Des idées! Des idées! Idée fixe... [M/M or M/F] (Updated)

[Einzig]

Einzig aches for thesaurean disciplines, with knotted plots and barb'ed knots and players too whose souls are like teeth, masticating.  I tend to write thick black plots, heavily colored (even where grey) and feasted on borderland detail and characters too who are complex, conniving, Byronic, Sadists. I love the prose of Vladimir Nabokov and the Divine Eddy and I spare my writers nothing of my wild phantasmagoria.

A dying man bleeds, but I, impaled by life, emit ink.

I can't sit here and flesh out prepacked stories; know that I write, I am extremely flexible and reasonably creative; or to put it another way, I'm a fucking artist, you give me a piece of shit and I can design a culture for you out of it.

So let's write.

I have no "Ons and Offs." Or put another way, good, inspired writing is my "On," and bad, uninspired writing is my "Off." I like M/F, M/M, etc/etc of all dimensions.  I have a particular fondness for strongly aesthetic if unrealistic worlds, including worlds that are ancient, archaic, or have never existed at all. I love designing mythos. I also love historical, or alternative historical plots. Give me your best wont.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I haven't done a tight military aesthetic story in a while. Fascist, Communist, Theocratic. Factual or imaginative, modern or historical, real or phantasmagorical. I'm in the mood for writing nightmares with souls that bleed.

If that interests anyone, message me.

[Einzig]

As a sample of my writing, here is my latest Daily Writing Prompt.

PROMPT: "Once we ruled the world. It wasn't perfect, but it was better than this."
TIME: 60 minutes
WORD COUNT: 1075

The Marquis Charles Jean-Louis de Lautrec sat in the back of the garbage cart and tried to maintain what he could of his dignity. He wore his finest blue velvet coat with the mother of pearl buttons and ruby cufflinks. They had insisted on it. The crowd around him was wild, their bruised lips foaming as they screamed discordantly with every gesticulation from the blood soaked headsman, his face concealed in a black hood. The raised platform on which he strode like a colossus was hidden in viscera and gore. The heads of his victims were piled together like a grotesque cairn behind him, half devoured in a swarm of stinging flies. The executions had begun at dawn with the crowd growing steadily throughout the day and now at the twilight of the evening, everyone was merry and drunk.

The garbage cart that transported him from his home to the scene of execution was now mostly empty, save for the piles of rotting food and nightsoil. His cart was unremarkable and like any of the twenty other carts near it. When the sun had risen each cart was near to bursting with a dozen men and now that night was settling in, his own carriage of shit was reduced to a mere two besides himself.

Both of his compatriots had been spared simply to torment him, he was certain of it.

They were brothers by birth and printers by profession and when the revolution broke out they made themselves a small fortune printing revolutionary material for the cause. Not small enough, the mob had decided and one morning they found themselves dragged off in chains.

Both were quite certain that their arrests had been a mistake and they would be spared.

“All revolutions will make mistakes,” one of the brothers said confidentially, and he smiled to the crowd. “These good people are noble at heart, they cannot be judged for every minor err.”

The smaller of the two brothers nodded enthusiastically. For the privilege of parchment and quill, he had revealed the hiding place of his young daughter in the printing shop. He must have considered this a masterful bargain, for he kissed the hands of his accuser as his daughter was dragged from the attic screaming and sobbing and begging for mercy that did not come. He remained at his parchment all throughout the morning and afternoon, and did not even look up when his daughter was led to the guillotine by the laughing crowd, silent now, her jaw dark and broken.

“She died well,” Lautrec murmured when revolutionary razor had separated the girl’s head from her thin shoulders. The headsman knelt and picked it up and kissed her on the mouth. The crowd cheered wildly.

“She died for the revolution,” the man who had been her father said irritably, not looking up from his writing.

“Oh yes,” said his brother beside him. “My niece was a fine girl, I knew she would meet her death bravely. For the cause.”

“What cause, pray?” Lautrec asked.

The man who had been the girl’s uncle looked at him with disbelief. “The ennoblement of Man. That’s what cause, Lautrec. Freedom from tyranny.”

Lautrec made a rude noise with his mouth. The printer sighed. “You wouldn’t understand. You’re a reactionary. You’ve earned your place here. We’re here by mistake. But no matter. As we speak, my brother is writing a revolutionary pamphlet that will be circulated among the people for a hundred years.”

“Far more valuable than any daughter,” the writer agreed.

“Oh yes,” his brother echoed. “If we die, it is with our hearts full. But you, Lautrec, will die like a dog who never knew enlightenment.”

The platform was cleared of another soiled body and as its head rolled away and two men approached the garbage cart and cocked a thumb at the man with the quill and parchment. “You next!”

His brother placed a hand on his shoulder in protest, but the writer smiled triumphantly. “No need, sweet brother. My work is finished. Now it is the time for my immortality.”

He strode from the wagon and up the blood soaked steps to platform, striding to his death as though he were heading towards his coronation, his face beaming with pride. When he reached the guillotine he bowed to the executioner and handed over the parchment on which he had labored. “For the People,” he said. “Forever and ever.”

Then he made a quarter pivot on his heel to face where the maddening throng was the thickest and addressed them thus: “Good people, with this I give you the most precious gift. When Nature granted us reason--”

Behind him the crowd screamed in delight and he felt a strange warmth at his back. He turned and saw his parchments lying in a neat stack on the platform, half engulfed in flames, and smoldering.

With a shriek he bounded onto the parchments to put out the flames with his body, but he was kicked and dragged away and forced down with his head bowed below the guillotine.

“No!” he shrieked again as he watched the flames be rekindled. Then the razor fell.

Lautrec barked laughter. “Once, we ruled,” he said, feeling suddenly philosophical. “It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than this.”

The man who had been the writer’s brother trembled in sudden fear. “They should not have done that,” he said weakly. “Now they shall never know Maximilian's genius spirit, now...”

Lautrec had heard enough.  He stood in the cart and strode over to the seated man and loosened his breaches and retrieved his cock from beneath them.

“Lautrec,” the man hissed. “What in God’s name are you--”

The man’s objection cut off into a stammering choke as a stream of piss hit him in the face. He doubled over in his seat and tried to block the stream with his hands, and failed, and soaked from head to stomach.

“LAUTREC!” The revolutionary pleaded, coughing. The crowd around their cart laughed and pointed.

“Now there’s a man who ought not die today!” they cheered. “Look how he pisses on the bastard!”

“Clemency!” Came another shout. “He’s too droll to kill!”

Lautrec said nothing as the crowd took up the shout for his clemency. He sighed, his bladder emptied, tucking himself back into his pants.

The revolutionary printer was struck too mute to speak and shook visibly, and his face blanched ghostly white.