trinsy: (doctor/jack)
title: Sometimes It Hurts Instead
fandom: Harry Potter – an AU version wherein everyone has been gender!swapped
character(s): Remi Lupin, Sirena Black
rating: PG
genre: angst, hurt/comfort
words: ~1750
summary: Snippets from Remi Lupin’s life and her complex relationship with Sirena Black
warnings: gender!swapping
notes: So a few months ago, my sister and I spent a pleasant few days casting our ideal female!Marauders over text and email. This was the result (image and post by her, not me). I dare anyone who has seen Karen Gillan and Katie McGrath not to imagine them being fun, fierce, flirty pranksters together. Anyway, a few days ago I suddenly really wanted to write something with flirty and fierce Karen!James and Katie!Sirius. I started typing and … that is not the story I wrote. I’m honestly not even sure how this happened. I don’t even ship Sirius/Remus. But somehow Remi took over my brain and would not shut up until I wrote this.
disclaimer: I don’t own anything associated with Harry Potter. The dialogue in the Shrieking Shack scene is taken directly from Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, was written by J. K. Rowling, and belongs to her and her publishers. The title comes from Adele’s “Someone Like You”.

When Jamie and Sirena are united, everything is beautiful... )
trinsy: (home)
The Ache

This is the house I grew up in
Sixteen years
Other people live in it now
They don’t know its history
But that doesn’t matter
I’ve got a new house
And it’s comfortable

So why do I want to walk up those front steps
Open the door
Reclaim this house?
Why do I feel like without this house
I’ll always feel homeless?

How can a building mean so much?
Just two-by-fours and drywall
A giant, hollow, inanimate object
“If these walls could talk…” we say
But they can’t
They’re just walls
And they’re mute by nature
Mute to everyone
(Mute to everyone but the ones who know them
Who knew them)

Why do we miss these things?
It’s not the superiority of the building
It’s the memories it holds
But buildings don’t hold memories
We do
We still have the memories without the building
But we value it anyway

Why do I still long for home?
How can that building hold it prisoner?
Why can’t it let it go?
(But I’m the one who needs to let go
Aren’t I?)

They say “home is where the heart is”
But they’re wrong
Or they just never tell you
That your heart can divide
Into so many pieces
So that no matter where you go
A part of you will always long
For somewhere else

They don’t tell you that a piece of you
Gets left in the past
Where you can’t retrieve it
Don’t tell you about the ache
That never goes away

It doesn’t matter what happens
What you do
Where you go
You can stay in that house
Until it crumbles around you
And you’ll still be aching
Because somewhere between childhood and adulthood
A piece of your heart breaks off
Stays behind
And you can never get it back

You think if you go back to that building
That first home
You can retrieve it
But a building’s just a building
And hearts don’t come when they’re called

So you learn to live with aching
With homesickness

It’s called growing up
trinsy: (hug)
title: Heroes for Ghosts
fandom: Harry Potter
character(s): Remus Lupin
rating: PG
words: ~2400
summary: He tells himself he’s healing because it sounds healthy and well-adjusted and like him, and James has stopped showing up to contradict him.

Hardening, he thinks, is something Sirius would have done.

notes: This is a bit of a different style for me. It’s also a bit weird. The title comes from the Pink Floyd song Wish You Were Here.

Two days after Halloween, Remus comes home from the safe house where he's been transforming for the past year... )
trinsy: (home)
title: BH
fandom: Harry Potter
character(s): Ron, appearances by several others, including the next gen kids
rating: G-ish?
words: ~2700
summary: before Harry, before Hermione, before Hogwarts... Ron reflects on families lost and families formed.
notes: I don't really know what this is. It's not really a plot as much as Ron reflects rather angstily on his life, but I don't know. It is what it is, I suppose. I am worried I might have made Ron too introspective, but given that he's near forty at this point, I don't think it's too much of a stretch.

There are things Harry and Hermione don't understand. )
trinsy: (hug)

The dead don’t haunt.

They lie beneath the ground, quiet,
Encased in their wooden beds,
Or else are caught in the wind,
Scattered ash and bone,
Slowly breaking down,
Slowly forgotten,
Until even their descendants
Forget they existed.

The dead don’t haunt.

The dead stay still,
Changing only in imaginations
Of those they abandoned,
Faults or virtues melting
Away in the faulty memories
Of the living.
The dead stay dead.

The dead don’t haunt.

The living do.

The living can change
And never change.
The living can return
Just when you’ve become
Used to their absence,
Disrupt your emotions
And tear open the old wounds
Before they abandon you again.
The living don’t let memories
Slip or idealize.
They prolong grief,
Block the forward journey,
Pop up when you take a step
And force you back.

The living haunt.

The dead have no ghosts.
The living are ghosts.
Unpredictable haunting specters,
Hovering in the background
Or flying forward,
Forcing you back
Into insanity, until death
Finally claims and captures them
Enclosing them in tombs
To haunt no more.
Death is final.

The dead don’t haunt.

The dead can’t haunt.
Only the living haunt
And are haunted,
Haunt others and
Haunt themselves.
They imagine they see the dead
In an object or another’s face,
And they dwell on it,
Turning the illusion over
And over in their mind
Until they are driven mad,
While the dead they imagine
Are haunting them molder
Beneath their feet, still and silent.

The dead don’t haunt.
trinsy: (home)
It’s Friday morning, and it’s raining, and the very last thing I want to do is go to class. My lack of motivation isn’t helped when I discover my roommate has already commandeered the bathroom … even though she doesn’t have to leave until at least an hour after I do. Which means, of course, that I’m annoyed with her even before she starts playing Taylor Swift’s new song ‘White Horse’. If she were playing it on a CD, instead of out of her computer, I think I would have broken the disc by now. Swift whines in an emo half-whisper about how she’s “not a princess and this ain’t a fairytale”, and first of all, it’s “isn’t” not “ain’t”; second, how surprised is she, really, to have discovered reality; third, the whole problem seems to have stemmed from her dating a world class jerk, so again, how surprised is she by this outcome; and fourth, no she isn’t a princess, but she is a very rich, famous, and successful teenage country star, so maybe she should count her blessings and shut up already about her ostensibly terrible love life. Also, stop making stupid girls even more emo.

So I get dressed and trek off to class a bit earlier than usual, partly because it takes longer to walk in the rain, but mostly because I’m pretty sure I’ll be coming around on a white horse to trample Taylor Swift if I have to listen to that stupid song one more time. Consequently, I’m the first person in the classroom, but this blissful solitude doesn’t even last a full minute before the door opens and my least favorite classmate enters with her friend.

She’s a sophomore with the whole bohemian “I-don’t-care-what-people-think-of-me” thing going on, and has the extremely irritating habit of loudly proclaiming just exactly what she finds wrong with world at that particular moment – there’s always something – but she does it with an impressive vocabulary, and the other sophomores think she’s brilliant.

I’m not surprised, this morning, to hear her complaining about something – children or her Linguistics homework or the fickleness of men or her parents deciding to take a second honeymoon in Mammoth during Spring Break – it doesn’t matter what it is, really, her point is the same as Taylor Swift’s: life sucks.

And the most frustrating part is that I can’t really articulate why she’s wrong. I can’t help thinking that if I’d met her when I was a junior in high school or a freshman in college, I would probably have loved her and found her hilarious – which probably says more about me than it does about her. As it is, though, she happened upon me in the stage of my life where any cynicism that isn’t my own annoys me, for reasons I can’t fully explain. My ever-present optimistic streak is strong this year, and life’s rough, sure, but it doesn’t suck as much as everyone seems to think, and then my realistic side jumps in and snaps that maybe if people didn’t have such stupid, unrealistic expectations in the first place, they wouldn’t be so jaded now.

It’s stopped raining by the time I finish my classes at noon, and I’m walking back to my apartment still struggling with the paradox of my own cynicism and my loathing of the cynicism of others, when a cloud slides away, and I’m hit by brilliant sunlight. Suddenly I’m forcefully reminded of walking this same road two years ago as a freshman, wondering if this was how the next three-and-a-half years would be: the bright sun, and the awkwardness, and the vast, terrifying, unknown blank that is the future (and the terrible irony is that I wasn’t that far off).

I get home and try to distract myself for a few hours, and then one of my roommates comes home and announces she’s going for a walk, and I remember that I’m supposed to be exercising for my P.E. class, so I should probably go on one too. I get my shoes on and grab my iPod, and it’s only after I’m in the neighborhood that I realize this probably wasn’t the best idea if I didn’t want to have to think. It’s nearly sunset as I turn on to Hill Street, which is just far enough away from my apartment for my pessimistic side to kick in and remember, hey, wasn’t it supposed to rain again tonight?

I look up, but the sky is completely clear. I follow its ever-lightening curve down to the clouds lining the horizon, behind which the sun has just disappeared. Below the ocean is laid out, muted colors in the pre-twilight, pastel shades of orange, pink, blue, green, gray, and brown, and the combination should be ugly, but somehow it isn’t.

I’m supposed to be getting my heart rate up, but it’s hard to care about passing a P.E. class when confronted with such overwhelming natural beauty. Instead, I stop and take in its vastness, and – just for a moment – feel that maybe it’s enough.


Sep. 5th, 2007 11:48 pm
trinsy: (doctor and rose separated)

I had to write a sonnet for my writing class.  We were given the last word of every line and then had to compose the sonnet from that.  It was actually kind of fun, though I spent about fifteen minutes trying to get the right word order in line four, and line eight took me about five hours (mind you, I was doing other stuff inbetween, but it was always nagging at the back of my mind).  I'm rather proud of how it ended up, hence posting it here.  Also, any suggestions for a title would be lovely.

She wore a headdress made of island fruit
It swayed softly in the rhythm of her dance
The tapping of his freshly polished boot
Did not negate the cool pride in his stance
The torches cast a harsh, forbidding light
The shadows on the walls appeared to jump
The hypnosis of her hips was hard to fight
While in his throat there rose a nervous lump
Silently he exited the room
And on a garden bench, he found a seat
He waited for her, gazing at the moon
Envisioning when her lips his would meet
But he was doomed to wait for all of time
For she only existed in this rhyme

trinsy: (cold)
Southern California is having a heatwave, my dormitory does not have AC, and 95 degrees is stifling even if your room does overlook the ocean, so today I did something I've never done before and went to Starbucks to do my homework.

It was really lovely. I got a frappuccino (even more wonderful because of the heat), and sat in one of the big, comfy armchairs in the AC, and read Madame Bovary. And when I finished my coffee, I got ice-water, and scribbled down quotes from Madame Bovary while the ice melted on my tongue. I have to say that while the beginning is fantastically dull and the ending rather abrupt, the book is actually rather good. There are many quotable paragraphs in Part III, and while I think Flaubert over-dramatises Emma's emotions in particular, there are several parts of human nature he got spot on. But reading it reinforced something I'd been thinking about as I drove to Starbucks:

I'm not happy; I'm not sure I've ever been happy, really. I was thinking about this because my oldest sister is working for the Peace Corps in Ukraine, and half the time her water doesn't work, and she can't use a computer right now, and she has to walk everywhere. And she's happy almost all the time. I wonder about that. I mean, not that water and computers and cars automatically ensure happiness, but it's just ... when she was here -- when she was like me -- she wasn't happy either. And I wonder about that.

I wrote this poem in class the other day. I wrote it in about five minutes, so it's not very good, but it sort of gets at what I'm saying:

My life is like a melody
Sweet, but just a bit quirky
Notes all blending perfectly
Then dissonance begins.

My room is large
My problems small
But I don't know I have it all
The harmony unnoticed 'til
The disaster descends.

The thing is, I look back at my life and think that I should have been happy, that I should be happy right now, but I wasn't and I'm not. I remember little periods of time when I was happy, but it always freaks me out when I get happy because I'm so used to being unhappy and life just doesn't work the other way round. Happiness just isn't natural for me.  Everything just sort of blends into this weary discontent that I've known for so long I don't even question it anymore.  And I wonder about that.

I'll close with another poem I wrote in class. It's made up of (most of) my lines from the pass around poems we did the first day of class. It's a little weird, but I like it all the same.

Pictures of the Soul

The wind churned the leaves like an ocean wave
Glass shattered, the shards fanning across the asphalt
Living pictures on a 2-D surface

Birdsong starts and swells to meet the sunlight
Homesick for a place that’s nonexistent
But here there is no movement but the water
It pushes forward still, unrelenting
Never thinking, only feeling, always creating
No brain for speech, no heart for emotion
Is it the only real thing in this world we inhabit?

Should I reveal my soul to an objective world?
Or be forever homeless, flat, and small?

trinsy: (ball -- purple)
My college is on these cliffs right above the ocean, and today I walked down Hill Street and sat on a cliff just above the water.  It was the best thing I’ve done all year.

I’ve never appreciated the ocean before.  Maybe it’s because I grew up taking it for granted (it was always just 20-30 minutes away); more likely it’s because of all the horrible experiences I’ve had while swimming in it.  But for whatever reason, I never understood why my mid-Western relatives were always so enthralled with it.  To me, it was just a bunch of water.  Then I went to the cliff today.

I still don’t think anyone will ever really be able to explain the appeal of the ocean.  I certainly can’t.  All I can tell you is that there is something awe-inspiring about sitting on the edge of a cliff with the wind in your hair, watching thousands of gallons of water crash onto the giant, flat rocks below and then wash up to the shore, with the sun almost completely hidden in clouds, so that the only light is a bright, yellow glow reflecting on the water close to the horizon.  I have never felt so totally insignificant, and yet so completely certain that there was a purpose to my life.  Beauty penetrated me in a way that transcends words.

Amazing doesn’t even come close.
trinsy: (too late)
Real Acting

I cannot act,
I’m too afraid
Of looking like a fool.
‘Cause crying, wailing,
Fearing, failing,
Won’t make me look cool.

What if I laugh
And it seems fake?
Or I show poise instead of fear?
What if I cry
And yet my eye
Refuses to shed tears?

Or even worse,
What if I
Actually show emotion?
If something frees
And someone sees
My inner commotion?

What if the draw
Of acting isn’t
The spotlight at all?
If its appeal
Is being real
Before the curtain call?

It would explain
My stage fright:
I fear letting someone see
All of the tears,
All of the fears
That are inside of me.

Even someone
Who is not real
Is not a strong enough shield.
My heart is walled,
And if that falls
I fear it won’t be healed.

So I cannot act,
I’m too afraid
Of showing my emotions,
At least today,
So look away
From my heart’s deep commotion.
trinsy: (Default)
I’m going insane, going mad
Watching you, wanting to explain
Wanting to come out and ask it
Fearing the rejection
Knowing better
Knowing to maintain
The silence

Yet it’s such an unbearable volume

I see you so often
Smiling, laughing
Unaware that I’m watching
Unaware that I know
Your secret pain
I want to cry on your shoulder
‘Cause I know you’d understand

But would you care?

You’ll never know my secret
My burning desire
To go so much deeper
With you

I’m just as closed as you are

So we’ll both just laugh together
And it’s almost as healing
As tears

But never enough
trinsy: (Default)

So, I’m writing this short story for school. And, unlike my last one, I actually really like it (so far, anyway). I haven’t written the beginning yet, but I have written quite a bit of the middle. The following is an excerpt, and I must say, I’m really rather proud of it.

confusion )
trinsy: (Default)
I wish I could fly into a blind rage, demolish a room, and then throw myself into the arms of someone who actually understood me, and just sob my heart out.

To anyone who was confused by that statement (as I certainly would be, were I you), I thought this excerpt from one of my original fiction stories would clarify it.

     “SHUT UP! SHUT UP!” Trinity shouted. She snatched up a book and hurled it across the room. “SHUT UP! I DON’T CARE! I DON’T CARE!” She was tearing the room apart now, ripping pages out of books, knocking over tables, smashing lamps. “I DON’T CARE! I DON’T CARE!” she repeated. And now she had unleashed her fury; she was channeling every bitter, and angry, and resentful, and scared, and horrified thought into her actions; she was blind, unaware of what she was doing, outside of herself; and yet inhabiting herself more fully than she had ever thought possible. What she did didn’t matter anymore; what people thought of her didn’t matter. All that mattered was that someone know and feel and understand the horror within her.

I'm not sure if that really cleared it up, or if the excerpt even makes any sense at all.  This scene would work so much better in a movie.  But at the moment, writing is all I have...
trinsy: (Default)
Jazz gave me the most fascinating article today.  It was about this pair of thirteen-year-old twins who live in Bakersfield, California.  They makeup this band called Prussian Blue, which is currently recording its second album.  Their names are Lynx and Lamb.  First of all, who names their children Lynx and Lamb?  What is that person on?  But that’s beside the point.  The point is, Lynx and Lamb are white supremacists, and most of Prussian Blue’s songs are about white supremacy.

     Now Jazz and I both realize that thirteen-year-olds do not come up with these ideas on their own (particularly if they grow up in a place like Bakersfield, which is not exactly devoid of cultural diversity).  Someone is feeding it to them.  And in the case of Lynx and Lamb, as evidenced by the article, that someone is their mother, April.

     She oozes hate.  The kind of person who’d lead the KKK.  It makes you wonder what happened to her. Why does she hate these people so much? And anti-Semitic?  That label doesn’t even come close to what she is.  The irony is that the man who interviewed her and her daughters is Jewish.  April helpfully suggested he might like living in Tel-Aviv better than America.

     April also believes that the Holocaust has been blown out of proportion, and that Hitler not only had the right idea, but was actually a pretty decent guy who’s just been “vilified”.  “The Germans just wanted Germany for the Germans,” she says. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”  I’m part Polish.  My relatives lived on a farm during WWII (some still do, actually).  Nazi soldiers moved in with them, slept in their beds, ate their food.  What did the Hitler want Poland for?  Not the Poles.  And what about Belgium?  And France?  What did he want them for?

     And the Holocaust blown out of proportion?  Does she even know?  Have you ever seen it? I want to ask her.  Have you ever seen the bodies littering the floors of the gas chambers?  Have you looked at the emaciated bodies?  Have you heard the voices of the survivors recounting the endless horrors they suffered?  Have you seen the films of the beautiful, innocent families marching unknowingly to their doom?  And here I’m only speaking of the Museum of Tolerance.  At Auschwitz and Birkenau you find the true meaning of horror.

     A display of over 15,000 pounds of human hair, cut from the heads of the women before they were sent into the gas chambers.  Piles of shoes, brushes, and other personal belongings the Nazis stripped from their prisoners.  A room hardly big enough to stand in, blanketed in darkness, where a single man would be sent to be punished, often to die of starvation.  A wall scarred from bullets the firing squad had meant to aim at their victims.  A large, empty chamber with holes in its walls from the fake showerheads that used to be attached to them, and large openings in its ceiling where the Nazis dropped poison gas on the heads of their doomed prisoners.  A giant furnace where they burned the bodies.  A trench where they dumped the ashes, and where, on some summer days, you can still, nearly seventy years later, see bits of the ash and bones.  Miles of open, burned ground, the monotony of the view broken only by charred brick fireplaces, the only remains of the camp the Nazis burned before abandoning it.  Pictures of innocent children, mutilated by the experiments the Nazis performed on them; many blinded from the acid that was poured in their eyes in an attempt to make them blue – as if sightless blue eyes would be preferable to seeing brown ones.

     I could go on, but it’s becoming hard the think about – as it should be.  But see all that, and then tell me the Holocaust was blown out of proportion.  See all that and then tell me that Hitler has been vilified and misunderstood.

     Now you can deny that the Holocaust ever happened – which takes faith many religions would envy – or you can admit it was a horrifying atrocity against mankind.  But let us have none of this patronizing nonsense that Hitler and the Nazis committed this crime, yet were good at heart and simply misunderstood.  They never gave us that option.
trinsy: (Default)
Okay, so I’m really over all these diary fanfics where the person writing the diary feels the need to introduce themselves.  I mean, seriously, people do not introduce themselves in their own freakin diaries!  I’m so annoyed about this that I’m thinking of writing a one-shot about it.  Okay, so I’ve gone beyone thinking about it, I’ve written the first part, but I’m not sure it’s that great of an idea.  And also, I have no clue where to go with it now.  That being said, here’s what I’ve written so far:

September 1st


     What a day, what a day it’s been!  Who am I, you might be asking?  Don’t be stupid, of course you’re not asking that, because you are a diary, a booklet of lifeless pages, and, as everyone knows, inanimate objects do not ask questions.  If you’re that curious, you can just guess, because I’m not going to tell you who I am.  This is for two main reasons:


1.     Inanimate objects, as I have already mentioned, do not care who writes on them, and

2.     Normal people do not, generally, feel a need to introduce themselves in their diaries, because,

a.      their diaries do not care, and

b.     the fact that it is a diary implies that the only person reading it would be the author, and the author obviously has no need to introduce herself to herself because she already knows herself, unless of course she doesn’t know herself, in which case she couldn’t very well introduce herself, because she wouldn’t know who she was introducing.  And if anyone else is reading the diary, they should already know who the author is, or else they shouldn’t be reading it.


I mean honestly, what do you think this is, a freaking novel?  That’s right, I’m talking to you, H –– Whoops, almost gave away my identity there!

trinsy: (Default)

If I could ask you one question,

I would ask you, “Why?”

Why did you ignore me?

Why did you always lie?


Why didn’t you make an effort?

Why did you never care?

Why did you always push me?

Why couldn’t you play fair?


Why did you get on your cell phone

Whenever I got in your car?

Why did you say you wanted to be close,

But always stayed so far?


Why did you keep harassing me?

Why don’t you leave me alone?

Why can’t you simply let me be?

Why can’t you move on?


Why is this so important,

When it never was before?

Why did you change your priorities

After you walked out our door?


Why did you insist on using me

As a threat, or as bait?

Why was it, when you finally “cared”,

It was too little, far too late?


Why can’t you seem to understand

I want nothing to do with you?

You’ve hurt me far too deeply,

And our connection’s finally through.


I don’t want to be around you

‘Cause you’ve always made me cry.

But if I could ask one question,

Then I would ask you, “Why?”

trinsy: (Default)

My inspiration’s waning

As I sit down to write.

Just to get a simple sentence out

Will prob’ly take all night.


My inspiration’s fading

As my fingers begin moving.

To stop before I start to cry

Would prob’ly be behooving.


I try to vent frustration

In free verse most of the time.

For some reason, at the moment,

I have the urge to rhyme.


It really hasn’t gone so well;

This poem’s an atrocity.

Besides, I’d rather write a book

That becomes a monstrosity.


But my inspiration’s disappeared,

Relocated, is simply gone;

I’m sitting here asking myself,

“How did it go so wrong?”

trinsy: (Writing)

When Did That Become “When”?

So now we’re standing here
Soon the miles’ll separate us
But that’s nothing to the gap between our hearts
Things have changed over the years
Lies and wounds have come between us
And we know that we’re better off apart

But before we say goodbye
There’s something I’d like to see
I just have one more question
If you could just tell me

Do you remember when
Love was all we really needed
And it couldn’t be defeated
Remember when we took a vow
That we’d fight side by side
Unitl the day we died
Remember when we held each other’s hearts
And all of them, here’s my question:
When did all of that become “when”?

Author’s Note: This sounds better if you know the tune!

June 2013

23242526 272829


RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags