i want to worship her body
paint every scar with kisses
trace every curve with my eyes
until every part of her is
the only masterpiece i know
her body is my favourite
piece of art
there has never been such
a priceless work of art
i want my hands to
travel
every part of her
she is walking art
she is golden
i have no words
she is mesmerising
her body curved in all the right ways
i want to worship her
in every possible way
she is a goddess
will i be enough?
She finds where it happened and lays down in the grass, it’s slightly uncomfortable due to her wings but she can endure it for a while. It looks so different due to the Tree Being’s influence but closing her eyes makes it feel the same. Behind her eyelids she can see the fire, see the shadowy forms stomping through the flames hunting them, sees people be slane and fall, some thrown into the flames to burn alive.
Her right hand grips the grass, while the other comes up to touch her right hip. Beneath the fur and feathers her fingers find the valley of missing skin. Follows it as it drags across her abdomen growing deeper. With a shuddering breath she reaches up to the feathers on her chest. Her fingers can’t reach the scar, feathers growing thick from it but she knows it’s there.
She can feel the cold as life drains from her and her eyes snap open. Above her the foliage sways gently in the breeze. With a sigh she sits up, flexing her wings. She’s no longer that person and she understands the Tree Being. Sometimes you just want to forget but unlike them, she has scars that will force her to remember.
I’m so used to people leaving
That them staying is almost worst
So much uncertainty
Like a ticking time bomb with a hidden countdown
Are we at ten?
I wish we knew when
The clock would count down to
Nine
Which means that things are beginning to not be fine
Eight
But we still pretend that things are completely great
Seven
Aren’t we in heaven?
Six
What is this?
Five
Insert the knife
Four
My body hits the floor
Three
As you walk out the door
Two
It’s true
One
Everyone always runs
Fandom: Original Fiction
Prompt: From Fictober-Event. #21. “this, this makes it all worth it” & 23. “do we have to?”
Words: 480
The silence that followed Reginald’s question was a heavy one. Then, Queen Ileana stood from her seat and said, “My son, come with me.”
Reginald knew better than to argue with his mother. He knew that tone, it was one that he called ‘in between’, not quite his mother, not quite his Queen. Something that was in between, a thing his mother excelled at. “Yes, mother.”
They did not speak, not until Queen Ileana had let them to the family floor, high above all other in their castle. Then, she opened one of the balcony doors and stepped outside, Reginald followed her quietly, closing the door behind him. His mother had her back turned back to him, staring towards the city. Their palaces stood right in the middle, it had been the first thing that had been constructed and the city built around it.
“You asked of me,” Queen Ileana started, looking over her shoulder at her son, beckoning him closer. “What was worth a crown and its weight. Here is your answer.” She extended her hand and motioned the city. “This, this makes it all worth it. Our people are worth the lives we live, without them, we are nothing. You might think you could do better without the Throne of Almandra looming over you, but, would you truly? Everything you have ever achieved, is because the tutors we can afford to give you. You have learned from the best, and while you are competent, I must speak frankly and say, you do not excel at your studies.”
Reginald blushed and looked away from his mother, “Yes, but…”
“There are other things you could excel, I am aware. But you would because of the advantages and privilege you have. Do you think you would excel at swordsmanship if you were the son of a baker?”
Reginald knew that his mother was right, seldom did the children deviated from the parents. And while Almandra had an excellent way to help those who wished to, it was still no match for the familiar calling of doing what your parent was. “I’m sorry mother, I spoke without thinking.”
Queen Ileana gave him a soft smile, “You are young, but no longer a child. You must think before you speak, and you must learn that not everything needs to be asked out loud, at least not in public.” She placed a hand on his cheek, “Now come, I promised your sister that we would hear her sing.”
Reginald groaned, “Do we have to?”
Queen Ileana laughed, “Yes we do. Now come, I ordered honey cakes and almond cookies.” She placed her arm in the crook of his and began walking.
Reginald followed with a tiny smile, leave it to his mother to ask for both his and his sister’s favorite sweets. His mother was truly wonderful. And she was, indeed, a wise Queen.
She’d be dead if it wasn’t for me. Yeah. I said it. You can argue with me all day long, subject me to electroshock. Commit me.
It won’t change a thing. She’d still be alive, in one piece. Broken, but alive.
None of you would listen. You dismissed the warnings. What did you call them again?
Oh. Right. “Delusions.”
“Coincidences.”
Pah.
You were the delusional ones. You chose to ignore the signs. I didn’t. I knew that something was wrong. Nobody would go down into the basement.
And why?
Don’t lie to me. There’s no reason to.
It wasn’t because it was dark. Or silent. It definitely wasn’t empty, despite your desperate attempts to convince the others.
There was something.
Something only we could see. Could hear.
Something you locked down there, in the dark. The terrible dark.
No. I won’t tell you. You already know. It must feel awful, huh? Being unable to admit the truth.
Even with all those bodies—
Oh. Bodies!
Those bodies. I almost forgot.
You really should burn those bodies. I tried my best, and they can no longer stand, but they aren’t gone. They’re still down there. Together.
And they shouldn’t be together.
Bodies shouldn’t be together. Not like that.
Never like that.
How’s my sister, by the way?
Is she awake?
Is she speaking?
She’d be dead if it wasn’t for me.
Want More: https://evanthenerd83.tumblr.com/post/631333446439059456/go-slow
i can’t say for sure
when we started to unravel.
all it takes is one thread, pulled on
and picked at and loosed
from the whole.
before, we were joined
in a way i thought could never break
yet it’s fractured just the same.
somehow we’ve inverted ourselves,
shrouding in shame a once-proud name
and i ache at the skeleton bones
that now rest in my palm where once
your hand called home.
“i think maybe to live is to hurt”
i whisper to the roaches and ghosts.
i hold my breath, hoping for a response
but all i can hear is the wind.
I collect things, sometimes. Odds and ends, nothing special. Not anything valuable, like coins, or jewelry, or vintage toys from the 1900s. No collectable baseball cards, or books signed by whichever author. I just collect things. Random, everyday things that nobody else but me is interested in. Just me. The things I collect have meaning, I like to tell myself. I always think of that saying, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. I believe that’s true. Maybe the treasure I collect is trash. But it isn’t trash to me.
Throw that junk out, it’s cluttering your room, my mom tells me. But it isn’t junk, I say. It’s my stuff. She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t see the things I see. It isn’t junk, it’s mine. I don’t think she listens to me much.
If you keep collecting things, you’ll be a hoarder, my dad says to me. It’s not hoarding if it’s stuff I enjoy, I try to say. But he doesn’t listen. He and my mom are the same. They don’t see the value in my things the way I do. It isn’t fair. Why can’t I collect my treasures? It isn’t hurting you, I want to say, but I never dare speak a word of it. Don’t talk to your mother that way, my mom would say to me. You need to fix your attitude.
I don’t understand it. My things are special, aren’t they? They’re special to me. The stuffed dog on my bed. The blue worm that lost its string years ago. The pretty rock that sits on my desk. The grim reaper statue I keep on my dresser. The tiny canvas on my bookshelf. They aren’t junk, are they? They can’t be junk, right?
Throw away that old dog, it’s probably got fleas, my mom says to me as I sit on my bed. No, I tell her. I can’t throw him away. He’s special. I clutch him tighter in my arms. He still wears the hospital band around his ankle. If you don’t throw him out, then I will. I hide him in my closet that night.
Why do you keep that old rock on your desk, my dad asks me. Do you even know where that’s been? I don’t tell him where I found it. It’s special, I say instead. It is special to me. I take it off of my desk and shove it in the pocket of my worn jeans. I’m keeping it.
Who even uses feather pens anymore? My sister asks me. Did you kill a bird to get it? She shakes her head at me. I didn’t kill a bird to get it. I found it. It’s special, I tell her. She rolls her eyes at me. It’s just junk, why do you care, she tells me. I hide the feather pen in my drawer.
It isn’t fair. Alex and John’s mom probably doesn’t tell them what she can collect. But Alex collects model airplanes, and John collects baseball cards. Why can she collect those, but I can’t collect the things I have? I don’t understand. I never have understood. If I collected something else, would they think differently?
I started collecting vintage Star Wars figurines after that. The first figurine I ever bought was a beat up Princess Leia. When I found her at the thrift shop, I turned her over in my hands. She was ordinary in every way. Her paint was faded, and she had a dent in her left leg. I showed my mom. Oh, how cute! She told me, fawning over the figurine. Are you going to buy her? I looked back at the figurine. She was ordinary. Yes, I told her.
I collect more after that. Darth Vader, and then R2-D2. Han Solo and Chewbacca. I find an old Luke Skywalker at the yard sale down the street. I buy him, too, along with an old rifle that my dad said I should have. With each figure I collected, it felt less and less right. Why am I buying these figures? It’s because I like them. I like Star Wars, and I like the figures. I collect Star Wars figurines now, don’t I?
What hit me the hardest when I began was the fact that my parents encouraged me. Have you looked on Ebay? I’m sure you’ll find some there, my mom would say. I tell her I will, but I never do. My laptop stays closed on my desk. My friend at work says he knows a guy that has an original Lando Calrissian. Why don’t I ask him for you, my dad said to me. Sure, I say to him. I don’t tell him that I don’t really care.
The figurines mean nothing to me. I find them at a store, or at someone’s sale, and I buy them. They don’t have a story. Nothing like my other treasures. My treasures each have a story. The figurines mean nothing to me, not compared to my treasures.
The stuffed dog that I hid under my bed. He was a gift from my neighbor Belle when I was ten years old. I named him Cream, and she named hers Cookie. Cookie and Cream. After Belle moved away. Cream always slept on my bed. When I had my back surgery four years later, Cream came with me. The doctor put a hospital band with my name on his ankle. Now we know who he belongs to, she said.
The blue worm that used to have a string. He was the mascot for the pretend town that my friends and I made up when we were eleven. We named him Bob. Max, since you’re the president, you get to name him, I said to Max. We’ll name him Bob, Max said. We all laughed, and he sat right on the railing on my porch.
The pretty rock on my desk. I found out that it was actually rose quartz when I went through my geology phase in seventh grade. I found it at the lake when I was twelve while I was exploring with my friends. Nobody else thought it was pretty, not like I did. Why are you picking that up? It’s just a rock, John had told me. I pocketed the rock and shook my head. I think it’s pretty, I said.
The grim reaper figure on my dresser. I found him at Goodwill right before Halloween last year. A few of my friends and I had gone to thrift a costume for the holiday. Thrifting wasn’t cool yet. I saw him on a shelf, surrounded by other, more normal, junk. I plucked him off of the shelf and bought him. For the first time, my friends actually thought it was cool.
The tiny canvas that Richie had painted of my favorite Star Wars character. It was a late birthday present. I was born in April, and they gave it to me in September. We were coming back from the last pool party of the year, and we stopped by their house to get it. I thought it was a funny painting. I put it on top of my bookshelf when I got home.
I decide to throw the Star Wars figurines away the next day. What are you doing? Those are your things! You can’t throw them away like nothing, my mom says to me when I come out of my room with an armful of the figurines. I don’t like them anymore, I say to her, and I toss them in the trash with today’s mail.
It doesn’t matter, I decide, what my parents or my friends think. It isn’t their stuff. They don’t get to tell me what to do with it. That’s my job. I put the rock back on my desk, and I put Cream back in his place on my bed. I take the feather pen out of my drawer and put it with my other writing utensils. It doesn’t matter what they think. Alex can collect her model airplanes, and John can collect his baseball cards. I can do whatever I want with my things. That’s all they are. Things.
“Finally,” comes that absolutely dreadful whisper of vocal sludge he hoped he wouldn’t come cross again, “the boy with the blog.”
“You’ve read my blog?” Callisto calls, tilting his head to the side not quite fully, but to distract the monster behind him. His fingers are ashen white as he clutches his gym kit, trying desperately to keep him tethered to something. He’s not above knowing that the moment he fully catches a glimpse of this guy, he’ll be flooded with that same drowning fear again. It’s not even a blog, really, a part of him pipes up in the back of his brain, as if that would deflate the fear whittling at his bones. It’s a Twitter account, at best.
“Only to figure out what you’ve been up too, little cub.”
The gurgle is absolutely dripping with glee now, masked by an unseen sickness and the fact Callisto has had his back to him the whole time. It propels him to tell his feet to move, to dash to the side before he’s hit with the rubbery green rope he’d seen a few nights before. He throws a look over his shoulder, timing it to perfection to witness the capture of an unwitting rosebush where he had just been, sizzling the leaves a little.
He takes off into the dark before he’s grabbed next, the cacophony of the villain’s cackle rattling around his brain threatening to keep him rooted to the spot.
Shit, shit, shit.
A hungry feeling came over me stealing that I was sleeping well. The mice they were squealing round my prison cell. The bell starts ringing, the screws are screaming “Get up you bastards” and “Clean up your cell.”
There’s a stirring from the bed across from me. A bearded man wraps the blanket round himself, taking a look at me asking “You able to get up?”
I blink for a bit, it’s all real I’m in this prison Hell. So many questions, but you got to start with one “Who are you?”
Sitting back on his bed and stroking at his beard he answers “Yousef Amir is my free name, though they’ve numbered me as PP1066.”
I stare at him, he seems rather dirty. Guess his lot refused the prison clothes as well. Catching the sight of a mouse escaping through a hole in the cell, I wish I could follow. Best do the introductions then “The names Seamus O’Saidhail and they’ve gave me the number PP1312.”
Yousef starts laughing as he looks out the window “How did they manage to miss that one, so your political prisoner All Cops Are Bastards.”
my loveliest little one:
we made it out. we did it.
you were strong enough,
kept your head above the water,
even if you couldnt always swim with strong, sure strokes.
we are learning how to trust again.
we are still a bit cracked,
but i see a light shining through it now,
instead of only an overwhelming void.
your letters look less and less like hers.
your reactions are kind now,
and we are learning every day how to love more.
she’s in the past. we have distance.
you are not afraid so often anymore.
i know safety.
i feel comfort.
anger is not so scary anymore.
we made it out.
you were strong enough
you are enough, love, and you are doing everything you can.
your bruises have healed.
my head is not so foggy anymore.
we saved ourselves.
we got out, we did it.
i love you.
no matter what, we’ve got each other. I’ve got you, little one.
you are safe here with me.
1. Your mother told us the world is ending with a shaky voice and tears in her eyes. She didn’t elaborate but this time it feels real.
Not like when we were in high school and you told her you were gay. Her face turned red, tears fell down her cheeks and her voice boomed as she yelled about the end of the world.
2. You kissed me for the first time here in your room. Just out of high school you grabbed my face between your palms and planted a messy, clumsy kiss to my lips.
You kiss me again now. It’s almost our last.
3. You went online to research. That was always your thing.
You looked at news site after news site until your head was aching and your eyes were blood shot.
I looked over your shoulder and tried to read along but got bored after the first page filled with small text. I slept in your bed.
4. You shook me awake after two hours. Tears stained your freckled cheeks. “It’s really ending,” You whispered. Your voice barely heard.
It was going to be asteroids. Tomorrow night, around eight, thousands of flaming rocks were headed for Earth.
5. You cried saying there was no chance of our names being in history now. Something you always wanted. History was never for me, but you were.
I tried to comfort you, saying at least there won’t be a history for anyone to be in, it will be wiped away with us and our love. You seemed soothed by my voice but not my words.
6. While everyone cowers, we grab a blanket and a bottle of cheap rum. We ride our rickety bikes, mine red and yours blue, and we stop at the pier overlooking the lake. Here we will watch.
We trade the bottle back and forth. It stings our throats, and we wince, but we don’t mind. It’s the end of the world after all.
The asteroids start to fall. You kiss me one last time.
7. The night mourns us as we are consumed by fire.
It goes on but still it mourns.
A.Z.B.
It turned out that they would be riding in the back of a carriage. It was covered at least and the interior was smooth and splinter free. But it was a one week trip to Danseg and there were no benches to sit on. Morance knew that it was because there would be many more girls joining them, but she was still uncomfortable sitting on the floor like chattel.
There were two girls in there with her, on opposite sides of the wagon. The girl on the left looked Luzian, like Morance, but her hair was tied up in a very Uissian way. Morance guessed that wherever she was from it was near the border. The girl was in a red dress that was obviously her worshipping best with a contrasting blue corset. She sat with her back straight and her legs tucked dainty under her full skirt. Morance knew that she was just a fifteen year old peasant like herself, but with her half closed eyes she had an air of nobility.
On the right the other girl was wearing field clothes and smelled of fresh straw. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell, it reminded Morance of the autumn harvest and all the hustle and bustle that came with it, but it was a strong one. It wafted off the mish-mash of bright yellow and green skirts and blouses she wore in waves. Morance scooted towards her. The hay girl stopped glaring at the noble girl for a second to smile at Morance.
“Don’t worry,” the hay girl said to Morance with a heavy Allmance accent and a smooth, fairly high voice, “I’m sure the others aren’t all pretentious turncoats like her.”
The noble girl opened her eyes a little, but not for long. Soon she returned to her regular calm demeanor. Hay girl scoffed and sneered and patted the space next to her for Morance to sit.
“We’re going to a school to teach us enough to marry nobles, I know that, but that doesn’t mean we have to act like we’re better,” hay girl seemed optimistic, “I’m not going to forget where I came from, no matter what they want me to do. I’m going to find a gentleman who won’t mind marrying a peasant, and I won’t get married until I do.”
Morance thought about what hay girl said. Her roots, the violin that she had insisted on bringing even though she knew that she would have to get rid of it. Why she was going to the school in the first place; who she would marry and when. Her father receiving a twenty silver allowance every month, he had basically sold her just so he could be more comfortable. But Morance had agreed to it for a reason.
In a decisive step Morance sat next to the noble girl, the hay girl sneered and said something about both of them being turncoats. Morance wanted to laugh, but the noble girl was letting the comments roll off her back so Morance did the same. Marrying well and maintaining her father’s allowance was why she had decided to go, and she wasn’t going to let being headstrong get in the way of that. What did the hay girl think she was getting herself into anyway, Morance thought, they needed to pass as nobles and nothing else. So what if she was a turncoat, that didn’t matter as long as she was able to find a husband.
“Nothing else matters,” Morance whispered to herself, almost wincing at how painfully Luz she sounded.
Normally I would do something spooky for Halloween but the idea well isn’t running on Halloween fuel right now. But I have been thinking of this story for a while and I finally pulled it out of my imagination and onto a google doc. The theme and moral for this story is a bit sad, but I love the journey to get there nonetheless. Maybe I’ll post more about it, but no promises. Life is weird like that, and nothing is ever certain.
Anyway, have an amazing week.
(please don’t steal, repost or copy, this is my original work! @redcheekspearlface )
love interlude
i just wanna be loved
but i can’t admit it to myself
and i push everyone away
but i can’t help being this way
and baby i can’t expect you to fight like this
my heart ain’t made of gold but i sure act like it is
i just want to let you know it’s okay if this is what it is
i told you before i don’t think you should be doing this
and i can’t help but think i don’t deserve you
if it means i lose you
it’s not like i knew, i knew
and i push everybody away
and i can’t help being this way
can’t expect you to fight even though i say i don’t want it anyway
and i know it looks like i don’t care
because i know loving me would never be fair
so please, if you decide to like me
know that i am watching closely
and i can’t admit to myself
that i just want somebody to be nice
but i don’t know how to handle myself
why am i so emotional
no, it’s not good look
gain some self-control
why am I so irrational, but rational
lost in a fantasy, try making it a reality
forever dreaming, nothing feels real
forever feeling, nothing really touches me
make it make sense, please baby hold my hand
i am scared but please stay with me
i’m not trying to be bland
i’m just scared, I’m just scared
i don’t even know how to put it in words
but i am so hurt, i am so hurt
stuck between wanting to be
and wanting to dissapear
but i’m here
i am here
I’ve been dreaming about you these nights. Some nights I feel like I’m betraying you; some nights you betray me. But at least I’m still seeing you, even if it’s only in a dream.
My name is Arabella Clark. I think generally I’m a pretty normal person. I’m just… adaptable.
After my arrest, I figured I had to make the most of my new situation. Hence why I didn’t hesitate when Tegotex approached me with their offer. Hence why I immediately sought out the people who seemed like they had the most to offer me. Hence why I did everything I could to (observe) the politics of the facility, hence why I was able to (manipulate?) them to my advantage so effectively.
So it’s not like I set out to run a prison gang. It just sort of… happened.
I guess I’ve always been a natural leader. It’s been called different things throughout my life; as a child I was bossy. In high school I was assertive. In college I was confident. At work I was That Bitch.
Honestly, I think it comes from my being something of a control freak. It’s much, much easier to control things when you’re in charge, after all. And you have to be in control when you’re leading other people, especially when those people are a motley group of convicted criminals. They’ll pounce on any hint of weakness. So I have to carefully control myself around them, modulate my emotions, project an air of confidence and (knowledge) that helps people believe that I’m where I’m supposed to be. Plus, it makes the others think that challenging me is either going to be downright impossible, or so convoluted it’s not worth the effort.
Then there’s the people I surround myself with, which helps.
Gwen is fantastic. She’s been my number two for quite a while now, and she’s absolutely perfect for the job. Does whatever I ask whenever I ask, without question or hesitation. Don’t get the wrong idea — it’s not like I ask her to do anything she wouldn’t want to do. But it’s nice to know that when I have a problem in her wheelhouse, I don’t have to worry about how I’m gonna ask her, or what she’s gonna say when I do. Reliable, that’s the word. And her work is always top notch. She’s a bit of a stickler that way, which frankly is awesome. The job’s always done, and it’s always done to perfection.
Can’t say the same thing for Devereux. I mean, I keep him onside for a reason, and if he’s into it, he’s even better than Gwen. But man is the guy freaking temperamental. I’m lucky his reputation is what it is, because half the time when I give him a task he turns around and does the opposite.
I love him to death, though. Out of all the people I count as my followers, all the members of my gang, Gwen and Dev are the closest things I have to real friends. And that’s not something to turn your nose up at. Not in here.
Gotta say, I did not see my life turning out this way. But that’s what happens when you lose control — one single, stupid mistake, and all your plans and goals and dreams are just — bam. Gone. Nothing but wispy fragments of memory.
The lesson from that is obvious: never lose control.
And that’s the motto I’ve been living by ever since.
My name is…
Ah, what does it matter.
Call me Ishmael. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. The clocks are striking thirteen.
Whatever.
I’ve lost everything.
It was worth it.
I’m sure there are people who would disagree with me. There always are. But what the fuck are you supposed to do in a situation like that? People can sit up in their high towers and wax lyrical about black and white morality, but for fuck’s sake, the world is fashioned in shades of grey.
Guess it just took me a little too long to figure that out.
I can’t ever go back, at this point. What I did, what I was forced to do, I mean— that in itself is bad enough, sure. But in the clusterfuck that followed, the bridges I burned, the excuses I made, the decision to flee; none of them will ever look at me the same again.
I wish that didn’t hurt as much as it did.
Fuck, I even wish it hurt in the right way.
Jesus fucking Christ, now even I’m doing it. The world tells us we’re supposed to feel a particular way about particular people. I never really could get the hang of that. Though even that could be chalked up to another misunderstanding about the world, when you get down to it. Or an assumption, more accurately. An expectation.
I’m so fucking sick of fulfilling people’s expectations.
Almost as sick as I am of failing to live up to them.
I should’ve told Gracie something. Jesus, she’s gonna latch onto that fucking bastard even more now, with me gone. I wish I’d taken the time to explain to her why it is that I never wanted to know him. I wish I’d told her more than the dismissive bullshit I peddled every time she brought it up. She deserves to know the truth. And god knows he’s not gonna tell her. Nah, he’ll just do what he did to our mother; ingratiate himself into her life until she feels like she can’t live without him, and then take her for everything she’s got.
Yeah, so if I had one regret? That’d be it.
That and Alicia.
And Mandy.
And Rush.
Jesus Christ.
I’ve just gotta narrow my focus. Only think about what would’ve happened if I didn’t do what I did. That— that really doesn’t bear thinking about. And that’s why I know — even with all those regrets, even with the loss of my job and my friends and my life, that I did the right thing. That it was fucking worth it.
I’ve just gotta hold onto that.
Throughout whatever the fuck it is that comes next.
