1
Jul

Jealous Of The Gods

by Shouga Naiko (生姜ないこ)

(mirrors http://s2b2.livejournal.com/139128.html)

28
Apr

A Garden In Italy

by Shouga Naiko (生姜ないこ)

(mirrors http://s2b2.livejournal.com/131753.html)

6
Aug

Intervention

by Shouga Naiko (生姜ないこ)

(mirrors http://s2b2.livejournal.com/50854.html)

“It’s been a while.”

“Mm.” Sofia slid onto the neighbouring stool, signalling to the barman for a whiskey-and-water. “I suppose it has.”

She glanced sideways at the other woman. Valérie had been immediately recognisable to her, even through several years and the half-light. Her dark skin and hair, the cut of her clothing. The lines around her mouth had hardened, but the way she held herself was just the same.

Continue reading “Intervention” »

5
May

Sky Castles

by Shouga Naiko (生姜ないこ)

(mirrors http://s2b2.livejournal.com/46686.html)

Kei was weird and he didn’t talk to people much and he wasn’t afraid of anything. Kei was — a mess of dark hair, wide dark eyes and a wide red mouth set on a spindle neck and a taut, narrow body full of knuckles and joints. And not entirely human: it was common enough knowledge, as such “knowledge” goes, that his mother was a fairy. Everyone knew, as well, that he’d sucked off this one boy two years older than him in lunch break once. He wasn’t much liked, but he was just strong enough and strange enough not to be picked on by anyone with sense. He was twelve and a half years old and precocious, fast like a wild animal, stained green with the moss of old buildings. He avoided school as much as possible, with its dusky, high-walled rooms and its smell of boys and blackboard erasers. He wasn’t very clever in school ways. But then, that wasn’t his world.

Kei was taught to play the pianoforte by old Miss Pethergill, in her room without windows. The piano, which was always barely accessible through the stacks of indecipherable objects. The slow, honey-coloured light, sticky with particles of dust that gathered in the corners of Kei’s eyes and the grey dips of Miss Pethergill’s naked, plucked-bird chest. Her jutting, folded collarbones. Miss Pethergill had left town in her youth as part of a stage show and been brought extravagant gifts every night by her adoring admirers, who changed every week as they moved from town to town. The dangerous, swarthy Cossacks, the officer Sergei Ivanovich, with whom she would have gone away, ah! my dear …

Continue reading “Sky Castles” »