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"It's great, not knowing when he'll come back," she said.
"You're either a masochist or an idealist, I still haven't figured it out."
“Maybe… a bit of both.” She looked up from her work to gaze thoughtfully at the boy across the table from her. No, not a boy. She hadn’t noticed that he’d turned into a man while her back was turned, this brother of hers.
“It’s sorta like a test,” she resumed, “a test of will.”
He laughed at her. “You’re an idiot, Sarah.”
“Maybe an idiot,” she mused, “but a strong one. If that’s what it takes.”
It couldn’t have possibly bothered him that much; my simple action of walking through the door had to be something totally irrelevant to his wild reaction. He keeps staring at me, though. Craning his neck to see me, three rows behind him, now with his blue eyes narrowed. Not wide, like when I first walked in, his eyes portraying a shock towards my very existence.
The familiar drone of the roll being taken distracts him. I can’t concentrate, not through class, not afterwards as I gather my things and walk into the hall where he stops me –
“Hi,” he says.
“How’s it look?” the bride-to-be asked, twirling around in a white frill tornado. No response, as usual. She sighed and looked at her mother lying on the bed. Various tubes protruded from her body and connected to equally various machines around the room. She had tried very hard to have her mother involved in this as much as possible, no matter her response. Or lack thereof. She sat on the edge of the bed, stroking her mother’s wrinkled hand; a tear slipped down her cheek and scarred the virgin dress.
“It’s okay,” she told her mother, hoping to convince herself.
“It’s all delirium,” she whispered to herself, writhing in the darkness. “Nothing is there, nothing is there, nothing is there…” Yet every sound, every shift of the house made her start. This is it then, she thought, frantic. I’m finally going mad.
A floorboard squeaked and she recoiled under the hapless blankets.
Am I supposed to know that I’m going mad, though? Don’t people not realize their insanity?
She continued her fitful restlessness on the bed, trying in vain to find refuge from the terrifying night sounds.
No, if that’s the case, then I’m not mad at all. Not mad!
The forest in which I had presently been supplanted was not entirely to my liking. Soft, dreary darkness wrapped around the too-green trees and enclosed the dismal woods in a protective – though menacing – embrace. But if I had thought it odd to find myself standing in the middle of a fairytale forest, I suppose I was introduced to an even greater shock at the arrival of a tall, black-clad man with piercing blue eyes.
“You’ve come,” he stated.
“Yes.” Words failed me. He smiled slightly, eyes sparkling as he held out his hand to me.
“Are you ready for adventure?”
Ever wonder what the paint tastes like
Dashed in green and glory across a canvas?
Or the fragrance of that poppy-red hue,
Still liquid-y damp on the wall of your sister’s nursery?
Surely it would be a grape, a snozzberry.
That flat canvas, black with paint,
Sticking to my fingers like charred maple syrup –
Shouldn’t it be beautiful to more than two senses,
To more than eyes and fingers, sight and touch?
Shouldn’t that marauding orange burn just like a firecracker’s burst
Or a stray flame from the sun itself,
While the Chinese-lantern white
Shines itself across like a moonbeam.
I’ll be honest: all this week I’ve had the flu. I was barely able to post what I did, and I eventually stopped trying as I felt less up to writing things. Today is technically the ninth, though since I haven’t gone to sleep yet, for all intents and purposes it is the eighth. Pretty much this is my excuse/filler post, half because I’ve been wracking my brain during my hours of suffering to come up with content and half because I’m lazy and I really want to go paint. I still have today’s to do. I’m such a cheater.
Sebastian. I knew someone would find me, I just didn’t know it would be like this. I didn’t know Capricorn’s men were like this, with such a force of hatred and violence and –
I can’t let him find me writing. It’s not a common thing for women to know how to write, and a servant girl? He’d be furious. He’d find out I'm hiding something - my gift. All would be lost. Even still, it’s my small comfort, writing to myself for what? However it may be, I can’t let any of them find out the truth… How I miss Fox.
“Don’t touch it!” she shrieks at him. He pulls his hand away from the canvas as if realizing, for the first time, that it’s a poisonous snake. “It’s not dry yet!”
“I thought it looked glossy,” he comments.
“We’ve got a genius on our hands here.” She turns back to her brush collection: fan brushes go here, the rounded ones up there…
He’s still staring at the artwork, a slight frown in his forehead.
“What’s wrong?” she asks. “Don’t you like it?
“I do.” He scratches his ear. “I just never realized how much paint is in your blood.”
She pushes herself against a wall: there is no way out, and the monster isn’t backing off. Where is her magic now, when she needs it? His fangs are dripping with the blood of his last victims, his footsteps noiseless as he approaches his next.
Come on, come on! Concentrate! she tells herself.
The vampire raises an eyebrow in amusement at her frustrated sigh.
“Plan B,” she says under her breath. “Come on, come closer…”
They both make the lunge at the same time, and only one stands when it’s over, blood dripping from her hands, and not his fangs.
The sun was hot, glinting off the huge steel structures as Hope drew water from the river. She straightened, shading her eyes with her hand. Skyscrapers, they called them. She craned her neck to see the top, but the clouds were obscuring her view. She brought her focus back down to its normal level: pipes were pumping water into the river that flowed by her feet, watering the small, indigenous town by the metropolis. Few people in the city knew her town was there, and her father said they should be grateful.
Hope walked back to her hut, thinking, “Skyscrapers.”
“How close are we?” he asked.
“Not close enough. I told you, this is a close range job; enough with the questions. You sound like a five year-old.” The answering female voice had a note of disdain in it.
“You aren’t being very specific, Lila. ‘Only do what you’re supposed to do,’ you say. Then you fail to tell me what that is.”
“Wait until you see the whites of their eyes, Seph. Just like in medieval times.”
They wait in silence for a moment, until,
“Okay, this is it. Are you ready?”
A grunt as a reply.
“How cliché are we,” the girl with the spiky hair commented. “Philosophizing in a coffee shop.”
One of her fellow thinkers, a tall boy with glasses, just smiled and stirred his frappe. The other girl, a boisterous chick, was hastily flipping through a magazine, apparently in search of proof of her ideal.
“I can’t find it!” she sighed, exasperated. “Either way, I’m right.”
Spiky Hair rolled her eyes.
“It’s a good theory… in theory,” the tall boy was saying, “but your logic is flawed fundamentally. You’re wrong.”
“No. I’m not.”
“Two against one,” Spiky Hair announced, smirking. “We’ve got this.”
“It’s just a dream,” he tells her. “You’ll wake up shortly, and be back in your reality.”
“Then… then…?” The confusion keeps her from forming a coherent question.
“Sh, it’s okay. You’ll only be here for a while, then you can go back.”
“Why is… “ she struggles to control overpowering emotions. “Why am I here?”
He exhales slowly. “It’s… experimentation, you could say.”
“For?” Her voice falters.
“You creatures stuck inside bodies seem to have difficulties acknowledging anything different than yourselves. We want to see why.”
“It’s okay,” he says again, “it’s just a dream.”
Hi guys. This is another filler post, because I just finished writing a ten page research paper in the four hours before it was due. It was a very boring endeavor, that. Because of this, I am completely drained of nice things to write about. Or even not nice things to write about, for that matter. You would think after several semesters in college I would figure out that procrastinating is NOT the best thing in the world for an A paper. Though… I’ve only ever received an A paper, so that must be my problem. I procrastinate too well.
Squish, squish, go her shoes as she walks across the hallway. Story always loved how her sneakers sound on the clean floors. Especially wet.
Squish, squish; back and forth. “MOM!” she calls. “Mom, I want juice!”
She walks to her mother’s office. Empty. Downstairs (squish squish), to the kitchen, where the window pane sits in quiet pieces on the floor. Story nudges her sleeping mother with her toe, accidentally stepping in the red stuff all around. Nothing.
Her shoes are wet now. Squish, squish, down the hall. “I’m thirsty,” Story whispers, as her shoes squish red across the floor.
You touch, but you aren’t feeling. Hear, without listening. Look, without seeing. What happens next? What happens when the faces fade and the music dies and you’re left with just a memory? When everything is black and white, white and grey, noiseless, emotionless, and you do nothing about it? What happens when nothing’s left, nothing’s left…
The alarm sounds; another dreaded morning. Hand reaching to silence it, then to find Day Clothes, that grey tunic. Washing face, teeth, a remembrance of something missing, something lost…
Walking down the colorless concrete lanes, identical humans tending to duties. Remembrance of something lost…
He walks into class, forcing himself not to look up. He knew if he did, he would automatically look to the back, to
He sits down, conscientious of his lab partner’s absence. Second day, already. Maybe he dropped?
The back was so quiet. Was she even there? He did what he hoped was a stealthy peek; no
. He sighs: not relief… Was he worried about her? Surely not.
He writes his name on his homework for something to do; someone opens the door.
Don’t look up…
he thinks, but he does, and their eyes meet, and she smiles.
She can hear the train in the distance. Too far to bother her yet, as she walks along the tracks. She’s not suicidal, but this adrenaline rush as she picks her way through the railroad ties in the dark brings her back each night.
No stars are out tonight, and only a tiny sliver of the moon is visible in the sky. The metal of her flashlight is cold in her hands, but she never turns it on. The dark is so peaceful. The train is closer now; she skips off the track and towards home, already excited for tomorrow.
I glare at him, trying to convey my full anger in my eyes. His own blue-green eyes smirk back, uncompromising.
“Take it back,” I demand.
He scoffs and messes with his phone.
“If you don’t take it back, I… I won’t be your friend anymore!” I know my threat is futile: I have no ammunition against this boy.
“Oh, so that’s all I had to do? You should have told me sooner!” A wink.
“Fine.” I move to a different table, pouting.
He disappears, and comes back with two sodas, his way of saying sorry. He knows I'll forgive him.
She lay unconscious in the mortuary. Her body harbored a recessive gene that had been the object of extensive searching for the past decade, and finally, she was in the hands of the same experimenters who lost her almost eleven years before.
She began hearing the voices of the men around her, though no meaning could be made of them. The lights, they were so bright, she didn’t want to open her eyes. She could feel the pricks of IVs in her arms, and louder than the outside voices was one seemingly inside her very being.
“I’m here,” it said.
“… and accuse them of things,” the general was saying. He heard them from his hiding place in one of the unused wine cellars. That was the great thing about German mansions: so many places to hear and not be seen.
“It will be like nothing else, they’ll be indicted and executed before they can utter a word.
” The general was smiling at his cleverness.
, he called it. So this is what they had been planning; this was the meaning of the sudden cease of confrontations. It was secret, a
He’d have to warn them.
The Inland Empire, they called it. No one was ever allowed to cross the channel between the isles of the commoners to the vast lands of the royalty. Not unless one was specifically called for, a summons that was both dreaded and desired; it was the Unknown.
Now, Talyan was making the journey across the sea. The King had heard of his ability to draw the future, and he wanted the ten year-old for his personal use.
Upon arrival, Talyan was handed parchment and pen.
“Draw,” commanded the King.
“I will, my lord, but you will not see it completed.”
The next time she saw him, he was wearing jeans and a baggy hoodie.
He looks like a punk
, she thought to herself. Was that a good thing?
He ignored her existence. To be expected. What wasn’t to be expected, though, was when this man, this guy she knew only by face and his beautiful eyes when he came to the coffee shop late every night, pulled out a pistol and calmly commanded everyone to get on the floor. Except her, he said. Specifically. People sobbed as they covered their heads in their hands.
“You’re coming with me,” he said.
This always happens doesn’t it? I’ll be going along perfectly fine with my 100 word stories, when Poof. Everything goes blank. It’s usually a combination of tests (anywhere between three and five million thousand tests at once), life, and… laziness that gets me behind. I’m ashamed, really I am. But think about it: writing 28 independent 100 word stories in a row is slightly challenging. Especially when I try not to have the same subjects or themes more than once.
In other, irrelevant news, I finished painting a picture, sewing a tiny bunny/cat thing, and writing my government paper.
The electricity had been out for several months now; only a rare, startled flickering would sometimes awaken a random light bulb. For the most part, the dark of night was as it had been before technology saved civilization from its fear of the unknown. Whole cities lay in waste at the chaos, and deep underground, creatures began their ascent into the newly-darkened world, intent on reclaiming it. As people forgot the lit nights of the past, they began remembering the haunting stories that made nightlights necessary.
And in the darkness, the monsters’ eyes glowed with hunger and feral instinct.
She curled herself in a ball on their bed, willing herself to breathe while moving as few muscles as possible. Maybe, if she was still enough, the world would forget she existed and would leave her alone.
Or maybe not.
“Shannon, I’m sorry, I just -“ He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to finish, because they both knew what he was going to say; they both knew it would end the exact same way as it always did: they’d make up. There was always tomorrow to ruin. But not this time.
“I don’t think I’ll come back,” he told her.
“Story, gimme story!” The little-boy voice squeaked out through the spacious workroom.
“No story, kid,” a man answered, barely out of his childhood himself. “I’m busy.”
The kid blinked at him. Hard. He squinted his eyes and tried to change the man’s mind with his own. He’d read about that, once.
“Stop making those faces, you’re going to die.”
“I won’t!” the kid shouted. “Story, or
die!” Another squint.
The man smirked. “Fine, but I pick.
“Once upon a time...”
The kid smiled in anticipation; he could tell this one was going to be good.
“The end,” he winked.
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