Quantcast

Jump to content


Photo

Write Every Week

write bitches

  • Please log in to reply
67 replies to this topic

#26 Coops

Coops
  • 🌧️🌩️🌧️




  • 3,607 posts


Users Awards

Posted 06 February 2016 - 03:52 PM

People who have until midnight to submit their first write every week entry:
@QueenLoki @DonValentino @Jess @0ryx @Susie

Remember, it can be anything and doesn't need to be longer than 250 words. It can even be random word association, or other writing warm up type activities. :3

Tomorrow is the beginning of the next writing week.



#27 KyloRen

KyloRen
  • Snoke says I'm special.



  • 5,111 posts


Users Awards

Posted 06 February 2016 - 04:46 PM

I'm on it. It's kind of long though, 2,000+ words here, as it is a chapter for the story. 

Spoiler



#28 Jess

Jess
  • 🍴Aioli-American🍴



  • 9,215 posts


Users Awards

Posted 06 February 2016 - 06:16 PM

"What the fuck , mom?" I yelled, when I got to the end of the grocery list. "Nicotine patches?! You don't even smoke!"

"Please don't cuss, Andra. I know what I'm doing." She didn't even turn her head from the wall to look at me.

"Fine." I said, making a mental note to call the psychiatrist in the morning, because she's obviously losing her mind as well as her motor function. "What strength?"

"I don't know. I don't smoke."


I guess I stared at the smoking cessation display a little too long, because after a while, a tall pharmacy worker comes out to see if I need help. I tried to explain that I needed patches for a non smoker and all I ended up with was a lecture on getting high on patches. Five minutes later, I googled my way into knowing she should probably take the smallest dose since you can od on nicotine. Is she seriously going to kill herself with nicotine patches? I should pick up some St. John's wort too, it would probably calm her down some.

I get back home and she's pretending to sleep. "Mom? I got everything,"

She starts trying to roll over to look at me. I can't decide if I should help her or not and in that second, she quit trying and whispers, "even the patches? Will they kill me?"

I try to keep my face blank while shaking my head. "No, not if we only use one at a time. I'll keep them upstairs with me."

The next day I call the dr and tell him about her sudden urge for nicotine patches. As far as either of us know, she's never smoked a day in her life and refused to associate with those who did. I'm sure he was trying to be reassuring, but when I heard the phrases"dementia testing" and "in home nurse", it made me apprehensive.

Having the weekend off could've been nice. I didn't have work until the next day, had already done my homework... But it was ruined by googling "nicotine patch addiction" and "non smoking patch addict". Turns out there's a dozen or more reasons, each a little wackier than the last, on why people start doing patches. I went through ingredient listings, side effects, psychological effects, anything I could possibly think of to explain why the hell she wanted them so badly. She didn't say anything when I said I wanted to keep them upstairs, and had appeared almost pleased to hear that she probably wouldn't kill herself with them.



#29 Katya

Katya
  • cougar slut

  • 6,850 posts


Users Awards

Posted 08 February 2016 - 09:52 AM

I never understood why, but there was something comforting in going back home just moments before the sunrise. One day, when I commented this during a particularly rough night-shift, one of the guys told me that I only felt that way because I had nothing waiting for me at home that made me want to be there. And in every day when I was not enough for me, I knew he was right.

I had to expel that thought out of my head like a virulent symptom when I entered the darkened house. I closed the door behind me, locked it and decided to not turn on the light. A minute later, my eyes were fully adjusted to the dark and I could see the shadows of the furniture. Slowly removed my boots, went upstairs and entered my bedroom. The moment I saw the bed I finally noticed how tired I was, how much my whole body had been enduring. I unholstered the gun and put it in the nightstand drawer, took off my clothes and entered the bathroom for the most desired shower, still in the dark.

Sitting on the bed while I braided my hair, my eyes were travelling through all the pictures in the wall in front of me. All Carl's boyish smiles, every single picture of me when I was still a happy child, and the most recent ones, all Thom's photos, and just one where we're both in it. Thom had taken it in one of the first nights after I moved in with him. After I fell asleep, he squeezed me in his arm, kissed me on the cheek and took that photo. I hated photos, but Thom said to me once, with a very serious tone, that all he wanted to was to show me what it was like waking up in the middle of the night by my side. He wanted me to know the face of happiness. The next day I bought a second-hand Polaroid and started to take photos of him without his notice, every time I felt too much happiness inside my chest I was afraid it was nothing more than a sick, twisted dream. Ironically, most of the photo I took, he was asleep, only a few while he prepared breakfast half naked, but the first ones were from his tattoos.

All those pictures in the wall were a sad remembrance of someone I was before. Before the pain, before the violence, before death. The two bullets and the diamond ring I carried with me in that damned silver necklace was my way of punishing myself. I could never let myself forget. His absence was the deepest pain that had infiltrated in my bones. And made me feel as lost as the day those bullets end everything that was once good.

I laid down on the bed, rested my head on the pillow and covered my naked body with the cold bed sheet. That piece of fabric and the gun inside the drawer was all I needed when everything I ever wanted had been taken from me.



#30 Keil

Keil
  • Above Average Mediocrity


  • 6,350 posts


Users Awards

Posted 13 February 2016 - 12:26 AM

WEEK II

 

"Renascence"

 

It starts with a chime and a symbol I do not recognize

and a movie whose frames flicker between the past and 

someone else's future. Oh how beautiful they would have

grown as corrupted and broken figments in my memory.

Equally impressive and unrelenting in my recurring dreams.

 

The curtain swings wide open and blinding light tumbles

out. Only then did my eyes readjust to see I was silent

only in front of a mirror with a cloth stained by

the makeup that once was on my face. I squint.

 

I was poured another one by a friend. He was obviously 

drunk. He chirped about semantics. He claimed it was he

who reached the end first by a nose. So he must be better

than me. Even in the heat of argument, he choose to bow out.

Today was a great day for a great time and celebration,

he said. Let's not fight. Even now, he still remained to

be the better man. I sipped the spirit and it tasted like air. 

 

He laid drunk beside me. He had another story to share.

He always had stories to share. This time it was about

the war. That even then when he carried a rifle, he spilled

beer with everyone and in the time when his life could

have ended, he knew how to truly live--as an engravement

somewhere, but not before channeling a laugh or two.

 

I don't know how and I don't know why, but I find myself

still walking alone late in the morning until I hear my own

footsteps drumming along a wooden bridge and the water

below still seemed dark, but not dark enough to not see

myself from when I was a child. I must have been here before.



#31 Keil

Keil
  • Above Average Mediocrity


  • 6,350 posts


Users Awards

Posted 19 February 2016 - 11:21 PM

Week III

 

"Don't worry!"

 

A soldier kicked down the charred door. The door’s impact onto the floor stirred the dust and ash that settled. He placed a handkerchief over his mouth and clicked his flashlight on before stepping into the room. The fire singed everything. The brown wooden floors now blackened and the walls once painted a soft blue, a mosaic of grays with the occasional brown lines peeking through from the grains of the wood. Any furniture that retained its shape were mere skeletons that could crumble with a single touch.

 

He kicked down another door at the end of the hallway. Other than the door frame, the room was left untouched by flame. It was windowless with a simple table for a desk and creaky bed with a very old mattress. On the desk was a piece of paper, almost filled up in cursive handwriting.

 

Dear Daddy,

 

You don’t have to worry anymore. I did everything you said I’m out of the country safely. I’m in the city across the border and am staying with this kind man I’ve met on one of the rest stops. His name is Martin. He is a talent scout for the movies made in this country. He says I have talent and can do well.

 

He even offered to let me live in his building until I have enough money to rent out a place of my own. Right now, I’m inside a room he offered. It’s no palace, but it has a nice bed and a grand desk for me to write like the one found in grandfather’s study. The best part is the window. I have a beautiful view of the city and seeing all the tall buildings and running cars below makes me feel like I’m a modern, city folk. Right now, I can see a beautiful sunset and it makes me feel so happy to be alive. I couldn’t be anymore thankful.

 

Martin is so kind. When I first entered his building, I heard screams coming down from the basement. I was really scared, but he told me it’s fine. Did you know? Martin is housing the crazy homeless that the government won’t even look at. There are good people in the world.

 

Please don’t worry about me. I’m more worried about you. As I ran across the desert and stopping to rest at all the places you marked on the map, I never stopped thinking of you. You decided to stay to help other people flee like you did for me. I pray that you have the blessings to keep you safe.

 

I’ll keep writing to you until you’re safe right here, on the other side of the border. So please, don’t worry about me. I was told that I’ll be coached with the basics of acting later tonight. I’m going to do my best so that when you arrived, I can pay for a good house for all of us to finally be safe in.

 

-Marco

 

The letter was dated yesterday. The soldier put the letter down and headed for the basement.   



#32 Coops

Coops
  • 🌧️🌩️🌧️




  • 3,607 posts


Users Awards

Posted 22 February 2016 - 10:39 PM

I'm late. I apologize. It's been a hectic week. But that's just an excuse. This is the kind of thing that I expect people to be in and out of, so don't worry too much if you don't submit anything. @KyloRen @Katya @Kelvin @DonValentino @Jess @0ryx @Susie 

 

I'll put my entry up when it's been accepted/declined by the magazine I submitted it to.



#33 Katya

Katya
  • cougar slut

  • 6,850 posts


Users Awards

Posted 24 February 2016 - 07:56 AM

Since Codex seems to hate me right now, I'm taking a break from the site until its PMS has passed or whatever. Therefore I won't be posting here actively/at all.



#34 Coops

Coops
  • 🌧️🌩️🌧️




  • 3,607 posts


Users Awards

Posted 24 February 2016 - 05:53 PM

Since Codex seems to hate me right now, I'm taking a break from the site until its PMS has passed or whatever. Therefore I won't be posting here actively/at all.

No worries, no stress. <3 I hope things can get better for you.

 

Skipping week 2/3 because I've been lame. My article was accepted. So here is this week's entry (week 4):

Litany of Positivity Porn

 

All that negative stuff isn’t healthy. You just need to move on. You just need to think positively. You need to stop perceiving that darkness. Maybe you should pray to god. I don’t know why it’s like that, but there are people worse off. You’re not the only person like this, you know. I don’t know why you’re being so dramatic. I’m sorry I can’t handle all your sadness anymore. At least it isn’t cancer. You can still walk though. Why do you always talk about this? Why can’t you just talk about happier stuff? You should get out more. You should exercise more. Buck up, it’s not that bad. You just need to pull yourself up by your boostraps. You’re fine. Stop worrying. Maybe you need a vacation. When are you going to just let it go?
 
Stop.
 
But they mean well, you should just appreciate their positive thoughts. You just need to thank them for their prayers and good vibes. They were being nice. You’re just making a big deal out of nothing. You’re so ungrateful.
 
Your intention is irrelevant, if not selfish. You’ve exploited the sick with your brand of “empathy”. It’s fake. You may tuck yourself in carefully to get a good night’s sleep, but this culture is a gimmick. It’s a cop-out.
 
Seriously, your silence would be better appreciated. Didn’t your mother ever say if you don’t have something nice to say, you shouldn’t speak at all? Your positivity porn is tired, it’s old, and I’m over it. You’re trying to minimize, marginalize, dismiss, invalidate – move on because that will not be accepted.
 
My dearest chronically ill friends – that is what you need to say if anyone should ever utter a word of their positivity or inspiration porn. Don’t get me wrong, a healthy dose of positivity is important for experiencing the spectrum of human emotions. Happiness cannot exist without sadness. Grief does not overwhelm without ecstasy. Calm doesn’t breathe without anger swelling on the other side. We are a culmination of these experiences. Each emotion, each experience, each feeling and attitude has a place and should be weighed when we consider the human condition.
 
And please don’t mistake this as me saying that pain equals strength because that is not the case. There people who have moments of strength and weakness, with and without pain and illness.
 
But this culture of positivity needs to stop.
 
It is preventing legitimate strides toward a more equal foundation for the chronically ill and in pain and disabled. People are prescribing happiness in the place of medicine. Medicine that is supported empirically and scientifically. It’s intended as a placebo. A dose of sugar on our shitty lives. But we can stop it. We are sick and we are in pain, but we have a voice. Our voice matters. We are relevant. We are human beings and our health isn’t inconsequential. We are not collateral damage to a misguided drug war, or political mismanagement. We are in pain and we are exhausted. But we have the right not to be, as much as able.
 
Talk about it. Do not accept positivity and inspiration porn. Positivity isn’t a cure for genetic disorders. It can’t fix a congenital brain condition. Call your friends, family and doctors out on it. Correct them. Set those boundaries. And never accept less. This is critical. Do not sacrifice your mental, emotional and intellectual safety for that. Intention is irrelevant in this context. Your well-being is not.


#35 Keil

Keil
  • Above Average Mediocrity


  • 6,350 posts


Users Awards

Posted 27 February 2016 - 08:57 PM

Week IV

 

"Tremble"

 

I am at a loss. I have too much overwhelming feelings and irrational thoughts going through my head. And I don't know what is going on.

 

It won't hurt to try that technique the shrink told me to me try. It was called self-orienting or some shit like that--something used to make you feel calmer by being more perceptive of your surroundings and making sense of where you are in any given moment. The shrink said this works for a lot of people and she even claimed that she does it too. It's like meditation she said. Meditation is for pseudo-philosophical hypocrites who uses drugs and alcohol to fill the void they claimed doesn't exist in themselves. But, I'm willing to try this self-orienting or whatever it's called. At this point, what do I have to lose?

 

Okay.

 

I am in my bed. I am on my laptop. My laptop needs to be cleaned like holy shit, there's dried chunks of sweat crusting over the keys. Disgusting. Now I'm feeling disgusted with myself for not cleaning my keyboard for that long.

 

I am feel tingly. Not the tingly in the good sense like anticipating for something great like before the roller coaster car reaching the apex, nor the tingly where your hands and feet are on pins and needles. It's not the tingling from drugs either. I've been clean for 8 days, not by choice. I can't afford several grams from Leesha because I had to buy a new black suit. This tingly is hot and grating. It feels like shards of glass are coursing through my veins. I'd rather have that then feeling stressed about whatever I'm going through.

 

I hate talking about my life. Part of it is because people who share anything about their lives aren't exactly heroes or people of high caliber, and I guess I don't want to be like that by association. I imagine if I did talk about my life, it would be because I wanted mimic awesome people who aren't ashamed of sharing their worst life stories. I hate talking about my life even more now because now it makes sense that I am a weak-willed person who does shit because great people do it. Now I don't want to say anything about my life.

 

Maybe if I say it was my "friend" that is going through my shit, it would be easier to say. Yeah, I'll do that. It seems much easier and palpable to me.

 

My friend's best friend committed suicide. Ow. It hurts just saying my friend went through that. Well anyway, my friend's best friend's death is causing my friend to feel overwhelmed. Don't get me wrong, anyone's death, in any circumstance, can another people easily riled up. But consider that my friend is in this state for two weeks with no relief or rest. He is feeling like he has glass shards coursing through his veins every moment to that point that he is tempted to rip out each blood vessel if means relief. 

 

What scares my friend the most is that he can't make sense of the entire situation. No matter how he tries to logically align his thoughts, his emotions would overpower him and he will end up motionless with the exception of his heart that seems much louder and much more forceful than usual. When he thinks of his friend's name, he can't even get a face to pop up in his mind. He knows he had a best friend who committed suicide, but he can't remember anything else. Wait, he can't remember anything about his best friend? If he was truly his best friend, wouldn't he at least have fond memories to look back upon? 

 

The last two weeks has been hell for my friend. On top of feeling shredded on the inside-out, he can't think in class, work, or in everyday social interactions with his other friends. It must be normal to be that way, right? Like unable to face reality after a really tragic event. but is it normal to feel the same exact thing for the last two weeks with no change in sight? Don't people go through at least to the next few steps of the five stages of grief? Is it weird to still be in shock after all this time?

 

And is it weird that my friend wants to get out of this state as soon as possible? Maybe through pills like his best friend? Wait a minute, did my friend's best friend OD on sleeping pills? I can't remember.



#36 Jess

Jess
  • 🍴Aioli-American🍴



  • 9,215 posts


Users Awards

Posted 01 March 2016 - 06:36 PM

I flopped on my bed, tossing the phone to the side. Staring up at the ceiling, every time she went a little off played across the paint. When she refused to let me take her the normal way from the doctor's office. Instead, we went in a large C shape near a local pond. "This is my favorite way. Henry takes me here often." I tried to get out of here who Henry was, where they met, and when he comes over. She's been bedridden for at least five years now, and probably hadn't left the house in a decade before that. Whenever I prodded her though, she just ignored me, her hand pressed against the glass, seeing a lost memory instead of me. The time she insisted that she have nutmeg in every bite that went in her mouth. From fruit to fish, I was ordered to coat every centimeter with nutmeg. She claimed it came from a dream, that she needed to do this in order to heal properly. I didn't bother reminding her that she would never heal properly, that she would die as she lived. Finally, now. The grocery lists that mishmashed together with no regard for flavor profile or meal planning. B6 supplements and dryer sheets. Why would someone who never did laundry need dryer sheets? And the thing I was still stuck on, nicotine patches. I told the doctor as each thing happened; he assured me that it was normal for a hermit to develop harmless erratic tendencies and to stop her if she tried to kill herself. 
 
I grabbed my phone again and checked the time. I'll google all this crap later, when I have more time. I have to get to work or I'll be late again. I used to think of myself as a reliable, stable person, back before I became a caretaker with every second of the day filled between her, work, and school.


#37 Keil

Keil
  • Above Average Mediocrity


  • 6,350 posts


Users Awards

Posted 05 March 2016 - 05:32 PM

Week V

 

"Progress"

 

In a candle-lit room, a young woman stares out of her window, looking at the streets below teeming with drunks and nightwalkers. The door at the opposite side of the room opens and her face lights up.

 

A: You’ve come back! What a surprise. What’s the matter? I’m sorry I couldn’t come to your performance. I was excited to see your face on the television.

B: I was busy with the tour. I’m sorry it’s been so long.

A: I don't want you to break up with me. I’d been praying this night wouldn’t come. That’s what it is, right?

B: Yell at me all you want. I came here ready to listen all night.

A: I can do anything I wish?

B: Hit me if you want.

A: I never could. I love this face too much. You know, the radio station is closing down. It was bought by a conglomerate. They’re turning the lot into another mall. And I’ll be jobless in two months. What will I do?  

B: Why not become a singer? You said you wanted to go on stage.

A: Oh no, it’s too late for me. Maybe I’ll go back to the countryside. I don’t have any family, but it’s better than being here. I could make a living selling dried fruits like my mother.

B: You’re testing me again.

A: B, please. Run away with me. Please?

B: You need to become capable enough to live on your own. If you depend on others who’ll change for you, you’ll be helpless when they leave you. That’s the kind of age that’s coming. An age when you must adapt or be discarded the moment no one wants anything out of you.

A: Don’t talk down to me! How else could I live since no one will hire me? And you don’t even know my past.

B: You don’t know mine, either.

A: I will have my revenge. Perhaps I’ll die and haunt you. What is it, why are you so quiet? Is it that funny? Stop it! It is so frustrating. The next time I see you will be in hell.



#38 Coops

Coops
  • 🌧️🌩️🌧️




  • 3,607 posts


Users Awards

Posted 05 March 2016 - 07:16 PM

Week V

 

"Progress"

 

In a candle-lit room, a young woman stares out of her window, looking at the streets below teeming with drunks and nightwalkers. The door at the opposite side of the room opens and her face lights up.

 

A: You’ve come back! What a surprise. What’s the matter? I’m sorry I couldn’t come to your performance. I was excited to see your face on the television.

B: I was busy with the tour. I’m sorry it’s been so long.

A: I don't want you to break up with me. I’d been praying this night wouldn’t come. That’s what it is, right?

B: Yell at me all you want. I came here ready to listen all night.

A: I can do anything I wish?

B: Hit me if you want.

A: I never could. I love this face too much. You know, the radio station is closing down. It was bought by a conglomerate. They’re turning the lot into another mall. And I’ll be jobless in two months. What will I do?  

B: Why not become a singer? You said you wanted to go on stage.

A: Oh no, it’s too late for me. Maybe I’ll go back to the countryside. I don’t have any family, but it’s better than being here. I could make a living selling dried fruits like my mother.

B: You’re testing me again.

A: B, please. Run away with me. Please?

B: You need to become capable enough to live on your own. If you depend on others who’ll change for you, you’ll be helpless when they leave you. That’s the kind of age that’s coming. An age when you must adapt or be discarded the moment no one wants anything out of you.

A: Don’t talk down to me! How else could I live since no one will hire me? And you don’t even know my past.

B: You don’t know mine, either.

A: I will have my revenge. Perhaps I’ll die and haunt you. What is it, why are you so quiet? Is it that funny? Stop it! It is so frustrating. The next time I see you will be in hell.

Dark and very unique presentation. I like it. =3



#39 Keil

Keil
  • Above Average Mediocrity


  • 6,350 posts


Users Awards

Posted 12 March 2016 - 10:58 PM

Week VI

 

"The Eyeglass"

 

They told me to come up with a title within the next twenty minutes. The protagonist of the story wanted to host a funeral for the town's well-known outsider. When he asked for help, he had every door closed onto his face. He didn't give up, though. He kept knocking. Knocking. Knocking until doors where opened to tell him to stop.The townsfolk wanted nothing to do with the dead man. The dead man was a rumored murderer and anarchist to the government. The protagonist knew this. There was no denying the fact that the dead man did kill a few people and wanted to shred the fabric of society, but there was so much more to that.

 

He said: What if I told you that the actions themselves does not make the dead man a villain, but the intent does? That much insulted the townsfolk and the doors were shut in front of him a second time until he was completely alone. The protagonist then went back home and thought about holding the funeral by himself, in his room, shut off the from the world who won't even bat an eyelash. You're asking why the protagonist went this far for a funeral? There was no special relationship between those two. The dead man doesn't even know the protagonist's name. All the efforts and knuckles bruised from all the knocking were not of a noble cause and far remote of a turn-of-the-century hero. The protagonist feared dying forgotten.    

 

I wrote:

 

The Funeral They Refused

 

They rejected it. So I rewrote it to:

 

The Funeral I Refused

 

And they ate it all up.



#40 DonValentino

DonValentino
  • Neocodex Handegg League Champion/Daddy

  • 2,462 posts


Users Awards

Posted 16 March 2016 - 11:01 PM

All the hangers faced in except mine. Mine hung facing forward, looking at me. I reached out and pet it. It purred, in that mysteriously pleasing shrill of a purr that only certain metals know how to make. The room vibrated as the hanger shared its energy with me; a kinder gesture I could not imagine. I was in the closet with all of our coats. All the hangers faced in except mine. They all looked at the wall, but mine looked at me. I turned off the light and closed the door, and then, I knew the terrors of the guillotine. A harsh cry leapt from my lips, desperate for my hanger. In a sudden fit of extreme jealousy, I smacked it out of the air, afraid that it might reach my hanger before I did. I watched it dash its head open on the corner of a small table, dying instantly. It held my gaze until I lost sight of it amongst the shoes, promptly forgetting all about it. My hanger swayed, nodding at me. I could feel something climbing up my throat, and I watched in a state of bewildered disgust a frog roll out the red carpet and recite to my hanger:

Dangling outside the mausoleum,

I nibble on the ham and cheese sandwich

my grandma made me before she died.

The teacher reprimands by asking

"Did you bring enough for everyone?"

I hand her the worms

that live in my pockets,

and say, "These should suffice."



#41 Susie

Susie

  • 1,375 posts


Users Awards

Posted 26 March 2016 - 06:35 PM

The guilt.

It sat in the pit of her stomach.

The knowing that she wasn’t the innocent, pure thing she portrayed.

Knowing that if her parents found out, she’d be abandoned.

She couldn’t take the guilt.
The guilt of her actions.

The drinking, the hookah, the guy.

It was all just too much.

She went further with him than she ever had. And even then, not all the way.

But the guilt she felt was overwhelming. He started to ignore her. And continued.

And yet, she still thought of him. Of their time together.

The guilt was overpowering.

She’d grown up in a very conservative family. With very conservative values.

No premarital activities.

She’d broken a few. Not all, but some.

And then guilt of those actions ate away at her daily.

And some of that guilt came from the fact she wanted more.

She wanted him, and she wanted more from him.

But he continued to ignore her.

Her messages, her texts, her calls.

He was no longer hers. But really, he never was.

He was just in town for those few weeks. The invitation was fake.

The car wreck should have been her sign.

She was headed back to her place, to meet him later for dinner, when she hydroplaned and hit a concrete barrier.

That should have been her last clue that he was bad news.

Not the record she found online; not the tattoo of another woman on his arm.

Not the countless lies he told.

But the guilt was still there. Aching to be resolved.

But the girl didn’t know how to resolve it.

She didn’t know if it would ever go away.

She knew it had to. She couldn’t live with it forever. But only time heals these things, she’d learned.

And time was moving too slowly for her choosing.

But for now, she waits for the guilt to subside, and him to get out of her mind. 



#42 DonValentino

DonValentino
  • Neocodex Handegg League Champion/Daddy

  • 2,462 posts


Users Awards

Posted 29 March 2016 - 07:38 PM

“What was it like to be with her?”

 

“The good? It was...it was like walking through the city on a warm summer night. You’d be slightly drunk, with a slice in your hand from your favorite pizza place. A light breeze would carry blossoms down gently around you from trees that lined the sidewalks. Laughter from front steps replaced the sound of traffic, as if everyone had decided to walk that night instead of drive, and no one fought for cabs. You’d walk down the block with one of those grins on your face that you knew looked stupid to everyone that passed by, but you didn’t care, because it meant you were in love.”

 

Dr. Johnson smiled. “That does sound nice. But what about the bad times? What were those like?”

 

Lucas looked out of a window in his therapist’s office. She ran her practice out of her apartment on Central Park West, and out of the window he could see the park covered in snow, the trees bare, shivering in the wind. Her office was set up thusly: two chairs that sat in front of a table that held a box of tissues, and flowers. Lucas wondered how much it cost to have new flowers delivered every day, which he figured must be what happened, considering they never seemed to age or die. Her chair was situated on the other side of the table, behind the couch on which he lay. From this angle, she could see him, but he could not see her without turning his head. He didn’t mind, preferring to spend the time looking outside, the view a far cry from the one offered to him at his apartment downtown. From his living room window he had a great view of the side of the building next to his. Often during the summer months he found himself watching his neighbor’s air conditioners run, and wondered what the fuck he was doing watching air conditioners.

 

“Lucas?”

 

He remembered one night when he and Elyse were walking together across the park, having just had dinner at a nice french restaurant on the Upper East Side. This was back during the good times, when they enjoyed being adventurous together. He’d started teasing her, touching her, and she’d laughed, pushing him away. They’d ended up having sex behind a large boulder, filled with the nervous thrill of getting caught.

 

“Lucas? The bad times?”

 

He remembered how they’d started fighting almost every night. The arguments got longer; the topics more inane. Many times he wasn’t sure what had started the fight. They still fucked, but soon that was all they did. They didn’t talk anymore, besides to yell. Silence and crying soon took the place of words. One weekend she’d been out of town with a girlfriend, and when she came home she told him that she’d kissed another guy. He wasn’t sure why this pissed him off as much as it did. Why couldn’t she have just fucked him, like a normal person? He yelled at her for cheating, she said it was only a kiss. They'd had sex; she’d cried during. They fell asleep in each other’s arms, and the next day she was gone.

 

“Lucas?”

 

Still looking out the window, he replied, “They were worse.”



#43 Poh

Poh

  • 132 posts


Users Awards

Posted 05 May 2016 - 01:29 AM

And the time starts now –

  • +0:11 seconds for Hide and Jack to charge through the glass doors of Woori bank with clown masks tugged over their faces.
  • +0:02 seconds for a deafening gunshot to pierce through the air before screaming ensues.
  • +0:26 seconds to get everyone on their knees and quivering in fear because otherwise I will shoot your fucking face off if you move or even make a single sound!
  • +0:10 seconds to yell in the face of a wailing baby to just shut the fuck up before Hide groans in defeat and stomp off the counter.
  • +0:38 seconds for the teller to put all the money into the metal case but her hands won’t stop shaking despite Hide’s attempt to calm her down by shamelessly flirting with her, telling her how pretty her hands are and how they’d look better wrapped around his--
  • +4:12 minutes for them to empty all the drawers and fill up their metal cases with whatever cash they can after deciding the tellers are all too damn slow and useless.
  • +0:21 seconds to get the hell out of the place, feet bolting towards the sliding doors.
  • +0:17 seconds to jump into the car and slam the doors close while tossing the cases to the backseat and speeding off.
  • +0:06 seconds to catch their breaths before they break into relieved laughter, adrenaline still pumping wildly through their veins.

It’s not the time of his wasted youth he’s counting, just the times he feels alive.



#44 Junjie

Junjie
  • Hi there!


  • 2,170 posts


Users Awards

Posted 13 May 2016 - 01:01 AM

Exit A was the start of a really, really good day. Usually, he never came so early, but when he did he could have it all to himself. Occasionally he would find himself thumbing his nose down at the other low, slow pedestrian users of the other Exits, well at least in his head, till he caught himself. Regardless he held his head high as he sailed through it -- literally feeling the wind in his hair, the warm sunshine in his face, a spring in his step. Most days he was a common drone, but today, today AX-4598 the android could afford a little happiness in his mechanical life as he reported in to the factory.



#45 Coops

Coops
  • 🌧️🌩️🌧️




  • 3,607 posts


Users Awards

Posted 22 May 2016 - 04:44 PM

I am putting a new reminder app on my phone because I am terrible at remembering stuff.

 

Who still wants weekly pings for this?

@Kelvin @Jess @DonValentino @Susie @anyoneelsewhowantsone



#46 Katya

Katya
  • cougar slut

  • 6,850 posts


Users Awards

Posted 22 May 2016 - 04:54 PM

Ping me, please @Coops

#47 Coops

Coops
  • 🌧️🌩️🌧️




  • 3,607 posts


Users Awards

Posted 22 May 2016 - 05:01 PM

Ping me, please @Coops

kk I'll fix the ping list :)



#48 DonValentino

DonValentino
  • Neocodex Handegg League Champion/Daddy

  • 2,462 posts


Users Awards

Posted 24 May 2016 - 09:59 AM

     For Dr. Fort, today was a day like any other, except for the small fact that one of his patients had just exploded. This was, as one can imagine, fairly unexpected, and proceeded to throw a damper on his entire afternoon, which his horoscope had wrongly predicted would be very pleasant. 

     Covered in the recently deceased patient's now not-so-vital organs, he called in his nurse.

     "What is it, Doctor?" asked Nurse Plant, carefully stepping over what we can only assume used to be the poor man's pancreas.

     "Please call in our janitorial staff and have them clean up this mess." Upon further reflection, he added, "And have them scoop up any parts that are still intact, his family might want them. For example, that eyeball over there in the corner, make sure they get that."

     "Yes, Doctor. Anything else?"

     "Please cancel my two o'clock. Mr. Barrow's anal fissures have been acting up again, and I've had a rough enough day as it is."



#49 Jess

Jess
  • 🍴Aioli-American🍴



  • 9,215 posts


Users Awards

Posted 24 May 2016 - 03:33 PM

Yes, @Coops I still want to be tagged. I'm even still writing, it's just on real paper and I need to transfer it over.



#50 Poh

Poh

  • 132 posts


Users Awards

Posted 25 May 2016 - 12:09 AM

"if you promise that you will save me... i will give you all of me."

 

suffering is not pretty, never has been. but thanks to poets and writers and their poetic devices, pain can look like a beautiful tragedy. how sad it is that everything needs to be packaged into an easier pill to swallow. this is not self-preservation; this is delusion, this is weakness – this is a point for exploitation. ( shin has learnt from his mother to make use of that. )

 

“i am not the one you should be promising. change must first come from within. you have to begin by promising yourself that you’re willing to attain salvation even if it means giving up everything that you have. only by leaving behind your material desires and earthly wealth will you be able to receive true grace from god.” 

 

what they want to hear: “jesus fed five thousand men with merely five loaves of bread and two fish. what you deem impossible is but a small feat as long as you offer yourself and simply believe that god provides.”

 

what they need to hear: the world will be better off without weaklings like you.

 

“i am ready to help save you if you’re ready to be saved.”

 

what they don’t have to hear: but what would the strong be without the weak cowering at their feet?


Edited by Poh, 25 May 2016 - 12:09 AM.



0 user(s) are reading this topic

0 members, 0 guests, 0 anonymous users