Joselle's derp writing

[Joselle]

SPOILER: Click to show

{Comme il faut; Francis and his mother in an AU}The pale-faced governess from Nantes stands by my brother’s daughter as she plays a sweet song that is too jovial and celebratory to appease my dampered spirit. My sister-in-law, stout and distastefully vain, sits up and gives me a side smile once the tunes fade. From the corner of my eye, I see the young lady look at up me expectantly, eager for praise.

“Isn’t my Estelle lovely? She is to go to Paris in a week from now. There is a suitor for her, you see, the Duke of Montmorency, Nicholas de Bourbon." She places a powdered hand on her rosen cheeks. "We are to see the arrangements when we get there after the gala. Isn't it so, Lydia?”

The governess, youthful and astute in stature, makes a small courtesy smile and replies, "Oui madame."

My sister-in-law's bosom swelled with so much pride, I feared that she was going to ruin her bodice.

“She is lovely indeed,” I reply. I attempt to make a smile but she sees right through my facade.

“You must be stressed, dear Marie. Since your lord husband, God bless him, passed away, I hardly hear your laugh.” She waves a fat finger at her daughter. “Play another song, girl, for your dear, sweet aunt.”

“Merci, I am grateful,” I reply stiffly. It has been months since my stubborn husband passed away from a fever. I have exercised my smile or my tears to no one, and now I almost fear that I have forgotten.

With a grin like her mother’s, the fox-faced girl plays a song at once. The governess besides her nods at the precision of Estelle’s crescendo.

I notice the eagerness in Lady Colette's expression. How can it be that she wants her daughter to leave, her own flesh and blood, to the arms of a stranger? Is there any remorse at all?

It is for money, I answer myself quietly, for riches, honor, and titles that can be bought with a life. How can I be so foolish as to forget the binds of society!

I finally recline back against the cushion of my seat to think about my own child, my boy, my Francis. He used to play the piano all the time for me. I almost drown my musings in the song when someone enters loudly.

“Francis,” I stand up hastily. “You are home!”

My heart spills out happiness at his arrival. The first impulse is to run and embrace him, but I am held back by my own judgment. I am the lady and household of this estate, not a brazen river girl. So I stand there, a hand over the other, prim and proper.

“Mama—I hope I did not catch you at a time of inconvenience, madams,” Francis makes a slight nod at the other women, who reciprocate the gesture. “I wish to speak to my mother, if I may have your consents."

“How can I refuse my handsome nephew!” My sister-in-law stands at once and waves the two to follow the suit. “I will be in the garden. We women, like flowers, need air and sunlight.”

She saunters off like a mother goose, the goslings buoyantly trailing behind her. When the door is promptly shut, the silence and privacy instantly relaxes me.

Suddenly, a big smile is plastered on his lips. I almost wept as I beam back at him, feeling renewed and reinvigorated. His blue eyes twinkle like starlight as he strides over to me and held my arms. He towers over me now, his constitution strong but slender. On his chin and jawline is a light pepper of stubble, something I have not seen the last time I saw him.

“Mama, did you hear the news?” He asks excitedly. Even the timbre of his voice sounds much like a man. He is becoming more and more like his father. I sigh with my own pride, now understanding of why my sister-in-law adores her daughter.

“Napoleon has escaped Elba and plans to take his march.”

I look at him, nonplussed as my smile freezes. “He… escaped?”

“Yes. He is rallying an army, and I shall join to stand beside him in arms,” he tells me with a hearty laugh, “I want your blessing before I take my leave.”

I examine his expression for any sign of a ruse, feeling knots that takes my heart by the noose. My voice comes out as a whisper. “No, no, no Francis.”

I immediately see his excitement melt away as his grip weakens. I move away to refuse myself the look of his face.

“You are not to go to war. I will not permit it.”

“You do not understand me,” He replies calmly, staying his distance, “I must fight.”

“Your place is here!” I affirm indignantly. “What of the estate, your bride, your family. You want to gamble this and your safety for what?"

Then he dares to say, “I do this for honor.”

“There is no honor in war, you foolish boy!" I snap at him, "They don’t care if you are a son of a viscount or a hero or a husband or a pastor. They do not care if you are a son of a widowed mother or if you are to be a father. They will kill you like a hound!”

My cheeks blaze, almost ashamed of the truth.

I turn around to face my boy, my child, who looks at me with such loathing, it looks surreal. I want to say more, but then I find myself cumbered and tongue-tied. This restraint is a natural reflex to me, for it is what women are taught to do. Even in front of my own son, I fear the sin of saying more than I must.

There is nothing but muteness. The last time I endured this kind of antagonizing silence was when I was with my husband, holding onto his hand as he breathed his last. He really is like my husband.

“I’d rather die on the battlefield than die on my bed, weak and without aspiration," he says at once, his tone as sharp as and acidic as daggers. "That is what father would have wanted.”

He marches off and closes the door with a cruel gentleness upon his exit. I already knew it is too late.

I sink onto the piano stool, breathless and hollow. Rubbing my temples, I begin to remember moment he was born, small and red-faced, eyes clamped shut as he wailed for the heavens to hear. He had been so alive when I first held him in my arms. Though he had a heart beating on his own, I still thought it was in tune with mine.

It is cruel, I realize, how quickly children ripen to relentlessly be plucked away from their vines without a care for the stem that had nursed them. What am I to do? How can I stop him? I choke at the thought of barring him away. All is lost. He will adhere to his resolve over mine. A voice takes over in the midst of my grief.

"Honor and pride is not our place," reminds the golden voice of my own mother. "Men wage their wars and fight their battles. Women stay at home to pray and wait. Comme il faut, that is what is meant to be."

A surge takes me from within and I begin to sob against the frame of the piano, my tears blemishing the placid ivory keys.

Then I began to wish, for just a little bit, that if I cry loud enough, someone will finally listen.

[Deleted]

oh GOD ICY OWlaRHEGOISLKNDLO PGWPOS:LGDGFA GEWT :AGJODSPOGd

FRANCIS ;AAAAAAAAAAAAA; OREWGhrnelkTOEWIHGLHKZLNBEgoif

Oh man, I really loved the first person view!! It really helps with the emotion and makes you really emphasize with Marie. ;u; This was wonderful, and the detail, as usual, was gorgeous. It was absolutely lovely and it hurt to read. ;w;

(Also Estelle's cameo was fantastic)

[Joselle]

SPOILER: Click to show

{WARM UP DRABBLE}The morning light breaks through the seams of the curtains, projecting a tiny sliver of light in the otherwise dark room. Nicoleta turns her head to the side and feels the light through the thinness of her eyelid. Wearily, she opens her eyes and mumbled against the broad and heaving chest of her lover. Her cheek is warm and has a very slight cover of sweat. She scoots up to rest her head on the soft juncture of his neck and shoulder, pressing her nose against his jawline. Promptly, she shuts her eyes to try to sleep, but she finds herself distracted by the presence of the man, who is sleeping soundly beside her.

She props herself up with an arm and rubs her eyes. After a quick stretch and yawn, she looks back down at her lover, only to find herself smirking slightly in amusement. He looks so calm and peaceful in his sleep, an expression that so very much contrasts his countenance from the night before.

Nicoleta dips back down on top of him and holds both of her cheeks up with her hands, like how a child would watch something with fascination. She tilts her head to the side and looks away with a stifled laugh at something she thinks is funny. After her short laugh simmers down to a breath, she feels some movement that crawls up the curve of her waist.

“Good morning,” he yawns sleepily as a flicker of green peeked from between his eyelids.

“Good morning,” she replies playfully as she cups his lips together.

He opens an eye in resentment but does nothing to stop her ruse. Instead, he smiles and puckers up to further amuse her. He gets what he wants, which is a simple kiss on the lips.

“Wake up,” she whispers against the corner of his lips, “I need to tell you something, my love.”

He appears more alert now as he looks at her eagerly, a smile forming on his lips. “What is it?”

Her hand snakes down his bare chest as Nicoleta sits upright over him, in almost the same position she was in on top of him the night before. In a swift motion, she pulls out a dense object from the pillowcase that she had purposely set up on the drawer. It is sleek black, chic in form of a .45 caliber semi-automatic pistol. Wide eyed, the man surrenders the sight of his palms, his mouth slightly agape in fear and consternation.

She cocks the gun and glares a hole between his eyes. “Give me back my diamonds, you little bitch.”

[Joselle]

SPOILER: Click to show

{A lifetime}There was a shock of a gunshot, a twisted scream, and a fury of events. When the silence heralded, Heracles rushed to her limp body that squirmed and rested in a growing pool of red. When he held her, he saw that the damage was done, and there was no probably way of getting her to her original form.

“I had a dream,” she whispered in a dying hush, “that we were together. Married, can you believe that?”

She pressed her hand against the blood that was seeping through the black fabric of her dress. The pain was blossoming, the blood dripped from her hand like tendrils.

“You gave me a ring and I laughed so hard. It was tiny, but cute.”

Despite all of his prior achievements, all of his accomplishments that exalted his character as a walking piece of importance on this earth, Heracles could do nothing. His hand glided over her bloodstained one to clasp it to give her whatever strength he had. He had been a man, assertive and strong, but here he was nothing but a fleck of dust on the the pathway paved by her imminent mortality. And so he listened, still in denial, he listened.

“Then we had a son and he looked like you,” Nicoleta continued, chuckling dryly, “Curly brown hair, hazel eyes. He smiled a lot. Imagine me though, a fucking mother—”

“Nico,” Heracles interrupted in a stifled breath, “Stay with me. Nicoleta.”

He shook her once, firmly, in desperation to bring her back to the vigor she used to have. Her face was pale and placid, and the only color was the brush of rose on her parted lips.

“I’m not going anywhere, pretty boy,” Nicoleta teased. “Don’t cry until ‘m dead.”

“You can’t do this, for God’s fucking sake—”

“Maybe in another world, it really happened.” She paused and scoffed, a smirk forming on those wine-stained lips. “It was you and me against the world, Herc. Except, in this one, I… lost.”

The passing of her name merely became a shudder and a rustle of the wind on the earth's surface. In just one moment, nearly three decades of memories disappeared.

“I…” his shoulders relaxed, his arms became weak, and the tears finally obeyed. Heracles hunched over her corpse, his forehead against hers. “Damn it.”

There was so much he did not understand, but what he could understand was grief for a dear friend. Whoever she was, it came and took her and he was too slow to save her. Suddenly, it dawned on him that she had loved him--why else did she say that? He had been a fool, he should not have pushed away his suspicions.

Heracles only felt regret that he did not fully acknowledge that he had felt the same. Yet the truly horrifying pain stumbled upon him, when he realized that he could never have a chance to return her feelings. At least, not in this lifetime.

SPOILER: Click to show

{Eternity }“Everything’ll be all right, Lils,” Donald reassured with a genial smile. “I know yer scared. Fer God’s sake, I’m scared meself but…”

“Just promise me you’ll be back safe,” Lili interjected as she held his arm securely.

“I will,” he replied affirmatively, “Seamus won’t know what’ll hit him, I can assure ye that. I know him, he’s like a kin—blood te blood. Whatever he does, I’ll know. He can’t beat me.”

She smiled at his courage weakly but could not shake off the surfacing doubt. He noticed and gave her a crooked grin, lifting her chin to have a better look at her expression.

“All I want is fer you te be safe. And yer not safe around me, so I have te go out and get rid of the pest meself,” He paused for a second, “Not entirely meself but meself fer the most part.”

“Just let me help, if there is any way,” she pleaded.

“Help me by stayin’ alive.”

“But who will help you if you are battling to stay alive alone?” she asked calmly with silent fierceness.

Donald sighed and ruffled her hair, which almost immediately made her look sheepish. There was still a spark in her eyes. He made sure to not overstep his boundaries.

“Trust me, I'm not alone. An' I’ll only be out tenight with a few boys. I’ll be back by morning.”

She frowned at him slightly, hesitantly choosing her next set of words in response.

“I’ll be back,” he repeated with solidity. A smile returned on his lips as he leaned in to kiss her on the forehead. “Tomorrow. I won’t be in any danger. There’s a higher chance of me gettin’ lucky at winning the lottery than gettin’ inte any roughhousing. Really.”

“Really.” She sighed. “Alright.”

“I love you.” He grinned. “And after this, I swear I’ll marry ye once this shite’s over.”

Lili laughed, knowing that it was a joke. “I love you too. Don’t keep me waiting.”

A kiss, and that was it.

He turned away, with a coat over his shoulder, and walked out the door. Lili formed a smile as she watched him enter a black, all tinted car from the doorway. She closed the door, her fingers feeling the smooth gold of the promise ring he had given her. A circle, for eternity. The hours slaved on, pulling the minutes and seconds by the strands. Morning came and passed, and a night later, she received a phonecall.

All it took was a breath shy of three seconds for her to realize that she had lost someone for an eternity.

[Misso Pan]

<crawls into a corner and dies somewhere>

[Donald Finn O'Neill-Kirkland]

SPOILER: Click to show

{The Artist}In his hands, the paintbrush remained as still as the absolute silence of his surroundings. Steadily, he turned it once to measure the width. He had measured things with paintbrushes since he was a child. John had always been fascinated by the straight lines, shadows, colors, contours, and dimensions, and had been even more enthralled by translating those elements into paper. Now grown up, he had took it upon himself the duty of distilling beauty from reality into a canvas so that it may be immortal.

The man set down his paintbrush, staring idly at the stark white canvas. It challenged him with its pure blank state, but his imagination could not oblige to stain it. This was the sort of helplessness every man of a trade hated to experience. Even under normal circumstances, inspiration did not come easily. Yet, when it did come to himn, it came in a form of a man: a tax collector.

Strain and anxiety creased his brow as he rubbed his temples. Only nothing short of the Mona Lisa could salvage him from this debt.

His muscles tensed when he heard the door fling open. John looked up to see the distraught face of his wife. However, he already knew that she did not come seeking for his console.

“John, do you realize that we are absolutely ruined?” she asked, red faced as she clenched the silks of her dress.

“Helen, you say that with pearls around your neck and a diamond on your finger,” John replied.

She placed a pale hand over her necklace, as if she was truly offended, and then clutched the pearls.

“John please, you need to paint something worth gold to pay off the taxes. Something beautiful,” Helen let out a breathless smile and walked towards him with soft steps. She spread the fabric of her skirt from side to side to reveal the highlights in the emerald sheen. “Do you like my dress, darling?”

“Yes, yes, it’s lovely,” John replied tersely, waving his hand dismissively. “Now go. Leave me. I need more time to think.”

Curling her lips, the woman straightened up. “The auction is going to be in a few weeks. And if it’s not your painting that gets the papers, it will be our entire bloody estate and everything in it!”

John didn’t even dare to look at the woman he called his wife, and he denied her the attention she so obviously wanted. Helen was a prudent woman, short of temper, and dull of wit; she would never be able to identify a problem unless it affected her jewels. The silence shared between them was disrupted by the sound of a scoff and heeled footsteps that disappeared behind the slam of a door. There was truly nothing left that loved him.

After a moment of silence, he stood up and began to pace around, the wooden floorboards sighing to his strides. John stared at a wooden artist’s mannequin, its wooden joints posed to silhouette a maiden looking out the window. In the actual commission he had finished months ago, he gave this wooden figurine a skin of porcelain, a hair of gold, and a beautifully adorned satin dress.

John pressed his head against the wall and shut his eyes. All they wanted was that kind of immaculate beauty. All they had ever expected was florid cheeks and little plum lips, big blue eyes of a lady, and a dress of the queens. Or even a broad shouldered man and his stallion, or maybe a soldier with a sword in his hand and a crest of his family’s seal on his chest.

This priggish elegance and refinery had made every piece of art look the same since the start of the century. If beauty in art is subjective, then why did it subject to conformity? He was sick of drawing by the guidelines of what society considered to be favorable.

The door opened again, and he whirled around to inspect the intruder. It was the household maid, a young Indian girl. Her name was Maliha, but it was so foreign to the tongue, that every English speaking person had addressed her as ‘girl’.

John hardly spoke to her, and was barely familiar with her, but he had heard of her through his wife’s mocking and complaints. To be honest, he had not once seen her step into the studio while he was in it; among daily tasks was to clean his studio while he was not working.

His glance at her was filled with indifference. She appeared stunned but did not move, her stranger’s inky black eyes staring at him with fealty and obedience. That look irked him, and so John reached out an arm at the mannequin.

“Clean it.”

She stared at him hollowly and took two timid steps.

“Clean it.” he repeated again, his tone frozen with impatience.

With a bucket in one hand and a towel in the other, the girl scurried over towards the spot where the sunlight teemed through the window. Her hand brushed the wooden figure once, reeled her hand away, and then meekly dabbed it with a moist towel. Those large eyed glanced at him, and when he caught it, she shuddered and looked away.

John watched her with mild interest. When she looked up again, he said, “Keep cleaning.”

As she scrubbed, he walked over to another angle, both hands behind his back. He examined the way the light bounced off her dark skin, her ebony hair, and large flat nose. She was, by no means, comely at all, but it was hard to pry his eyes from her. There was a certain mystique about her, and it was disturbing to him that he was enjoying it.

“Stay there,” John reached out a hand to signal her to stop. Petrified, she stood in place.

Slowly, he sat down on his stool before his canvas and then looked at the girl again. There was something rugged and different about the structure her face, the mystery warped in those eyes. Her eyebrows were not thin and ladylike at all, but somehow, it enhanced the emotion in her complexion. It made her look authentic.

“Chin up.” When she did not comply, he repeated again and raised his own chin, pointing at it. “Chin up, girl. Look up.”

Once she understood, she looked up immediately, her fingers fumbling with the moist towel.

“Don’t move,” John commanded as he picked up a brush. Then, he measured her with the paintbrush from his seat. After one exhale, he felt a bloom of energy from within chest.

“The clocks are ticking, girl. A stone needs to be thrown to cause ripples,” John said as he continued to sketch out her outline with charcoal. She looked at him mutely and blinked several times.

“You’re Indian and your kind does not understand art, I know this. England still sees your kind as cultureless immigrants, and you will never marry into high society, nor will your children or grandchildren.”

“But there may be a time, girl, when your face will bring pleasure to people who look at it. If not now, then through this, where you’ll…” John paused, chuckled a little bit and then continued, “where you’ll live forever.”

He turned his head slightly to get a better angle at his sketch. The subject of this painting was a gamble. If he could net popularity with this culture-cross in art, he would possibly be one of the most celebrated artists, like Da Vinci or Michael Angelo. If not, then he would forever be stripped of his canvas and belongings, to be thrown in the streets to die in anonymity.

And it shall not be, if his name wasn’t John W. Doe.

by anonymous

[Nicoleta]

SPOILER: Click to show

{Lies}There was no feeling, no touch of warmth or coldness. There was no hush of familiarity but there was no whisper of uncertainty. The place Nicoleta stood in was a bridge between everything she knew and didn’t know.

The area was a stretch of a color she couldn’t identify, the breadth of the horizon faded in a haze. If she could put it into words, she would say that the color was actually a mixture of emotions in variation of hues. She was feeling despair, tasting happiness, seeing pride, hearing jealousy, and smelling fear.

Nuances of other complex emotions dug beneath her skin, wanting to crack the frozen countenance she held. Despite all of the disarray that simmered within her, she found it surprisingly easy to hold herself together. She was an con-artist, a broker, and a thief; she had done this before, but her total control was almost transcendent. It felt surreal.

Where am I?

That was the most logical question to ask. Her answer was ‘I don’t know’.

What am I doing?

I’m standing, she answered herself as she her fingers curled up slightly. She used to always do that whenever she became impatient. With a quick backwards glance, she began to walk forward, her black heels clicking mutely against the reflective glass surface.

“Where are you going?”

Nicoleta stopped and furrowed her brows, the creases defining her astonishment. It almost sounded like the voice of her thoughts, except it wasn’t in her head.

“I don’t know,” she answered. When she realize how honest she was, she frowned and continued, “Mind your own business.”

“Your business is mine.”

“Well nobody gives a fuck.”

“I do. I am that nobody.”

“Then you are a nobody I don’t give a damn about,” she snarled as she whipped a glare over her shoulder. It thought it was so funny and clever, and she would've laughed if she wasn't so angry.

Nothing was there.

“Aren’t you curious? About where you are?”, it asked.

“No,” was her terse reply, “I just need to get home.”

“To who?”

She froze. A smell of spice and sweat lingered around her nose and a sweet, bitter taste went down her throat. She remembered those green eyes and crooked smile, and how she ran her fingers tenderly through his tousled brown hair. Good morning, he had told her in between soft kisses. She could almost feel his strong arms around her. Instinctively, she she reached for the ring on her finger.

Then a phantom feeling began to sear from between her thighs, making her flinch. It was one mixed with yearning and pain. A child’s cry echoed in the concaves of her thoughts, making her nipples ache. With his curly hair, he looked like her him, like her husband Heracles. This boy was her little light, her son, Lucian. Her child's name was what she wanted to cry out as an answer. Though she loved her husband, Lucian was the only one she could claim as her own.

Nicoleta’s expression was still numb and placid, her mascaraed lashes lowering only slightly during her silent musing. Her maroon lips parted, ready to kiss the tender imagination of her husband and son.

“To who?”

The interruption of her thoughts made her grimace to the side as she tucked a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. She hesitated.

“I suppose I didn’t even need to ask," it said, "It's your family, isn’t it?”

She said nothing.

“It’s only natural. You don’t need to come up with a lie.”

“I wasn’t even trying.”

“Good. We’re becoming comfortable with each other.”

Nicoleta scoffed, “To hell we are.”

“Tell me this, do you remember how you got here?”

She silenced herself to recollect the details for an answer, not for it, but for herself. How did she get here? Nicoleta frankly had no where she was.

Her hand instinctively rubbed the back of her neck, admittedly the most sensitive area in her body, and begin to feel a burning sensation. Her trembling fingers curled against the nape of her neck. Suddenly she understood what had happened to her as the memories seeped back into her conscious.

It had been around midnight, a starless sky but a moonlit one with a streak of gray clouds like a wound in the night. There was a bridge over a small river people hardly walked around. Her heels had been clicking against the cracked pavement, resounding during the whispering silence. She needed to get somewhere, fast. She needed to find someone, fast. Her heart was beating, out of control, the electricity of anxiety shooting the back of her head and down to her fingertips.

All she thought about was Heracles and Lucian. All she thought about was how it was all going to be over, and that she was going to be home to see them. She wanted to hear Lucian squeal in delight and run into her arms, and she wanted to have Heracles pick her up and spin her and tell her over and over again, ‘I love you, I love you’.

She wanted it to all be over, her past, the tragedies she had caused, the foulness she had played by the strings of a marionette. Nicoleta had been a thief who stole much more than just jewels; she had stolen power, information, and knowledge to break down every wall that had come her way. Yet, it was the agony of love that melted away her delusions of power. With, Nicoleta had tried to do what most could not: turn a new leaf.

The taste of the cigarette helped calm her nerves as she blew out a plume that ghosted behind her.

Nicoleta was supposed to meet up with an ally from the criminal ring they were involved in--an 'ally', was how she thought it. She had slept with him on multiple occasions in the past, and she believed that his infatuation was the only reason for his compliance. All she wanted to do was to talk to him and milk out any information about the movement and an action on-going within the ring. That way, she could calculate what measures she had to take to avoid them at all costs. Though her body had belonged to him on some nights, she would only think about her husband and son.

I knew I shouldn't have trusted him.

A hazy figure of a man crept back into her thoughts. "I thought you could trust me," he said. "I thought you wanted to steal the money with me so we can live our life together."

"We could've until you pointed that gun to my head," Nicoleta twitched but feigned a smile during her response, "Put it down, sweetie and I might actually forgive you. And we can run along and do happy oral or something."

"You lied to me."

"Alright. How about this: put down the fucking gun, Jim."

He was stupid, every inch of his body was shaking. Jim's face was tearstruck, his complexion grungy and unclean with sweat running from the arch of his brow down to his nose. The way he held his gun made him look like a child holding a toy sword in the face of a shadow in the closet.

She was ready to kill him, ready to rip him limb from limb for daring such an antic. Her teeth was bared, fingers curled with a carnal lust to fight for her own survival. Nicoleta lunged at him, twisting the gun away from him, and when she aimed the nozzle at his forehead, a flare of light pierced through her neck. The gunshot echoed off the walls of the alleyway.

Nicoleta couldn't remember what happened after. All she could recall were the emotions that ensued.

Anxiety, anguish, and confusion. The pain ripped through her throat in a searing thrash of fire. With her torn vocal cords drowning in blood, she couldn't even whisper revenge with her dying breath.

...

She sharply inhaled as she gripped on her skin, trailing her hand down defeatedly from her neck to her chest.

“I remember,” she announced, trembling as her hands gripped into tight fists.

“They were testing you. You could’ve gotten away with that gimmick of using those innocents as a scapegoat, and you could’ve told them that you didn’t know. It was easy. But you lied, and so you paid the price.”

Her eyes began to glint with tears as she bared her teeth in derision. The guilt was mixed with anger. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to. You’re dead.”

“They found out? How?” she screamed as she whirled around furiously, “I was always two fucking steps ahead. Always two steps ahead of them, and I had his ballsack in my hands!”

“Everything was set up. You were doomed from the start.”

"You mean he lied to me?"

While breathing loudly, Nicoleta whimpered to a halt to take in what she said out loud. He... lied to her. It was a set up. That devastatingly made sense.

“Life’s a circle. You went through most of your life stealing, lying, and running away, and now it has all caught up. Ironic right? Isn’t that your favorite kind of humor?”

As if on cue, she stumbled backwards a few steps and began to laugh. The intones reverberated within the nothingness. She cackled in her fit of tears at the sheer irony, that fate had the gall to make a joke out of her.

Acceptance rushed into her with a wave of relief. Her laughter died down to slight simpers and then it silenced. She killed that innocent man and his daughter and so she died too. At that moment, it sounded fair to her. To be frank though, she didn't care about what happened to them. Nicoleta was more angry that she was outsmarted.

“That’s very funny.” Nicoleta bit her lip to hold back tears. “But what about—“

“Your husband and your son?”

A rush of agony chilled her bones as she answered, “…Yes.”

“Your husband will look for you. He loves you. For four years, he’ll look for you until they find your corpse in a body bag down the Thames River. He won’t cry by that time, because he would’ve already been cried out, so if anything, he’d be relieved. He needed some sort of a reason to leave you behind or else he’d think it is infidelity. He’ll move on with his life, and have other people warm his bed for him during your eternal absence. If it’s any consolation, he’ll still remember the smell of you. Once or twice, he’ll say your name on accident. Otherwise, he’ll re-marry and have another child.”

Nicoleta felt a pang of needles digging against her skin.

“Your son will always remember you, and he will cry for months for you. Though, you will be nothing more to him than a name in a face as he gets older. He won't always think about you, and will only have a clear image of it whenever he looks at a photo. There will be a time that he will hate you for leaving him.”

She choked as tears began to roll down her cheeks.

“I see…” She licked her lips to taste the salt of her tears, “Pretty lies and the ugly truth.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

With her eyes wide open and unblinking, she softly answered, “There could’ve been another way.”

It said nothing.

“There could’ve been another way,” she boomed as she took a angry stomp forward. She was seething, her fingers curled in and her black nails like her claws.

“There could’ve been another fucking way you son of a bitch! You could’ve killed me earlier, you could’ve killed me before I sucked all of that dick, before I sold out my fucking friends who might've actually loved me. Before I met all those… those fucking bastards that made me want to kill myself every single day," she shrieked, "Why didn’t you kill me earlier when I had actually wanted to die?”

Drunken off of her emotions, she began to thrash her arms around to fight the demons of her regret.

“Why did you decide to kill me when I finally have something that belongs to me? Why didn’t you kill me before I fell stupidly in love and before I made all those promises and before I…”

She sunk to her knees. All of her strength retreated from her bones.

“I went through all of that pain... for nothing,” she finished with a croak.

It didn't give her one second to enjoy a moment's respite.

“You’re just sad that the world has already moved on without you. You just feel defeated that you brought down no one, and that you couldn’t get the last laugh or take revenge. You can’t swallow the fact everyone will forget about you, and that you will never be the center of the world for anyone. Ileana, you’ve lied to yourself since the very beginning.”

Ileana. It was her real name. She had hated it so much, she lied about her name just so she could get away from the family who shunned her for her scandalous and cold-hearted behavior. Now that she thought about it, her family's decision was justified; Nicoleta realized that she was just a rotten person.

It hurt, so much that she couldn’t feel anymore. If Nicoleta had truly died, she felt as if she just died a million times more. The truth were the bullets, and it hit every vital part in her body without killing it.

“You’re right,” she whispered, her eyes blank and her body limp in a hunching sitting position.

“Now you’ve finally accepted everything.” A pause. “Are you ready to move on?”

Move on? That turned on the ticking bomb that clicked within her ears. The fire lit back in her eyes as she looked up. “No,” she swallowed the knots in her throat. “You’re lying. You’re lying, dammit, you’re lying.”

“What makes you--?”

Nicoleta rose to her feet sluggishly and wiped the wetness from her cheek with her thumb. “I don’t need to listen to you. People always told me what to do and I’m tired of it. So you know what? Let me tell you something: fuck you.”

She flipped up her middle finger and then the other one for good measure.

“I’m going to do what I want, and I’m going back to my family,” she announced as she turned a heel and started sprinting to a direction. Nicoleta didn’t know where she was going, but she was running through a fog that was becoming heavier as she advanced.

“Then they’re waiting, Ileana.”

She was going to make her new path. That was how she always did it.

“Waiting for you at home.”

Nicoleta continued to run, her breathing passing by her ear and lingering behind her back like a reaper.

"Run away, like how you always do... You're good at it."

"Shut up," she roared as she sprinted blindly forward.

Her heart was beating out of control. She knew they were going to be safe, but she wanted to see them safe. That was all she wanted, and she wanted to crush the lies. Nicoleta wanted to see that the only true things that had belonged to her would still be hers.

The light broke, warm and comforting. She felt buoyant on her feet, light and free. The haze became defined into lines, and focused it into objects. It was her home.

On quiet steps, she glided across the floor to greet her family, to herald them with kisses, hugs, and whispers of love.

It must have been some sort of terrible dream.

She opened the door to Lucian’s room to find nothing. She opened Heracles’ study room to find nothing. Nicoleta whirled around to realize that everything had been stripped, bare to the wood. Everything was lapped in darkness, the lines and composition of the room was quickly seeping into the darkness.

From her chest, she expelled a wail as she thrashed around in the pitch black. The chains of her despair and confusion held her back while her ire only made those chains jingle. She had been lied to again, she had cheated herself. This was the ultimate price and there was nothing worth stealing to pay for it.

[Deleted]

Ffff Icy, you used that story that mindblowed me and ahhh that is so beautiful I love it, Nico ; A;

[Nicoleta]

SPOILER: Click to show

{Beginnings of the Solar Eclipse}
There lived a the spirit of the Moon, who had dwelled in darkness of her kingdom since the beginning of her time. She was cold and apathetic, and all life shriveled to her heatless touch. For many centuries, she lived alone, wandering around in the emptiness that was her territory. All she yearned for was to see life in the ashes of blind death and nothingness.

The heated and passionate Sun god rode, in his gilded chariot, and streaked across the sky to illuminate the abyss with a sunrise glow. Life began to titter to the energy and light he provided. Pleased with what he saw, he decided to stay in this land to erect his new kingdom. The stars had told him that another dwelled in the lands, and so he pulled on his golden reigns to greet her, racing off to the never-ending horizon.

When the Moon spirit heard of this foreign entity, she feared him and scorned him for trespassing. From the tails of her dress, she saw that her night sky was fleeting, turning into hushes of blue. Pulling up her gown, she fled across the sky to escape from the Sun god's rays. Competitive and intrigued by her actions, he continued to follow her.

The only time they would meet as a moment's respite would be during the high tides of twilight. Only then, did she realize that he was harmless to her powers; rather, he magnified her power by giving her vigor and an gentle glow to illuminate the night. Little did she know, she gradually became more and more comfortable around his presence.

On his part, he saw her as someone who not only withstood his vigor and passion, but absorbed it to make it hers. All the others who he had met before burned to his might and fervid philosophy, and so he began to adore her company.

As the Sun god emerged to greet the day, the spirit of the Moon asked him to promise her something before she faded back to her kingdom.

"Fill them with life, and I will do the same when you are gone. So long life remains, I will be with you once every 18 cycles."

He agreed to the incentive, and from thereon, life continued to prosper on the lands, alternating from day and night. Every 18 Lunar cycles, the two would only meet briefly, but it would almost seem as if they did not want to leave each other.

[Joselle]

SPOILER: Click to show

{Wide Open (Francis&Nico)} (warning: slight nsfw suggestive yes ok well yeah just sex ok.)

There were times when Nicoleta had to shut her eyes and scream in the night until her voice became raw from the hitched moans and breathy whimpers. They had grabbed her neck sometimes, wringing their calloused hands underneath her jaw to bare their jagged grin at her. By morning light, she would lay on the wrinkled sheets, dank with testosterone, with bruises down her neck and breasts. At times, there would be a trail of tears, sticky and wet, down her cheek, but her fingers often dared not wipe them. Instead, those slender fingers would grip the sheets, clinging on to its softness to remind her of that gentleness still existed.

On those nights, her eyes seldom opened, mostly because she always liked to pretend she was dead. She had wished she were dead so many times. Then, all of the anguish would slip away like a faltering heartbeat. These nightmares followed her, even while she was awake.

Nicoleta felt a headache crawl up her nape, and it hurt enough to crack her head open. She shakily reached for her black bag. Her trembling fingers rummaged through the things until she felt the familiar surface of her cigarette box. Her eyes were glossy, endowed by the light, lethargic shadows around her eyes. Once the smoke was lit, she inhaled, feeling the rush glide down her throat, and then she exhaled in a ball of plume between her rosy lips. The moment’s respite was in gazing at the starless night sky.

She took a step back against the brick wall, the cigarette dangling in between her fingers. The thought of Francis made her feel sick in the chest, mixed with yearning and contempt. Francis was a blond haired French man she had met only several days ago. He was kind to her, kinder than she was comfortable with. There was a certain gentleness about him, soft like those cotton sheets. Words came out from him like silk, ribbons and ribbons of pleasantries that had tied her emotions in knots.

But it was all in his gaze. His eyes were blue, blue like the iris fields near her home in Romania. They were blue, swaying here and there like the flowers, ebbing and flowing like the tide, and waxing and waning like the moon. There she went again, romanticizing silly things.

Nicoleta sucked in a fresh hit of the nicotine, and let out the spirit of her anxieties in a coil of smoke.

This was her chance. She could just leave and not look back.

“Veronica?” Francis called from inside the house. Peeking out from the space between the ajar door, he gave Nicoleta a cheery smile. His hair was tied back to an easy-going ponytail, and the stubble on his chin was reflecting off the golden glow from inside.

Nicoleta almost forgot to reply. Veronica was the name she introduced herself with; she didn’t want anyone to know her real name. Subtly, she scraped the head of the cigarette against the wall with an unspoken fury and then tossed it aside. Too late to run now.

She smiled in return, albeit it was poorly executed. Francis gave her a concerned look.

“I just needed some air.” Nicoleta assured as she walked up the steps to be invited in.

When the doors closed, she knew she was trapped once again inside a stranger’s home. Her fingers twitched and curled in. She wondered that if, behind that sweet guise, was a man as cruel as the rest?

“You were acting strangely.” Francis commented, his voice thick with an accent, “You’re sure you’re feeling better now?”

Nicoleta was no fan of answering twice, but decided to be tolerable. Instead, she nodded as she sat on the couch and nodded. The plush depressed to her weight, and it felt so spongy and comfortable.

“I get headaches sometimes, and my hands just go crazy.” Her hands were shaking so much earlier. It usually happened whenever she got nervous, or whenever she went long without a smoke.

He seemed to buy it, nodding once while he looked ready to walk towards the kitchen.

“Anything to drink? Water, wine?”

“Wine?” She raised a brow, her eyes glinting with interest. “That would certainly set the mood.”

“Wine it is.” He snorted with approval. “A moment, if you can, madame.”

He was gone, and moments later, she heard the clings and rings of glassware from inside the kitchen. Nicoleta did not feel like this was her place—it was too tidy, too grand, and no place for a common street girl like her. There were a few, golden things that caught her eye, but she found no foul temptation in her to take it. Francis had been too good to her. She couldn’t possibly steal from him, yet she would make no promises the next morning if faced with this situation again.

He brought out the wine and wine glasses, with the bottle clasped in his other hand and the glass stems racked against the web between his fingers. A couple of drinks in, their conversations became slurs and simpers, to mouthy whispers against each other’s lips. They were both sober, yes definitely still sober, but the electricity of the alcohol fueled them to make a bee-line for the bedroom.

The lights were switched off, and the door was shut, and the only invasion of the outside world was the sliver of light from the street lamp that shone in between the curtains. Nicoleta sat on the bed and groped her hands against the fine, maroon velvet sheets. She crawled back, feigning the cornered animal, as Francis approached her on all fours against the mattress until he was on top of her.

She could see it, the tide of his eyes glistening at her with desire and intrigue. Nicoleta ran her fingers up his silken golden hair, tugging the pony tail loose to let it fall down the frame of his face. The buttons were pressed and unfastened, and their clothes were strewn into the floor until only their skins clothed their souls.

He was not as haste and strong as she wanted, but a couple of minutes in, she began to appreciate it. His love was very emotional, very sensuous--it almost seemed real to her.

Their kisses were long and their hands were always busy, moving, gliding, and shifting over each other’s tender bodies. Nicoleta let out a stifled moan as his fingers revealed how ready she was. Her heart skipped beats, as he was about to enter, she felt a pain shoot up her head. Her fingers trembled, shaking as she gasped and let out a blood curdling scream. She backed up against the bedframe, away from him, and propped her legs up to close herself away.

Startled, Francis immediately backed away. Under the pale ray of light, he looked as frightened as she.

“V-Veronica? What’s wrong—did I…? Was it too abrupt or--.” He was at a loss for words.

“No,” Nicoleta croaked, swallowing as touched her forehead. She shook her head. “No, no, sorry. I’m sorry. I just, I was just…”

Shit, shit, shit. This wasn’t how she was trained to act. Nicoleta was programmed to be a liar and she was doing this wrong. There is truth in fear.

“We can just stop.” Francis suggested, his lips taut with concern. All traces of alcohol and carnal lust evaporated from his pale complexion. “I’m sorry Veronica I…”

Nicoleta closed her mouth and exhaled from her nostrils. She inched over to Francis, he sat still and weary. As she brushed his jawline, he made no move. He was afraid that he’d hurt her with a touch.

“Francis...” she murmured as she thumbed his arm gently, coaxing him as well as herself. There were so many things to say, so many lies she could weave. For some reason, she could not think of any. The frustration made her want to cry. Nicoleta closed her eyes, and placed a dry kiss on his lips. When she opened them again, she saw that deep emotion in his expression.

“Somebody had done something to you,” he concluded as he cupped her face. As he studied her expression, Nicoleta could not help but to feel as if her facades were peeling away. She stared at him, her doe eyes merely watching him examine her countenance. “Who hurt you?”

Silence.

“People.” Nicoleta replied, her tone brittle and tight. “And me. I hurt myself.”

It was as if he could not fathom the response. “Why?”

Nicoleta felt a pulse of anger. She couldn’t comprehend why Francis appeared to care so much. But it was that look, that look he gave her. It made it impossible for her to conjure any strength to rip him away from her sight.

“I don’t know why,” Nicoleta replied vacantly. “I just want to forget. Francis, make me forget and love me tonight, and I promise, I’ll be gone tomorrow.”

He gave her a hard stare. “I don’t want you gone tomorrow.”

She swallowed. Those words sounded so foreign, so out of place in this bitter reality. “Then love me today, and love me tomorrow, then I’ll stay.”

Nicoleta moved away from him and set her head on the pillow, spreading her legs wide open and placing one hand over the entrance. She made no other move other than looking at him, beckoning him silently. He paused, seemingly hesitant, before he hovered over her. Despite all of the happenings, he hadn’t gone soft.

“No,” he said suddenly before sitting up again. “If it’s alright, you should go on top, so that you can stop whenever you want.”

Nicoleta stirred up thoughtlessly to the idea, shifting her body until she was over him. Rarely, had she been able to be in this position. The bedfellows she had in the past were very violent and forceful, and hardly allowed her the liberty to take charge during sex.

She placed her hands on the junction between his neck and shoulder, her fingers trembling against his skin. Sensing her anxiety, he softly grasped her waist. “We don’t have to do this, Veronica.”

“But I want to.” She replied softly.

He tried to interject, “If it hurts--.”

Nicoleta dipped in to give him a kiss to quell his worries. It might hurt, and it was always a possibility. After what she had gone through, her body might not be able to take him in. However, it couldn’t be worse than what she had received before—no, nothing could be worse. Yet when she lowered herself, she felt his length drive deep in her, making her sigh. There was no pain.

They went on a mindless rhythm, slow, and steady. They were lost, breathing and heavy and touching again as if nothing had happened earlier. During that whole time, Nicoleta barely shut her eyes. She kept them open, just so she could see him smile at her.

[Deleted]

oh

OH NO

tHAT hURT A LOT

FUCK ICY I WASN'T REALLY EXPECTING THAT BUT

I AM SO SAD WNSDOFSHDOIZFDOIFSIODFIOsd

NO FDShfosagsdoghdsoh gODDAMMTItgsdfogifahiogdfs

[Deleted]

SPOILER: Click to show

{The average day with Nico - will probs recycle this rp sample}It was evening already. The western skies were dipped in a splash of gold and pink. The red sun was peering over the black silhouette of distant skyscrapers. There had been a fire in the city, and the smoke painted the spray of clouds and ashen red color. The sooty smell still lingered.

Nicoleta ambled on the path where the shadows of the buildings bent towards her. A wisp of smoke from her cigarette floated behind her, trailing her like a reaper. Her heels clicked against the pavement, warning the silent ghosts of her presence. Downtown was empty, save for the rubbish that fluttered and rolled around. It was for a good reason too; no one with a good sense of mind walks around this late. Nothing good happens at night.

A gruff voice snarled, "Hey, you stupid kid!"

Ahead, there was a man that side-stepped into view from the alleyway. There was a boy in front of the man, holding a bundle against his chest.

Petrified, the boy sidled against the wall, nearing the corner of the building to take flight, only to be grabbed by the collar.

Nicoleta took out her cigarette and exhaled a plume of smoke. Behind those tinted black-brown lenses of her sunglasses were expectant eyes. Should she do something? She paused.

Nah.

Nicoleta walked right by them, a smoke between her maroon lips, as the hoisted the kid up. He was screaming. Tch. Stupid kid screams so fucking loud.

"Whoa... holy shit." said the man next to the one holding up the kid. "Hey lady! How would you like to see something big?"

Nicoleta stopped. Catcalls. God fucking dammit. This place was supposed to be empty.

"Oi, Steven, we're in the middle of something." His lips were like a pufferfish's lips.

"Take care of the kid, I don't give a damn. Just let me talk to this one right here." A lanky man with tattoos down his arm and a head rag around his mousy blond hair walked towards her, his hands in his pockets. "Dontcha know that it's dangerous at night?"

Nicoleta gave him a sideways glance, one that was cold and still.

"What's that hun? You can't speak English?" Steven rubbed the whiskers on his chin. His breath reeked of alcohol. "What's that French phrase? Voulez vez coucher avei moi? Heh."

The kid was still squirming and struggling under the grip of the bulkier man.

"Shut that little shit up."

With that, the kid was promptly punched in the face.

Nicoleta took off her sunglasses and lowered her eyes. She hung the sunglasses on her v-neck.

"You said it wrong." She hated it when people had their French wrong. He wasn't even trying. Strike one.

"Really?" His brown eyes shone with mischief. "How do you say it then? Or do you prefer body language... if you know what I mean..."

"Voulez vous coucher avec moi." Nicoleta stated flatly.

Steven briskly walked forward and put an arm around her waist. "I'm glad we're on the same page." He plucked the cigarette from her lips and clenched it between his toothy smile.

"How about we escort you safely home? We're the good guys, promise. That kid over there? He stole some money. We'll drop him off before we drop you off to a pretty silky bed."

Nicoleta wrinkled her nose in amusement. Three strikes.

"Listen." She placed a hand on his chest and walked him against the wall. The sloe-eyed woman tilted her head and smiled at him, placing a finger beneath his chin. Her breasts were against his broad chest. She crooned, "You make me feel so weak."

The woman leaned in, so close she could taste the breath of his alcohol. "I can't stand men like you. Mmm, oh. Yes. I want a bit of friction. You want to know what makes me feel good, babe?"

Oh, the thrill. She can feel the excitement bubbling within her, heating her blood. Her body began to ache for just one touch. Or maybe two. Maybe three.

Steven grinned widely in anticipation. "Tell me babe--"

She snorted, clenched his collar, and slammed his face against a nearby window. The glass shattered, fragments of glass and blood sprayed outward. Nicoleta dropped the man like a sack of potatoes. That felt good.

With his back against the wall, Steven turned around. His nose was bloody, his cheeks were scratched and slightly bleeding, and there was a the mark of impact on his forehead. He glared at her, clenching his teeth. "You little fucking bitch." he spat.

Before she could even do anything, a fist came out of no where. It was that man who was holding the kid. Nicoleta dodged, took a sidestep, and then thrusted her fist forward. His large hand managed to catch her fist. He seized this moment to give her a clean strike across the face.

Her sunglasses skittered across the pavement. Nicoleta placed a hand over her cheek. She could taste the copper of her blood. Alright, that now that fucking hurt.

The bulkier man gave her a smug grin. He was probably relishing in the fact that he just hit a woman. Cocky bastards like him deserved a special kind of treatment. With that, she lunged forward and kneed him in that special place in between his legs. With the man reeled over, retching in pain, she struck the back of his neck with his elbow, and down he went, like a rock.

Bang. It echoed across the empty streets.

She held her breath. A gunshot. Nicoleta darted a look at Steven, who had a gun in his unsteady hand. She scoffed.

"Come any closer, bitch, and I'll turn your fat tits into fuckin' swiss cheese."

Oh please. Nicoleta walked right up to him and kicked his wrist. The gun slid over towards the boy, who was huddled up against the wall of the alleyway. His eyes were as big as saucers.

Steven threw himself to the side, cursing as he tried to reach for the gun. Nicoleta put down the heel of her boot on the back of his hand. She put her entire weight on that heel and pivoted. There was a cacophony of screams.

"You scream more than that kid did." Nicoleta commented, amused. "Say it, Voulez vous coucher avec moi, ce soir." The bones in his hand were cracking.

He was screaming and grunting too much to pay attention to what she was saying. Dammit. How pathetic.

Nicoleta released her heel and then kicked the gun away from his reach. "Get the hell out of my sight, idiots or I'll personally escort you."

Then, someone cocked a gun. Nicoleta glanced up. Before she could even blink, and the bullet ghosted by her head. It was so loud, she mistook it for her heartbeat.

That boy was holding the gun, a small pale smoke escaping from its barrel. She turned around to see the bulkier man throw down metal stick. Where the hell did he get that?

She glowered her eyes at the two men and growled, "What the fuck are you two waiting for? I said, get the hell out of my sight!"

With a little struggle, the two of them took off running, darting as quickly as they could as they sputtered a litany of breathy curses and threats.

Nicoleta sniffed and rubbed her nose. Oh good. No blood. She glanced at the dark skinned boy, who immediately dropped the gun. He held the bundle in his arms and stared at her cautiously. "You scared the shit out of me, kid."

No response. Oh come on. She was about to ask him about the bundle, but it looked like he wasn't going to say anything.

Nicoleta sighed, walked over to pick up her sunglasses, and then put it on. "Gimme the gun."

Hesitantly, the boy picked it up, timidly walked a few steps away from the entrance of the alleyway, and handed it to her. He retreated back to the shadows when she gave him a look.

"Don't play with this stuff." she said, waving the gun around as if it was a toy. Might as well keep it. Shitty manufacturer but it was still a gun. "Now go."

The boy looked down. That look on his face made her eyebrow twitch. Stupid kids. Nicoleta reached in her pocket and pulled out a couple of bills and coins. She dropped it on the floor.

"Take it and get a taxi. Get out of here."

He blankly stared at the money before looking back at her.

"Nothing good happens at night." She turned away. "Consider yourself lucky."

As she walked away, she heard him pick up the coins. Nicoleta felt... a little strange inside. Was she really a hero back there? Pft. Nonsense. That kid got a free ride because those bastards back there pissed her off. That's right. She's no hero.

A few blocks down, her footsteps stopped in place. Her cheek began to sting really badly. It'll be hard to cover a bruise with make up, she thought. After she pulled out a cigarette and lit it, the nicotine began to ease her head. Nicoleta leaned against the wall and thought of the boy and the little bundled in his arms as she exhaled.

A small smile tugged on her lips. Yeah. Nothing good.

[Joselle]

fff this is to help me study

1. Amelia rubbed her chin as she stared up above. “The sky’s red due to dust particles or something.”

2. “The end of anything is perfection,” Nicoleta said as she strummed her fingers across a harp. “Death is the end of life, so surely, death is perfection.”

3. There was a chiseled man holding a cheese wheel.

“I would kill for one of those,” Vash muttered.

Donald eyed Vash and then laughed loudly. “The man or the cheese?”

4. Chelsea was going through a French-English dictionary. A plié means “a movement in which a dancer bends the knees and straightens them again, usually with the feet turned out and heels firmly on the ground”.

5. When Lucille heard the sirens ringing, she grumbled and told her partner, “Damn. It’s the cops.”

Victoria rested her head on the wall and groaned, rubbing her temples. The party in the neighborhood had been loudly booming on all night. Yet, when she heard the sirens, she breathed out relief. “Thank God, it’s the police.”

6. Ludwig sucked in a breath and rested his lips on his hands, fingers interlaced to a steeple. He leaned on his elbows and closed eyes. “I’m sorry. We had to put him down.”

7. Feliciano quivered as he spoke. “Won’t you ever be true to me?”

Sera smiled. “I will always be true to you,” she winked. “In my own way.”

8. “So, how many people do we have to sacrifice?” asked Iain, red-faced from his ire.

M looked at him coolly, her eyes a frozen blue. “Enough for us to go on.”

9. “It’s not my fault you hit her car!” Wesley said.

Kyle sighed and glanced at his companion. “It’s your fault I hit her car!” He pointed at the familiar blonde who was stomping over to them.

10. “We have a special cake for people with candles,” Katyusha gushed.

Nataylia raised a brow. “Are you talking about a cake with candles or burning human candles?”

11. “These pieces are so light!” Alfred marveled at the small hexagonal glass panel before setting it on the box.

“Yeah, help me out with the boxes!” Matthew heaved and carried a box.

“You needa hit the gym. That box looks way too light for you to be struggling like that.” Alfred chortled as he attempted to pick up the box. To his surprise, he barely lifted it off the ground before Matthew burst out laughing.

12. Berwald sets a box down and sighs. It took forever to clean out the old house. Decorating the new house is probably going to take just as long.

13. “Swag?” Marianne stared at the screen and looked absolutely confused. “As in ‘swagger’? Confident in behavior?”

Charlotte made a nervous laugh. “Uh well. Americans redefined it so it’s kind of like… a weird way of saying ‘cool’.”

Marianne furrowed her brows. “That sounds moronic. This ‘rap song’ is a hideous piece.”

14. “This is a brilliant article about 18th century ontotheological complexes,” Heracles commented as he went through the articles. He passed on one of the articles to another professor. “Here’s one about the transcendental theory you’ve been talking about.”

15. Kiku blinked as he pointed at one of the words on the newspaper. “So what’s a non… la?”

“A nón lá,” Kim-Ly corrected. “It’s a conical hat, made by dried leaves on top of old newspaper.”

16. “So like, where’s the restroom?” Feliks put his hands on his hips as he looked around.

Toris looked around also and found the sign that was partially hidden by a tree. “Oh, Feliks!” He pointed at the sign, and then Feliks drawled, “Finally!”

17. Athena whispered to her friend during the movie trailer showings. “So the Twelve Olympians are going to be a part of this movie.”

Zoran vaguely knew about Greek mythology, but he knew that those Twelve Olympians included Zeus, Hera, Poseidon, Demeter, Athena, Apollo, and some other gods and goddesses he does not remember.

18. “Remember Arthur? He’s the one that won the spelling-bee for 7 years in a row.” Old Miss Elizabeth smiled, her eyes old but full of love.

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck and made a crooked smile. “So that’s how people remember me, hm?”

18. “I was an honor student too.” Lili felt nostalgic as she trimmed the extra leaves off of the flowers.

“Honor student?” asked Eirik. “Did you take hard classes?”

“Yes and well, sort of. Meaning I took 50 extra units of classes.” Her shoulders relaxed. “It was tough, but I guess the title isn’t so shabby.”

19. Niklaas stared down at the teen in front of him. He folded his arms on the counter and began, “You have to be an adult to drink.”

“Well I am an adult!” the teen answered flatly.

“An adult, as in 21. Now leave.”

20. “Elizaveta? A rose?” Gilbert scrunched his nose before he started guffawing. “Yeah right! Liz’ll be so offended. She’s more like a weed more than anything else!”

21. “Shinead is so pious and devout,” one of the nuns told her sibling. “She’s much like the Virgin Mary… in almost everything she does. She probably does the prayers the Mother had done every night.”

22. The mince pie was thrown at Elias by Lukas. “Unacceptable.”

23. “Unacceptable.” Lukas threw the mince pie at Elias.

24. “Civilization has gone through too long with the relentless corruption of the elites.” Mihai paced around, eying the new members. “We’ll be damned if they continue with their greedy ways. The clock is ticking, and it’s time for anarchy.”

25. “Pleaase sir can you spare a penny?” Peter nudged Astrit to hold up his UNISEF coin box. “Think about the kids in Africa that need this money… All of the coins will go directly to them to help fund housing and food. Just ten cents can give them water!”

26. Yao flailed his arms as the Ivan, who left without paying. “You a bunch of dragon testicles! You dishonor your family, and your cow! Dishonor everything!”

27. Galiena printed up her article and read the first line of the article proudly. It read: Susanna B. Anthony is the rising politician that stands for peace with security, unity, diversity, and equality for both men and women.

28. “Believe me when I say I know how it feels like,” Francis comforted as he placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I had no home for a while. But now I’m doing better. You must believe in yourself, cherié.”


fallacy, fallacy of equivocation, ambiguity, denotation, connotations, euphemism, hedging, vagueness, fallacy of accent, amphiboly, fallacy of composition, fallacy of division, buzzwords, jargon, definition, ostensive definition, extension of a definition, verbal extensional definition, intentional definition, precise definition, metaphor, analogy, passive voice, active voice, question begging epithet, propaganda, name-calling, glittering generalizations, identification

[Joselle]

Seven Deadly Murders

SPOILER: Click to show

{i. Lust}((warning: religious twist on sex and violence ok))

She knew a man whose lips intoned a faith that made hearts quiver. The litanies eased from his lips like ribbons, giving song to the stained-glass colors that dappled on the floor. For a man of a voice that moved the masses, young Father Adam was shy and soft-spoken when he’s away from the altar. His hands were always tucked away, conscious in its' exposure as something bare, true and naked. After mass, he stood clad in black like a silhouette, the clerical collar hugging his neck, the sleeves locking his wrists. Although he greeted and smiled, he was distant, with hands to himself, hidden like secrets.

They had met in a confessional, where a wall with a slotted lattice window was set in between them. In the somber darkness, the Romanian woman was a black veiled widow, her sins rolling down her cheeks. And so he did his duty, and forgave in His name, yet stumbled on the penitence rites when he met her gaze. Hazel eyes, flecked with gold, and tainted with green—the green of a viper. In that moment he felt a tingle, a thrum of the heart, a frustration of the fingers. A longing commenced, in form of the compassion to touch the troubled spirit, to send down the flame on her tongue. She tempted him with a holy desire: he wrought to save her, this woman damned by circumstance.

Each Sunday they met in the confessional, and her words became whispers, whispers became breaths, became moans for salvation, painting fantasies of the Promised Land she held victim between her teeth. By the powdered words and perfumed frankincense, he became entranced by her sorrow, to ease her sorrow, to reach out to her sorrow. Desire, he gasped. Mercy. His hand trembled on his lap, as he choked on the thought of her communion on his tongue. He gave her blessings and bid her to leave. That night, he clasped his hands tight in prayer, sweating contrition.

The lull of her words played over and over, seducing him, breaking concentration, sundering through hymns and sermons. Her sorrow was sad beauty, a harrowing example of the Lord’s abandonment. Father Adam plucked away his feathers at night, as he could not keep his hands to himself; he had his hand all over himself, of her words that twisted deep in his stigmata. He bled with desire and pain, for retribution and forgiveness.

After her next confession, he told her to pray with him. She did, pressing her prayers against his lips, to which he did not deny. Sin from sin, begotten not made. Mercy, she gasped, yet he bit for more. Those fingers that followed the bible were slender and thin, once so precise were now so clumsy and faltering. He sanctified her body with the exploration of a touch, forsaking his god to worship her, the shape of Eve. Drifting downward from heaven, he spelled out scriptures against her with his tongue. Father Adam groped for more, yet she whispered, “Not here. A better place.” He blushed, cheeks pink and florid with shame.

She led him down the stone stairs, the step that were slightly depressed by decades of use. Blind and inspired, he followed her in prospects of the bodily covenant. In a dim area, he then seized her with a kiss and she returned by marking blasphemies with her nails. They shed their worldly possessions for the pleasure of knowing they could. Muffled hisses, snarls and growls. Heat and damnation, curses and swears.

The pleasure sent ribbons down his neck, shaking, convoluting, twisting. With a whicker, her knife sent ribbons from his neck, and his body shook, convoluted, and twisted. Petals of color dappled the floor, in drops and in splatters. The flickering candles made the frozen face of Maria more solemn, shifting the contours of her disapproval.

She was baptized in his original sin, it burning warm against her flesh. Yet she still fucked him, pushing his dying body to the ground to ride what life was left. Nicoleta went to the cadence of a hymn, on and on until she laughed the Lord’s name. When she was done, she removed herself with a wicked smile. Mercy.

Back in Romania, young Father Adam had not always keep his hands to himself.