showed up at the scene of a murder with cereal and some pretty tough questions. He can’t give a good answer, and the kids begin making fun of him. Seriously? The guy solves crimes for a living. You carry cereal everywhere you go. You think you’re better? The social hierarchy according to General Mills goes like this, from least to most important: black people (there are none), other minorities, women, men, policemen, kids, kids with cereal, kids with cereal and cereal-related puzzlers.