Joselle's derp writing

[Joselle]

o yeah if you have any requests go ahead and ask me

SPOILER: Click to show

The manner of death was hypothetical. How he died was unknown to him. For whatever reason—he did not know either. Perhaps to die was to be ignorant. In that case, he was sure that he had died so many times before, but this—this was a different kind of ignorance. There was a certain unconditional bliss attached to this uncertainty of all things. He happily didn’t feel weighed down, burdened by scrutiny, or feel appointed by the desire to unravel the unknown.

Breathless.

Rather, he felt buoyant, light, and lifted. The ginger looked around, rubbing the back of his neck weakly as if he was greeting the environment. Everything was pristine white—not the lurid kind of white, but the soft, creamy white one would expect as the color on the feathers of a dove. The man walked forward, sauntering about aimlessly without a clue on where he was going. This was a strange place, a dimension that would never be able to touch the earth’s surface. Here, it was possible to walk without thinking at all—without a thought in the mind, without a worry to lament over, without calculations on the pursuit of happiness, and without precognitive anxieties.

It was pure, white bliss.

Bliss in not knowing, not feeling, and not remembering. The man looked rather chipper as he strode through this seemingly infinite plane. Suddenly, confusion coated those emerald eyes. There were two dissonant vibes in the air, a pair that were strong enough to break his emotional equilibrium. Now, he felt curious as opposed to feeling nothing. The man trekked on… on until he saw a faint square from the distance. Curious, how curious. He approached it with bated breath. What was this disturbance, this anomaly?

A mirror. It was twice his size, towering all on its own. The oak frame had little floral imprints on the side to add to its grandeur. But the center of the focus was not the mirror, but the image that was projected on the looking glass.

Hm! It was himself! He touched his head. His hair was red, slightly tousled, but was neat for the most part—it looked like it had been combed very well. His fingers moved to his jaw. It was defined and masculine like his physical constitution. The man stepped closer to look at himself. He looked passed the pale, slightly freckled skin to focus on his eyes. Green—they were so green with variations of undertones he would never be able to identify. He blinked. Who was he, really?

Then a figure appeared on the mirror. Startled, he took a step back as he frantically looked around. No one was there. He furrowed his brows as the hazy image sharpened, forming the picture of a man. It was a built man with darker red hair, enigmatic green eyes, and a solemn expression. He knew that man… he knew that man. The ginger rubbed his chin as he tilted his head for a better angle. He held his breath.

Yes, he knew that man. The epiphany came to him like a shock of electricity, one that trickled from his fingertips to the standing hairs of his neck.

Iain! Iain was his name.

He pressed a fist against his lips. The memories were seeping in between the cracks. The Scotsman was the oldest with a mix. He was tough and a force to reckon as expressed by merely a look. His eyes were always condescending, always glaring for some apparent reason. The lips were sometimes pressed together, taut. Serious. But ah, there were other times the eyes and lips were full of mirth. Ah yes--! Those lips would curve into a sly smirk as his eyes bend to the will of mischief. Iain was a good man, a protective man who carried responsibilities of the family. His duty was to oversee their safety, their happiness, and their longevity, even if he feigned indifference sometimes by the cigarette clamped between his teeth. He was benevolent. He was sincere.

Oh but he always admired Iain and his resolve. He always wondered how he could do it all. He was like a sentinel, a stone wall that would not budge or crack under any weight. He used to be so afraid of this man when he was a lad, yet they’ve come to a mutual stance of agreement and understanding. Still, he would never be able to match him. Iain had so much strength, so much perseverance. How did he do that?

Then a Welsh brunette ghosted itself into the projection. She kind a kind little face with soft azure eyes delicate facial features. There was painted smile on her rosy lips, one that seemed eternal. The woman stood as prim as a nun with a hand over the other.

Her name was Cerys. He nodded in agreement.

She was always very pretty to him. There was this certain gentleness that followed her every wake. Her tone was soft and reassuring, ambiguous sometimes and sad during others, like a ballad. She was mysterious too. Something was always bundling up within her, something behind her façade. Yet she had always managed to pull off normalcy effortlessly. In addition, Cerys was the image of comfort, the maven of unconditional love. He remembered going to her during times of despair and times of darkness. Tears were not a clear and distinct object of his memories, but he recalled a little bit of that having to do with her.

He used to think she collected everyone’s tears in a little magical jar. Then she’d sing like a bluebird and open the jar so that it could rain. And when it rained, she would coax him by saying that the rain will make the riverbeds flow. That the river will lead to the ocean. That the ocean will lead to the entire world. He remembered asking, “So the ocean is just made up of tears?”

She laughed and said something he could not really bring forth. But what she said—whatever it was—changed his life. His breathing became steady as he widened his eyes.

Another woman—who looked almost like him! Her hair was red as his, flowing, fluttering, rippling like the sea. Her emerald eyes shone with such electric intensity, he felt a little bit of him shrink inside.

Aoife. His twin.

He swallowed, feeling a bit of shame compel him to divert his gaze. Aoife had always been close to him. She was his other half. She was the woman that made him want to be the better man… because he was a fool of a brother. They used to be so close—they were the cheeky little kids that grinned toothily at each other. He would be the one with the missing tooth and she would get a piece of rice and stick it on his gum and laugh. Sweet and darling she was, Aoife was also the flame, the fire to his water. She was outspoken, daring, and clever. The girl always went in headfirst and whatever she did, she always made it out.

He admired her spirit. He admired her flare, her vibrancy, her vigor. They were supposed to be best friends but he had failed her. He ran away without a word to spare. He escaped her flames—flames that were supposed to warm him, not burn him. And then he tried to return, only to feel the hot scorch on his skin as a consequence. She was that part of the fire he could never touch—that center, that core that was once so inviting, but was now apprehensive.

Arthur.

Blonde, tall, handsome, stern, and prudent. There was a perpetual frown or look of distress on his face. The countenance of vexation was no stranger to him, for Arthur was always somehow filled with chagrin from the family’s ruses. But with all of the mishaps and miscommunication, the man was always… jealous. The Englishman was the ‘golden boy’, the loved one, the one sure to achieve greatness. He was intelligent and was mature beyond his years. Even as a toddler, his precocity had already predetermined his place in the world. The man felt sorry for him at times, for all of those hard times. He knew that the younger man had a ton of pressure on his shoulders, but not once had he ever tried to alleviate them. There were so many things he wished he could say before Arthur distanced himself away. So many things he could have said despite the pride he harbored within his chest. Maybe a ‘congratulations’ was in order. Maybe a, ‘you did a good job’. Or even perhaps, ‘I’m really proud of you, Arthur’.

Lastly, a young boy appeared. His features were reminiscent to Arthur’s, save for his halved height. The ginger already knew his name the moment he appeared.

Peter.

Peter was a man in a child’s body. For now at least. He was the sunshine, the illuminant figure of the man’s life. He was a little ball of life, a little ball of fire, of felicity, and of all of the curiosities of the world. They had eaten ice-cream together on the London-eye. They had went go-karting on a rainy Sunday evening. In addition, Peter even wrote a little essay about the ginger and why he was his role model. The man felt like a child again In Peter’s presence, as if he was making up for the childhood that had been stolen away from him. There was just something about the way the child puffed his cheeks whenever he was irritated, or the way he pouted just to get what he wanted. But there was something else---the way Peter laughed. The way he grinned cheekily made him feel so alive. It made him feel like he had a purpose, a reason to keep on walking on broken glass without stopping. Life was hard, but the child made him realize that it was worth it.

He furrowed his brows in distress as he clutched his head. Falling to his knees, he doubled over as he shut his eyes tightly. Breathe. Breathe.

He looked at the mirror, straight into his own eyes. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

The epiphany came again, this time like a thousand needles that stabbed ever pore of his skin. Screaming at him—it was screaming at him. The squealing memories came with pain, with agony, with misery. Those people… he remembered… those people. Those bloody faces. Those eyes of terror. The tiger lilies.

So many tiger lilies.

And with their dying breath, the people of his past whispered to him.

“Donald…”

Blank.

“I remember…” Donald muttered as he set a hand on the mirror. The glass broke. The sky shattered. The whiteness faded to pitch black.

“He’s breathing!”

…

His eyes fluttered open. His diaphragm was relaxing and contracting heavily, in and out. Donald’s face was covered in sweat. Confusion was nothing new. He tried to move his fingers but he couldn’t. He struggled—he struggled until someone set an arm on his shoulder. The ginger looked around to see… a white room. He furrowed his brows and then looked in front of him.

It was Monday morning, 9:43AM. He was on a hospital bed. There were wires of all sorts attached to him. Breathing heavily, the man blinked as he stared with a blank expression.

His family… was right there in front of him. Their teary eyes were all on him—well most of them were teary, from what he could tell. Donald opened his mouth slightly as he relaxed. Then, he gave them one of his famous smiles.

“Heya. M’ back!”

[Nicoleta]

SPOILER: Click to show

It was raining. Pouring. The skies were weeping, tears falling in form of rain drops. The gloom rolled in with the petrichor that radiated from the watery earth. To think that Arthur was going to lay here, six feet under, all alone…

It didn’t help. No, it didn’t help at all.

5 minutes until 3 o’clock. The time—it was too well-timed. It was the biblical time of perfection. This was all too fitting.

The ensemble of the afternoon was all black. The ladies and the gentlemen were all gathered in their monochrome attire, all of them expressing their lamentations by the purse of their lips. This was the more private funeral—the ‘big-screen’ funeral had already passed. This burial was meant for the close family members and friends. Arthur would’ve preferred this, to be honest. Donald knew that the man wasn’t the type to favor a grandiose exit or ceremony.

So there it was. A humble bevy of people who loved Arthur where under the protection of black umbrellas as the rain relentlessly poured on. Tip tap tip. It kept hammering against the surface of the umbrellas like a little drum.

The policemen set the mahogany casket down before the open grave. Once they left to stand on their posts, the Kirkland family silently trekked towards the casket. One by one, all of them set a flower.

A bundle of thistles, a couple of daffodils, some amaryllis flowers, and a lot of roses.

Just by looking at them, he could discern the language of the florae. Nobility, unrequited love, pride, eternal love.

Iain, Cerys, Aoife, and Peter, respectively. It was all pieced together like a puzzle. All of them had their reasons for presenting their flowers. Donald had his, which was precisely why he held on to his flowers for the meantime. The star of Bethlehem flowers—there was a bundle of them clasped in his hands by the stem. These flowers meant everything to him. It meant the beginning. It meant atonement. It meant forgiveness.

He immediately saw the correlation the moment he chose to bring these flowers. They said that these flowers had welcomed Jesus Christ when He was born. They also said they were around Him when He died. 3 o’ clock. Fitting.

The ginger turned around once the rest of the family members went to stand in their designated spots.

Quiet. So quiet. All that could be heard were the taps of the rain. His bones were still shaking from the impounding silence. Donald felt the urge to show a happier demeanor to soften the mood. Yet he just couldn’t pull the right strings to make his smile work. His countenance was… somewhere in between. Content. Yes he was feeling… content, for he had slaved in front of a mirror for nights on out just to perfect this expression.

Contentment. He had to feign this expression just to make this work.

“Arthur… Arthur, Arthur,” Donald began, managing to force the smallest of smiles.

“I used to call him Artie, Blondie, and all sorts of ‘endearing’ nicknames—but he was mostly known in the family as the ‘Golden boy’.” He exhaled as he continued, his voice gathering a bit more strength.

“Golden. Golden like his hair, like his ideals, like his ambition. We knew him as a friend, a hardworking coworker, the prospective prime minister, but to me… I knew him as a brother. My silly, anti-social brother.” A pause. “But he was still my brother.”

Donald cleared his throat as he tried to imagine the baby figure of Arthur in his mind. His eyes twinkled with nostalgia as he spoke.

“He was the last to come into our crazy Kirkland family many years ago. Arthur was the youngest with the weakest of health, which didn’t make it easier for the most of us. But he was a kicker—he was strong. He was clever. He was brave. At such a young age, he overcame almost every obstacle that was flung at his way.” He pursed his lips and raised his chin up to express pride. “Academic hurdles, emotional pitfalls—he did it all. Arthur overcame it all like a silent warrior, one that apparently preferred academia over prom nights.” He stifled a laugh.

“Admittedly,” He continued reflectively, “My time with him was limited from the start. I never got to see much of him around to my regret. But I can gingerly recall that our childhood was full of fits and giggles. The giggling was… well, mostly from my part, I guess.” He shrugged, “There were times he was afraid of the dark and I thought that was funny. But I can’t remember my younger years without remembering Arthur. He was that boy who would always be in the corner with an open book, eyes scanning… scanning, reading, absorbing, learning, transcending. Every year, he just kept on going up. He kept on advancing.”

“That was precisely why he was where he was,” His voice became saturated with a softer form of gusto, voice rising, lifting up and outstretching the flora slightly. “A politician. A man, a rhetoric, who could sway hearts by the myriads with just… words. Just words—words that came from his heart, calculated by the logic of his mind.” He furrowed his brows as he felt the passion creep up from his chest, tickling the Adam’s apple, up the throat.

“Arthur pulled himself to this envied position by his own right. He did this, almost entirely by himself with his own genius, his own talents, and his own beliefs. Just one word… created a ripple throughout Europe. Ripples!” Donald looked around, adding a pause to examine the state of his audience. He cleared his throat, softening his shoulders. “Arthur was… creating his own empire, or so to speak. A better place for all of us.”

He was almost out of breath, not from the talking, but from the emotional exertion. Donald could feel the melancholy pour into the basin of his spirit. It was filling up, like how the rain was filling up the watery grave.

“Arthur…” Donald resumed softly as he readied to project his voice again, “It’s… it is a terrible loss for the world to see such a man of such raw talent and idealism leave us so soon. He was a source of energy all on its own. A force of nature. He was… a light.”

The ginger clamped his eyes shut for a second and gulped the last bit of dry emotion. The beat of the rain was synchronizing with the beat of his heart, with the state of his mind. Everything was in disarray.

“Today we gathered here in Arthur’s memory, under his grace.” He struggled on. “We want to… thank you all for being here to share this time with us. We’re quite sure that Arthur is where he belongs right now.”

Amidst the silence, Donald turned his head to look at the line of Kirklands. Some of them were weeping with the rain. Iain and Aoife were a stonewall, their expressions strained with hurt. Cerys and Peter were the embodiment of the softer kind. Their faces were streaked with tears.

This was it. This was what was left of his family, his only family. The reality was that their family of six was now reduced to five in less than milliseconds. Less. Than. Milliseconds. Too fast for the brain to process. Too fast for the spirit to understand. Much too fast, even days after. Years after too, perhaps.

Donald found his voice again.

“Arthur, the golden boy. You were born with that crown, with that halo on your head.”

Donald let out an exhale as he remembered that phrase he had pointed out in the history book. The young ginger once went to see little Arthur about a phrase that was interesting to him. The blonde boy was apparently extremely ecstatic about it; his voice was filled with passion when he explained about it. Donald remembered being awed by how much Arthur knew. That was the first time…. He admired him.

“The sun will never set on your empire, Arthur.”

They lowered his casket along with the flowers. It descended six feet until the bottom hit the muddy ground. Donald stood before the open grave and tossed the star of Bethlehem flowers down, its white heads falling into the abyss.

“Rest in peace.”

Tick tock. 3 o' clock. He will rise again.

[Donald Finn O'Neill-Kirkland]

SPOILER: Click to show

Bang

Do you remember, Donald?

Bang

Dearest Donny, do you remember?

Stop. Reload. Breathe.

Those people you killed?

Bang. Bang. Bang.

That family of six.

A seethe. Pain trickled down his neck. There was throbbing in his head--this voice just kept on coming back. His fingers were shaking from the magnitude of the gunfire. Shaking… shaking… wanting to grip something—to strangle, to take, to steal, to kill, to… Stop.

They were such a loving family too.

He could feel it. The thousand needles began to puncture his hear. The tips were laced with poison—the poison of anger, of resentment, and of sorrow.

A pastor, his wife, and his four children. And you killed them all… all in cold blood.

“No…”

They all had such pretty eyes. Three of the children had eyes reminiscent to their mothers. Such a pretty blue.

A gasp. A desperate gesture for air.

Oh… but you remember the youngest one’s eyes?

Donald doubled over, falling down to his knees as his broken body convulsed from the pressure of his emotions. With eyes wide open, he was hyperventilating as he clutched his face. The bony fingers bent inward, grabbing on to his skin as if he was ready to pull it off of his face.

They were all red from the blood that seeped into her pupils.

Mutilated screams heralded the dangers of the night. He screamed from the chest, thrashing and flailing. Flipping things over, shoving photo frames to the side, ripping pieces of papers, Donald was trying to destroy everything. He tossed the gun in some random direction, only to hear more cacophonic sounds ensue.

Who are you?

A mirror. Donald promptly walked up to it. He winced at the reflection of the man. Eyes sunken, half-shaven, hair tousled, and face placid from sleepless nights and drunken afternoons. With a roar from the gut, he smashed It with his fist… and it all came tumbling down.

He felt the draft come in. Cold, condescending, full of contempt. The light flickered on and off as the transparent white curtain fluttered in the breeze like a ghost. The moonlight peered in variation of dark hues, illuminating the room in a splash of blue and gray.

He could only hear his breathing… Every exhale became more shaky as the lesion on his knuckles stung with pain—it was a superficial pain that couldn’t even compare to what he was feeling. His feelings?

Despair. Defeat. Denial…?

He stood up with hollow eyes in the middle of the chaos. Donald looked around. It looked as if the victim struggled with the perpetrator, going through every object and article in this room to free himself. It looked as if a murder had taken place here.

When in fact. It did happen.

There was a discordant stream of laughter. Filled with twisted mirth, Donald took a couple of steps back and leaned against the wall to support him. Raucous laughter! So many kinds of… laughter!

Laughter, like when he and Iain teamed up against their co-workers during April first, fist bumping during the closing of their ruses.

… like that moment he and Cerys witnessed Rover, the silly golden retriever, do some tricks until the pup got tired and rolled on its back to sleep abruptly.

… like that time he and Aoife tried to climb up a tree when they were young to get an apple, only to see themselves on the ground, surrounded by autumn leaves and dirt.

… like that evening he and Arthur watched an old comedic British film about the Victorian era together in an old cinema.

… like that day he and Peter had to chase the yellow kite Arthur had bought him; they ran all the way down the block just to catch the string.

He choked.

Laughter… after that special moment he held Lili’s hands, his fingers softly around her fingers, as he looked into her twinkling eyes, asked in a breathy tone, “Will you marry me?”

When she said yes, all he could remember was their laughter, ringing into the air like silver bells.

That familiar voice again. “I’m pregnant!”

“Pregnant?” Donald had exclaimed excitedly, laughing as he picked her up to spin her around. He had given her six kisses that day. Six kisses. S-Six people—oh God.

Tears started streaming down his face at the revelation. Six bloody people. Six people that could’ve lived or… six people that died. The devil’s number. This was redemption. It all made sense. Donald nodded to himself as if he understood. As if he understood… as if he understood. Yes. Yes. Yes…

What will you do now… my love?

The man slunk over towards the direction of a familiar object, moving as if he was a possessed creature. The ebony gun, Angel, was lain besides a rubble. He picked it up, staring at it as if he was formulating a goal.

The door opened. He turned his head. A young woman with short hair and a blue ribbon on the side, holding grocery bags. Through someone else’s eyes, she was a fair lass with blonde hair, pastel green eyes, and little rosy lips. Her eyes were filled with bewilderment. Donald had been with this woman ever since he had quit MI6. She had been warming his bed, with him, beside him all this time to keep him insanely sane.

“Donny…? Donny… what have you been doing?” She asked, her voice quivering. The woman looked at the gun and them widened her eyes. “D-Donny is that… a gun?”

Donald lifted the gun up. “I… dunno... Lili.”

Bang.

Tremulous laughter! She never even existed in the first place!

[Joselle]

180 WORD DRABBLES

SPOILER: Click to show

Based off this

One touch and her heart was out of line. He held her close in the muted light of the dim room, drawing her towards him to share each other's warmth. She felt his heartbeat with her palm, drowning herself in the monotony, the consistency--the sound of his life against her skin.The atmosphere was heavy, burdened with the smell of cigarettes and the weight of unspoken words. In this brief moment of lustful silence, Heracles and Nicoleta were only guided by the tantalizing glimmers they shared in their half-lidded eyes. Reckless. Directionless. All were driven by the spur of the moment, the heat of passion.

He put a hand on her cheek. They were so close, she could feel his breath on her face The prospect of a kiss.

Their parted lips brushed only slightly, his lips lingering over her upper lip. It was called self-restraint. It was called madness. It was called a weakness. It was called acceptance.

Nicoleta closed her eyes. "I love you," She whispered under the their even breath.

In its wake, followed no more noise but stifled breaths. No restraint.

SPOILER: Click to show

"You know I'll do anything to protect you right?"

Sunday evening. Cafe shop smelled faintly of the freshly brewed Caramel macchiato latte with a touch of cinnamon. Nicoleta knowingly simpered as she rested the back of her hand against her cheek, her eyes glowing with mirth. Andrei made an expression that was in between a boy's pout and a man's frown.

"... What was that all about?" He muttered, the flustered expression etched all over his face. The Moldovan was not surprised with the content of her words; the spontaneous timing threw him off.

"Just a friendly reminder," Nicoleta chimed in lightly as she took an even sip of her black coffee. She diverted her eyes at the rising twilight. Cars rushing on by. Denizens of London walking down the street. Another peaceful day. Another life untaken. Another ordinary, uneventful evening. Today, Andrei was still alive, sitting with her, feeling a plethora of emotions with complexities she could not touch.

She had known to not take anything for granted. For every day with him was just another blessing. Her love for him stretched further with every passing day. Cherish.

SPOILER: Click to show

Her embarrassment. The florid hue that brushed her cheeks. It was a color he could not discern but he knew it was there.

Her smile. Her laugh. The crinkle of her eye, the way her nose scrunches after a rush of happiness. The way she slightly looked over her right shoulder sheepishly as an apologetic gesture to excuse her giggling.

The way she twiddled her fingers during moments of silence or the way she tilted her head as she read a book. Sometimes her lips parted as she muttered words to herself with every line from the novel.

How many times... had he caught himself just looking at her? Donald was never going to be able to count. There was something about it... something about the way the light bent around her. It was a classic and cheesy observation but he would not be ashamed to admit it. There were times she looked so ethereal, so pristine and graceful. The way Lili did things... it was so ordinary, yet it was so strangely perfect to him.

"Donald?"

"Hm? Oh--sorry."

SPOILER: Click to show

Every night, he had been burdened relentless guilt. On one starless night in the flurry of a chaotic dream, God told him he only had a thousand words to seek repentance.

"A thousand?" Donald cried with a slight laugh.

'Only a thousand words are allowed during these next twenty four hours. Be wise.'

"Golly..."

One went to two. To three, to four. Words were simultaneously being exhausted from the allotted amount given to him. A thousand, he scoffed, was more than enough!

Yet he was still mindful; his words were concise aside from the occasional short improptu-speech to embellish his thoughts (which took a good 300 words out of the pool). There were too many things to say to so many people! Where were these words supposed to go? He panicked, his heart racing, pounding, screaming at him, "Two more words."

A flash of red hair, like a fleeting ember. The storm followed with every footstep. She was walking away, like how she always did. He felt as if his bloodstream was injected with lead. The weight was unbearable.

Yet he ran to her. Their semblances mirrored.

"I'm... sorry."

Wordlessly, he embraced her. If only he had a thousand more.

[Joselle]

'SORRY I CHEATED' CHALLENGES (300- Words)

SPOILER: Click to show

Click. Click. Click.

She always wore those pointed stiletto high heels. Some were cherry red like fresh blood. Black and blue like the bruises on the body. Cream and beige like the color of naked skin. Estelle was all too familiar to these colors and the kinds she wore on her feet. In a way, she was what she wore.

The high heel. Chic, fashionable, sleek, beautiful. The symbol of high fashion—classy but with an edge, with steel to it. Estelle had waltzed through the darken alleys fearlessly; the monotonous sound of clicking followed her every step. Grace. Poise. Commanding of attention. She fooled the world with her balance, the way she centered her life on a single, thin, and sharp 4-inch heel on each foot.

So tall, so mighty. Yet it hurt.

The curvature of the heels forcibly changed her semblance, naturally pushing the curves of her breasts and her bottom to compensate for the altering of the body’s nature. This was what society wanted to see. The way they want her to be structured.

See, all it would take is a heavy force—a pivot out of turn—and it’d break. Tumble and fall out of grace like the human she is. C’est la vie, Estelle Aimee Bonnefoy. How far can she keep on walking?

SPOILER: Click to show

Morning light. He rubbed the sleep off his eyes to see an (not so unexpected) visitor in his room. She had fallen asleep again. Nicoleta was kneeling on the ground, the upper half of her body clinging to the edge of the bed. With a slight chuckle, Heracles moved out of the bed, scooped up her limp body and then set her on the bed for her sake. A faint smile—a mischievous grin.

In no time, Nicoleta’s sleeping body was sprawled in an awkward position, courtesy of Heracles himself. Since she was (thankfully) a heavy morning sleeper, he amusedly decided he could use some anatomy practice with this docile volunteer. With a sketchpad and a granite pencil in hand, he be began to messily draw the outline of her body. Mm yes, here’s how her body curves—oops he made the breasts too big… erase (or maybe not)— and her legs are strangely positioned like this--…!

“Mmm…?”

Oh shit. Heracles tentatively looked at the sleeping woman, hoping that he didn’t wake her up. From her awkward half-supine, half-prone position, Nicoleta warily opened her glossy eyes by the flutter of eyelashes. She tilted her head curiously, as if to make sense of the environment around her. Still bewitched by the slumberous spell, she lowered her eyes as she gave the man a small, sweet smile. The woman nuzzled the fabric of the sheets with a sigh before her dreams snatched her away. Out like a light.

He let out a slight laugh and then repositioned her to a more comfortable and forgiving position. The sound of her soft breathing became clearer to him. Her lips were slightly parted as she moved her head to the side. The Greek formed his lips into a thin smile as he brushed some hair off her forehead. Strange, how someone so vicious and tough by nightfall could look so innocent and vulnerable by daylight. Heracles only wished he had enough time to capture that smile in a picture.

[Joselle]

SPOILER: Click to show

"... And then th' knight leapt off th' horse, the iron soles o' his armored boots clanged aghainst th' ground," Donald pounced off the bed and landed on his feet in a sturdy and heroic, upright position.

With his chin high, he resumed with a tone of valiant gusto. "And he said to her... “Princess, Oi am 'ere te rescue ye now that Oi’ve slain the mighty dragon!”"

Such words were followed by a courteous bow before his little audience of one. He reached out a hand to the precious little girl with rose-dusted cheeks and sparkling green eyes who was sitting on the bed.

In response, she cheekily rose up and took her father’s hand. As he beamed, his fingers curled in delicately over her tiny fingers.

““And now me fair lass, Oi’ll take ye home te yer kingdom.” So… after that, he... swept her off her feet,” In a simple, two-step motion, he scooped her up into her arms, spun once to accommodate the momentum, and then waltzed over to the other side of the bed.

As Aislinn giggled at the theatrics, Donald continued with a grin, “Aen theen they got on his silver steed n’ rode off inte th’ sunset!”

With his daughter still in his arms, he skipped a couple of steps closer to the edge of the bed, making exaggerated trotting noises with his mouth. “N’ then they lived…”

“… Happily ever after!” Aislinn finished with a dreamy sigh as her father gingerly laid her on the bed.

Donald chuckled at her precise timing. “That’s right, pet! Ye’ve been endin’ all me stories lately eh!”

As she got herself comfortable, shifting her head on the cushion of the pillow, the little ginger looked at Donald expectantly while he tucked her in. “I like happy endings, daddy.”

“I like ‘em too.” He replied in a softer and loving tone as he tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear.

“Are we going to have a happy ending?”

The man blinked in surprise. There was an odd feeling in his gut from this double-edged question. The meaning of a ‘happy ending’ was still quite obscure to him, though he could thankfully admit that he had been getting more pleasant chapters of life. But the darkness that had jaded him was, by no means, appropriate for a little six year old girl. The innocence that shined from her eyes ruled the inquiry as a harmless one.

His shoulders relaxed as his lips formed a small, knowing smile.

“O’ course, luv. Do ye’ know why?”

A sweet smile etched across her face. “Why?”

“Because yer mum n’ I love ye very much. N’ no matter what, Aislinn, we’re always goin’ te try to make ye happy. And yer smile is the darn cutest thing in the world.”

Satisfied with the reassuring answer, she wiggled behind the blanket and beamed toothily. “Is this smile good enough?”

“Why, it is, princess! Beautiful, just like yer mum's.” Donald chuckled as he affectionately tapped her cheek. “Now let’s all go te sleep, yea? Big day tomorrow with yer auntie. She gets scary mad if yer late.”

“Oh!” She squealed after being reminded. “Okay! Goodnight!”

“G’night sweetheart.” He placed a swift kiss between her eyes while turning off the lamp with his free hand. “Sweet dreams.”

As he closed the door behind him, Donald took a moment to reflect in the darken silence of the hallway. A short and relaxed sigh escaped his breath. This is happiness.

[Joselle]

SPOILER: Click to show

The baby mobile moved slightly due to the interference, the hand-sewn figures and symbols dangled over the wooden crib. Yet, there was no jingle, no noise. As a habit, the mother closed the door softly, making sure that only a short, muffled creak could disturb the silence. As silent as a lynx, she walked by all of the quaint little objects she and her husband had bought to decorate the room. Nothing was interesting to her but the tiny bed with walls like a prison.

After pulling a stool closer to the cot, she rested her arm on the flat wooden rims. The moment she saw him, she felt little strings tug her heart to several directions; it was a complex emotion of happiness and love diluted with sympathy and guilt. The emotional dissonance was hard to register, especially for a straight-forward woman as she. It was hard to swallow the mix of feelings that would typically reside on the opposite spectrum. Some things were just too hard to explain; by the same token, some things don’t need an explanation.

Regardless of the dryness in her throat, Nicoleta stole the muted moment to admire the face of infant. She tensed up; he was too still. Quick off her seat, heart racing, she reached down to set a gentle hand on the child’s body.

His tiny diaphragm had been contracting and relaxing the whole time; it was just her paranoia again. He was still breathing—he was just sleeping.

Her fingers curled in as she brushed the baby’s cheek ruefully, as if she was apologizing for her anxiety. She was still shaken by the fact that he was all hers. This little life, this little form of perfection belonged to her. For so long, she had always been doubtful of her ability to create anything worth admiring; therefore, the sight of her child always struck her with awe and astonishment.

'I’m a mother.'

He reminded her every time.

The magnitude of the realizations had been stacking since the beginning of her pregnancy. This time was just as powerful as the last, just as strong as the first. Nicoleta bit her lip as she rested her chin at the rim of the crib, smiling wryly as she stroked his curly brown hair. Heh. Just like his father’s.

Silent. So quiet. In retrospect, such a thing used to be her ally. She used to relish in the dead-air knowingly with the ambition of victory in her grasp. She used to triumph in the quietude during a successful getaway. Yet here… in the stillness, she worried and feared.

(She couldn’t take it.)

“Lucian,” She began tenderly, as if she was coaxing him. “Are you having sweet dreams, Lucian?”

No response. Of course. She let out a breath, a stifled sigh. It had only been a few days the family had a new member; she decided it would be best for her to let this out.

Nicoleta swallowed. He slept on.

“Mama only wants you to have happy dreams,” She continued as she smoothed out the colorful hand-stitched blanket for the baby boy. “When you wake up in the morning, there will be birds that sing loudly. The trees will rustle—sometimes, there will be rain. It makes a soft relaxing noise and it always makes me want to fall back asleep.”

She rubbed her nose and sniffed. The child moved his head slightly to the side.

“It gets annoying. You’re not missing out, dragule. It… gets even worse when someone starts to mow their lawn in the morning.” Nicoleta chuckled lightly as she rubbed the back of her neck, “It gets so loud and rowdy. Then the cats always like to fight. And people always talk and talk but it’s all nonsense. It gets crazy and loud… Sometimes you want everything to stop but it won’t.”

She wiped an eye as she stammered, “It won’t but… everything will be alright, Lucian. No matter what you think or what you can’t hear or can’t understand, I’ll love you. It won’t be bad because some things can’t be explained in words, you know?”

A pause. She cowardly buried her face in her hands.

“It… can’t be explained.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” remarked Heracles as he quietly closed the door. The man had a feeling his wife would be here during this hour; he was just glad he managed to find her before she drowned herself in her own complexity. Readily, he strode over to the tearful woman and placed a soft kiss on her quivering lips. It was a short, sweet one that always managed to brighten her complexion somehow.

As expected, she smiled but out of embarrassment as she wiped her eyes with a casual pretense. “When did you get up, love? How did you ever notice I left your bed?” She teased with a glint in her eye, “I was so careful too.”

“We’re married. You can’t get away from me that easily.” He quipped with a natural half-grin as he brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. In mere moments, he altered his expression to a more serious one.

“Nicoleta,” He began and ended the statement with finality. He knew that was all he had to say to make the woman look away reticently. Nicoleta had her way with communicating through her expressions. She didn’t need to say a thing, for she was the type to expect some mutual agreement. It was a hassle, but he had grown used to it. The situation was already understood.

Without hesitation, Heracles reached out and embraced her as a reminder. As a first-time father himself, he had been going through his share of kicks as well. As for her, he was perceptive enough to identify only half of her troubles.

(That was considered to be a dangerous level of comprehension—to a woman, that is.)

Though the other half was unknown, the way he was holding her represented a form of reassurance—he was going to be there regardless of mysteries and muted stress.

She knew everything. Hell, she always did. She just needed to be reminded.

“We’re going to do fine,” he assured through a soft, coaxing murmur.

With her face buried in his chest, Nicoleta responded with silence as she held Heracles tightly. It was her way of saying, ‘I know. I love you.’

Heracles made a faint smile as he ran his fingers through her auburn hair in response to reciprocate her expression. Some situations didn’t require noise to pass on the message. Here, it was all understood.

[Joselle]

SPOILER: Click to show

{I dont really know--Arthur and Mihai}It was a night full of kisses and bruises on the nape of the skin. Careful as always for this novice, Mihai made sure he was leading and pushing the right buttons for Arthur. From what it seems, the groping and the friction between kisses had been nicely received by the Englishman. At least, there had been no sign of complaint thus far. The pair blindly got into the bedroom, much to Arthur’s dismay. Mihai’s weak pivot and turn gave way to an opportunity Arthur had been waiting for. Using his hands to hold the Romanian against the wall, Arthur took a moment to shakily breathe to recuperate. The other man merely smirked at the rosy face of the virgin.

“With that kind of push, you must be an animal in bed, darling.” He teased.

Arthur knitted his brows together. “Yes well… that’s actually the problem.”

Still breathing heavily from the romantic exercise from earlier, the blond muttered his curses. He had no idea why and how this happened. With the view of the bed on peripheral vision, Arthur nervously began, “Michael—“

Mihai captured Arthur’s lips and jerked forward to break the hold he was in. Arthur staggered backward, unable to stand his ground against the dominant push from the other man. With his leg against the bedframe, Arthur forcibly broke free from the kiss. Standing there, his hair tangled in a mess with a half buttoned shirt, he stared incredulously at his mate.

“Michael, if we’re going to do this, we’re not going to do it here.”

“Never thought you’d be the type to swing from tradition.”

“Listen to me. I’m---I’m something else, alright!”

Mihai cleared his throat as a signal that he was processing what was going on. If Arthur was trying to be sexually stimulating by saying that, then he definitely did it wrong. Evident in the crimson flush, the English’s man’s face was florid with honesty and some sort of embarrassment.

“I don’t really get what you mean.” Mihai responded bluntly.

“It’s just—“Arthur took a moment as he swung arm gestures to display his cognitive incoherency. He quietly took a seat on the edge of the mattress, causing the mattress to creak from the depression. “I don’t think you’ll be able to handle it. That’s—that’s really it.”
A pause.

The standing man laughed. “Arthur, the bedroom is the place you should be the least concerned of for my well-being.”

“I… believe it’d be best to show you instead.”

Arthur rolled on the bed and lay supine as he cautiously looked at Mihai. He took the covers and wrapped himself until his person was completely gone. While he was doing that, he was also curling up into a little ball. How curious, though, was the fact that only a tiny part of the blanket remained active with movement. What was previously the outline of a man’s body was nothing more than wrinkles and folds.

Unable to figure out what was going on, Mihai turned on a desk lamp and carefully moved over to the bedside. “Arthur?”

Slowly, he lifted up the blanket to see a brown plume. The man yanked the blanket away at the thought of witchcraft to see a creature roll and tumble onto the floor. “Ah…”

After realizing what it was, Mihai sat down to grasp a hold of his shaking sanity. The creature ruffled its feathers and then flew on the bed. The distinct marks over the eyes were unmistakably eyebrows.

“So you’re a duck.” Mihai began.

“Yes.” Arthur responded carefully, his voice still adjusting in this new form.

"So you're an animal in bed. Literally."

"A duck in bed, to be specific."

Too emotionally numb to even make the appropriate expression, Mihai opened his mouth, “How am I supposed to feel about this?”

Arthur scratched its wing with his beak and then waddled over to Mihai’s lap. Once he became comfortable, he sat down. “You don’t.”
And no one ever spoke about this ever. The end. Hurray.

[Asunara Wisdom]

omfg am i a meme now

[Deleted]

OMG AHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA

YES, ASU. YES YOU ARE.

this is fabulous ahhzncksnsbcjifsn

[Joselle]

SPOILER: Click to show

{Spoiler}{Cinnamon}There was a faint taste on her tongue, a flavor she could not identify. It was an uncommon happening on this very common day. For, the rain fell as it did every other winter morning, sprinkling over the city of London in rhythmic disarray. The monochrome clouds showed not the slightest mercy for any dapple of blue, the overcast illuminating the every niche and detail in a hue of murky grey. Even the faces of the city's denizens appeared gaunt and sullen because of the weather, their eyes distant and their lips pursed as they waited at the train stop.

There was little motivation to converse since there was no way to contest the chatty rainfall, the droplets of water tittering enthusiastically against the umbrellas and rolling down the nylon surface. Among the multi-ethnic bevy of people, a short haired woman stood in the dry shadows alone and in the back, her dark attire blending her into near invisibility. Perhaps the only real color was in her stark, calculating hazel eyes. Nicoleta only watched the rain inadvertently from under the concrete canopy, inwardly wishing she had brought an umbrella with her. Though she was sure some gentleman was going to offer her protection, she did not want to feel the need to be potentially forced into socializing. There were too many things to be unhappy about to speak. If there was anything she hated as much as getting wet, it was mornings and waiting. Morning was not her time of day, it was as clear as the dark under-eye circles she failed to conceal. As for the waiting, her patience was drawing to a near close. The concept of being 'early' was enough to make her look as sulky as a child sent in the corner. A word ample enough to describe her demeanor would have to be 'miserable'. Nothing about this morning weather seemed promising.

The days before today had been slow, draining, and unexciting. The collective lethargy was taking its full toll at the moment. Consequently, Nicoleta felt as if her energy was being sucked out from the nape. It became a feeling so uncomfortable, she had to rub the back of her neck to ease the gooseflesh. The woman paused, recognizing this sensation as one of notification. Instinctively, she turned to the side to see a man, tall and protruding with a stout nose and a broad forehead. He gave her a rather thin smile but quickly turned away after failing to elicit an expression from the Romanian. She glanced off, listlessly scanning the periphery to notice that it had become quite crowded. Surely, she was going to get a bad seat unless she could tackle and weave through the sea of people, a notion her lack of energy scoffed at. From the distance, a sound like thunder was rolling in on the metal tracks. The train was approaching, causing the restless crowd to stir to life as they awaited on the prospect of starting the day.

Unlike the others, the nocturnal Nicoleta was waiting to end her day, to crawl to bed and wrap herself in covers for peaceful slumber. She closed her eyes for a moment and felt the sting of the sleepiness that glossed her eyes.
There was a smell of petrichor, coffee, brown sugar, cinnamon and some sort of spice she didn't notice before--the combination sounded ordinary but it had the right intensity to make her reminisce. It reminded her of home, the spices especially. The rain could not drown out the hard stop of the train, which woke her up from the reverie. People were moving in and out of the train already, crowding in the entrances like the sands of an hourglass. Once she saw the man who had been next to her scuttle near the entrance, she realized that she needed to get moving. With a bit disdain, she left the shelter of the canopy and stood to be grazed by the rain. It was a slow-moving process--she didn't think there would be so many damn people today. At this rate, it was going to fill up, much to her dismay.

Yet her anger seemed to sink under the gravity and weight of the rain. Her eyes, suddenly not so tired, noticed someone among the cluster of people. The smell of cinnamon. An image of a young boy with deep brown hair and chatoyant hazel eyes flashed in her head, his smile broad and strong as he left a piece of cinnamon into mother's mug of coffee. The epiphany brought a pang of emotion through her chest, making her shoulders stiff and her throat hurt. She hadn't seen him for years since he was taken. When she had first arrived in England, looking for him was her top priority. He was the last of her family, her kin, and a boy she had loved almost more than herself. To be so sure that he was in her presence was so surreal that it created a momentary stasis. This chemistry of anxiety, severe yearning, and other complications in her person; it was a mix powerful enough to make her heart ache. The ache, however, provided a jumpstart, the energy coursing through her like electricity. It was him, it had to be him!

She recognized the back of his head, that tiny, almost unnoticeable bald spot on his scalp. Nicoleta wanted to cry out to him but for some odd reason, her voice was tied up in her throat. She cursed under her breath, the ghost of her words escaping in a fist of steam. As an act of desperation, the woman almost lunged the person in front of her as she tried to weave herself through. "Valeriu...!" The rain, the footsteps, the slosh, and the chatter muffled her call. The name sounded so familiar to her, it was almost foreign.

He boarded the train, his black backpack on and his headphones in his ears. The boy had grown so tall, it seemed as if it wasn’t Valeriu at all. However, there was no room for doubt, at least not now. He looked so normal, she thought as she hurriedly tried to cram herself to the entrance. Out of everything that happened, he looked as if he had been having a normal life. She could only wish, from the deepest, most tender parts of her heart, that he was truly living that kind of life. Her sincerity and drive was not enough, however, to get her a spot in the train. The people around her were not afraid to combat her rudeness with their own.
"Please stop bloody shoving! It'll move a whole hell of a lot faster if you stop." said a burly man with a frizzled beard. He almost frightened her because of the suddenness of his tone.

Clearly not herself and drenched to the bone, she chose to not reply as she watched the boy disappear in the train. It didn’t look like she was going to be able to make it.

"I need to get on that train." The tone of her voice almost made him change his hard expression. It was not desperation in her tone, but one that trembled with resolution.

"You and everyone else." he replied brusquely with a subtle reassuring undertone. "The next one won't take too long."

The next one, she thought vacantly as she watched the shutter doors close. The next one? It echoed in between each sound of the falling rain, reverberating off the cold and dissuading expressions of the people around her.

Next time. Next try. She had told herself that so many times. That word only asked to bide more time, which in return, asked her to promise more waiting. The gravity of that word hurt, perhaps more than it should have.

The train revved with life, followed by the sound of the bell ringing in a timely manner. That clicked something in her brain. She inwardly admitted to herself that she was overreacting, overemotional, over-the-top with whatever previous incomprehensible phase. Acts driven by emotion—why, that is madness, no that was weakness. She knew the consequences of weakness well enough to shock her back into homeostasis. Finally, Nicoleta was slowing down, feeling numb as the reality seeped through her black coat and into her skin. The adrenaline washed away as quickly as it came. The mechanical clamour of the metal wheels as it began to roll away crushed any lingering wishful thinking.

She maneuvered herself to the front after calming down--people were much more complacent when you don't shove them around. Standing at the edge of the platform, the Romanian watched, her eyes half-lidded and hazy as the descending clouds that engulfed the head of the metal convoy. The tail was left and she could swear by her melancholy that she saw a boy look back by the rear window. Even if a boy did look back, he would have not recognized the frozen appearance of a woman, all dressed in mourning black. Sorrow, failure, defeat?

Traces of cinnamon and coffee became diluted, slowly becoming overcome by the stench of mud, tar, and smoke. The cold rain dripped from her hair, rolled down her skin, and kissed over her lips, sweetly reminding her that she was truly alone. Her eyes stung out of embarrassment and disappointment but she let the rain cry for her. This was why she never liked waiting, for nothing had ever stopped to wait for her.

How bittersweet.

(idk random drabble)

[Joselle]

SPOILER: Click to show

{Heartbeat}The light made her hazel eyes a shade softer, her pupils dilating to the beam. Her pale lips parted slightly, the ghost of her breath escaped with silent surprise. The impulse to blink argued with her in every passing second but she held on, eyes wide open, as her fingers clung to the fabric of her shirt. She dug deeper and clutched on to her swelling abdomen area, feeling an inkling of pain to arise in that area as it had before. It had been a pain so severe, Nicoleta was sometimes bedridden with eyes that were smudged with lethargy. It had been a pain so fierce that sometimes, it would enter her dreams with a touch so jagged that she screamed unconsciously to make it stop. It had twisted and turned, like a demon in its crib, twisting her muscles and puncturing her flesh with its claws. With every episode of pain, she sometimes saw a light as bright as this flash spots in her mind. Her heart was struggling to find equilibrium as it pounded with more heavy beats. It was sore from anxiety, the poison that made her body ache since the day she decided to agree to do this. Never did she think it would hurt this much.

Her senses came back to her when the light was moved away, her vision refocusing at the view of the doctor before her. It was a woman, Doctor Lea, with stark blond hair with tired make-up and pale pink lips. If there was anything Nicoleta noticed in her blue eyes that was other than her messy brown eyeliner, it was the hue of concern. The Romanian firmly pressed her hands against her abdomen protectively, as if she was covering the eyes of a child away from disaster.

"I see that you were a heavy smoker and a drinker, Mrs. Karpusi?" she asked as she looked at the clipboard of papers and information.

"Yes." Nicoleta replied numbly, revealing a small smile of defeat after realizing the weight of the doctor's words. It was not really a question at all, but a demand for confirmation. In that instant, she felt sick as if she was hung over. The memory of alcohol and drugs churned in her system like an acid. A thought nearly made her tear up. Her child was drowning in her filth of the past, getting high off the cocaine that had long been gone, getting drunk off the absinthe and vodka that once poisoned her. Her throat became dry at the unsettling imagery--this was precisely the reason why she didn't want to be a mother in the first place. How was she to raise a child when she was a rotten child herself?

"We might have to do a few more scans but these symptoms that you have is a likely case of miscarriage." Her face was as astute as death.

Nicoleta held her composure, her complexion still and frozen. The crack in the ice was when her lips twitched, pressing them together to hold in whatever moisture was left on that faded maroon. She had taken bullets to the flesh and laughed at it but these words were enough to push her to the brink of tears.

"You've been going through this pain for... four months?" The doctor's eyebrows were creased with sympathy. Nicoleta hated it. "It's an awfully long time, you should've gotten checked earlier."

"I have," She said, trying her best to maintain a steady tone. Her voice was honed with an edge of grief and remorse. "I should've but I didn't. That won't take back the pain I already went through."

The doctor fell silent.

In short, Nicoleta was stubborn and was afraid of hearing those doctor's words too early on to the pregnancy. Without the nicotine and the daily cup of wine, her willpower and strength deteriorated to the consistency of freshly fallen snow that crumbled with every moving step. It was evident in her appearance. Her once naturally stunning glow was jaded by a cloudy and pallid complexion. Her figure, once firm, fit, and healthy was deteriorating, thinning, and trimming slowly down into the bone. It took Heracles several months to actually get her to see a gynecologist, bribing her with kisses, food, and words of hopeful comfort. Such wishes of comfort were all in vain, for she could already foresee the loss of this little flame that had went out before it took its breath. There was a chill, cold like the side of a steel knife, in her womb.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Karpusi, I understand why you feel this way." Lea admitted, expressing her professional sense of sympathy. She pulled on a stool and then sat down. "Many women go through this. It doesn't mean you are infertile. Give yourself some time to heal, time to restore back your strength. You can try again."

But Nicoleta had grown attached to the projection of a child that appeared in almost all of her dreams. Yet with every reverie and strong affirmations to be a mother was traded off with pain and rejection and remorse. Messaged had relayed on back and forth with Nicoleta on the line, wavering, wondering which side she should fall onto. Only now did she realize how strong her commitment was and how it hurt to know that the unborn was not going to commit to her. This betrayal rang deaf in her ears.

"I'll figure it out." Nicoleta replied tersely to the other woman's kindness. She took her coat, slipped it on, and hopped off the examination bed. The world was spinning dizzy in her vision, a pang of pain seared as if an icepick stabbed through her temple. The woman winced as she took a step back, colliding with the edge of the bed and nearly falling to her feet. What was this weight that was shackling her? It let her move no further as panicked words flew over her head. Denial, grief... relief?

She doubled over, feeling the claws scrape inside her. With every scratch was an electric burning sensation that emanated and spread like a fanned fire. Deaf, she was, to the point where she could only hear her desperate breathing and her heartbeat. Her eyes were shut closed as she found herself closer to the ground, holding on to the small swell as if she was clutching a bleeding, open wound. In the darkness, the very same that had used to make her feel safe, she screamed at the rape of her sanity. It hurt, more than she could imagine or ever wish to imagine.

When she came to, she had a trail of tears down her cheeks. Someone wiped the perspiration from her forehead, the cloth was damp and cold but did nothing to cool the heat. Things were moving, people were running, noises here and there. Her half lidded eyes could not see much--only a blurry reality before her. The pain made her so numb, she almost felt light. All she could hear was... her breathing, her heart beating. How curious that all it took was monstrous pain to simplify the complexities of life.

Nicoleta placed a hand over the dead swell and ghosted her fingers down the curve, perhaps one last rub as a goodbye. An inkling of a smile graced her lips, one of rueful acceptance as she closed her eyes. Maybe it was not meant to be, she thought as her consciousness slipped away. In the hazy darkness, there was that little light again. A small child with a form too blurry to see, but it was a boy with a light in his hand. He smiled at her and reached out to touch her fingertips. In that instant, she swore she felt another heartbeat.

[Joselle]

SPOILER: Click to show

{Stranger (hint of Donald and a completely unrelated character)} (This is for an assignment for my creative writing class idk. Continuation of the kirkland horror killing spree. Takes place after Donald becomes schizo ff)

The bells from nearest abbey tolled, announcing the arrival of a new hour in reverberating intones. The city shuddered in the wake of the silence until the chirping of birds and car engines occupied its ears. Spring was approaching, and so the sky was shedding off winter’s clouds and overcast with the warm shears of the sunlight. The remaining clouds were mere wisps that streaked across the dome of blue like little fleeting ghosts. Daphne was where she liked to be, on the rooftop of a 1900 century Romanesque apartment complex she liked to call her haven. She had always felt at ease in the company of the sky and the chilly breeze that seldom strayed among the crowded streets of London. Here, she felt limitless, unnamed, irresponsible, and eternally young under the skin that had aged from priorities and obligations. It made her feel free like a bird.

Yet every bird had a nest to return to while some had cages. Birds can't fly forever or escape forever. And those that couldn’t fly at all fall straight to the ground. That was the reality that prowled for her on the final step of the flight of stairs below, waiting for the blood of her flesh. Daphne tried to not think of it. The last two years of medical school had strained her very much, and though she was eager to be a hero in the emergency room, she wanted to savor this moment’s respite before taking a dip back into the real world that hardly waited for her.

She stood up and put on her backpack. The orientation documents and paperwork weighed a little more on her back. Daphne retreated from the shadows casted by large generator structure and walked around the corner to meet the vista that had lost its splendor in her eyes, but was nonetheless still beautiful. To her surprise, she saw another person standing there, staring off at the breadth of the city that stretched to the horizon. His hair was a soft color of orange, windswept, with the short strands of hair bending to the will of the wind. Daphne only saw his back and the long shadow that the tall man made. It was safe to say that she had never met him, nor seen him once on this rooftop. Though she did not own this property, she could not help but feel as if he had intruded.

The ledge was up to his waist yet made no struggle to climb and onto the flat, sun-baked cement surface. What sort of stunt was he doing, she asked herself as she watched from a distance away. Daphne wanted to leave this man to his business, but she could not shake away the sinking feeling that was pitted in her chest. Worry puckered her brow as she observed the way he paced around lightly on the edge. If this was what she feared it was, it would be her own self-written sin to not speak out.

“Excuse me!” Daphne called, hoping to not startle him. “Hey, what are you doing! Get down, it’s dangerous.”

The man whirled around. His complexion was in shadows when he faced her. He was handsome, his jaw well-defined and rugged with stubble, and a slight scar above his brow but there was a look on him that made her quiver. It was his eyes—it had a wild look, one that made it seem as if he would do anything. She flushed in fear. The way he tensed up and stood, arms out aggressively, made her feel as if she was the intruder.

She thought he looked like a cornered animal. It soured her to demean him to the status of an animal, but from the look of him, she realized that all humanity had strayed from his person. This was what desperation did.
“Leave me,” he demanded. “Leave me, or watch me jump.”

The electricity of his words shocked her in an instant. What? Daphne nearly choked. There was a trickling sensation and a pressure that was enclosing on her heart. The heat crawled up from the neck to the core of her brain.
“Wait,” She cried mindlessly. “Please, don’t—don’t do it. Get down and we can talk or something or whatever you want. I’m serious, please don’t jump.”

Daphne was shaking, almost blind by the chemistry of emotions that paralyzed her body. She did not know what to say or what to do. She tried to think, tried to think. Daphne had gone through five years of college and two and a half years of medical school, but not a single class had taught her on what to do in this situation. It only taught her what would happen to a body were she to fail him. This man was a stranger, but she felt responsible for him. Her eyes were glinting with tears.

Though her throat was dry, she continued, “I can call someone. I can call the hospital for you. There’s help, help lines and people who will listen. Think about your life, think about it…” Daphne trailed off as she panicked on what to say next.

Every word hung on a single breath.

“No one can help me,” he snarled, his voice sick with alcohol. “I’m done. Done with this bloody country and people who don’t give two pence of a shit. I lost everything, you hear me, I lost everything!” He began to pace around wildly, his fists clenched. “I’m dead, already dead. I couldn’t take it anymore. This city. This city. This city is so fast. I’m dead, already dead. They died, they took it from me!”

He began to ramble aggressively as he paced, making Daphne feel weak to her knees. She couldn’t understand him, but at the same time, she could. Yet, she felt so helpless, so small, and so insignificant. Whatever ire, resolve, or sadness he had, she felt intimidated. She exhaled.

“Listen, I know it’s hard,” She interrupted, tears streaking down her cheek, “I know it’s hard, sir please listen. I know, I understand. But someone cares. I don’t know who you are, but my name is Daphne. I care.”

He looked at her, perplexed. Pausing in place, the man shook his head sagely, as if disregarding a child’s folly. “Daphne. It is a pretty name. My wife used to work in a flower shop,” he began. His tone was so hushed, it was almost carried away by the wind. “Daphne, hear me out. I’m sorry you had to be here but I can’t. They’re waiting for me.”

Daphne swallowed. “Who’s waiting for you?”

“My family,” he said firmly, straightening up. “Let me go. I'm tired.”

“I can’t!” Desperation railed against her windpipe.

“This is the only way you can save me.” He stared at her with sad eyes and a wry smile. “Let me be saved.”

The air clumped in her chest. The wind ceased to exist. The city became still. For a moment, she saw something in his green eyes, flecked with gold, and it was something familiar. She saw a man and his family, together and happy. She saw a man pressing a cloth against his eyebrow as the blood and tears soaked into its white seams. She saw a man in agony, in pain from the vomit of his sins that had spilled from the blackness in his body. Then she saw a beggar who died and rose up to his feet as a husk.

Feeling a numbing ring in her ears, Daphne wondered if she could do anything at all. She wondered if she was inhuman enough to deny him of what he saw as his salvation. Who was she to him but a stranger? Did she have any right to step up at all? The first thing she felt was pain on her shoulders from the strain caused by the weight of her backpack. For a moment, she questioned whether she deserved to have what she did in that backpack.

Her silence was neither consent nor disapproval. Her eyes were hollow as he turned away, the syllables of a 'thank you' ghosted past her ears. The lurching feeling kicked, sending wavelengths of agony within her chest. When it seared across her lungs, she expelled a shriek that swelled as she lunged forward to save a life.

Too fast. Out of reach, like how it always was.

The gust pounded against her face. Daphne saw the city below ever moving, ever circulating. She saw the man, the stranger leave her, falling away for what felt like an eternity.

Daphne ripped her eyes away and sat down against wall of the ledge, shackled by the tears and guilt that bounded the core of her existence. She took off her backpack and threw it aside angrily, screaming at it.

But spring was still coming. The wind was still blowing. The car engines still made noises below in the busy streets of London. The birds still sang its seasonal tune. The sky was still blue, fresh and pristine, with streaks of clouds that floated in the air. Nothing had stopped at all.

All she could do now was greet the reality that waited on the final step of the staircase down below.

[Joselle]

SPOILER: Click to show

{Old man marko } (okay this one is shorter. prompt is: two strangers in a conflict. here is marko)
The elderly man huffed as he took a seat on a cement park bench, feeling the relief that sighed from his lower back. He rubbed his it to ease the bits of strain that tugged on his flesh and then reclined, setting his cane on his lap. Thereafter, he set down a small container of yogurt and a silver spoon on the empty space next to him. He yawned, stretching out the facial muscles that had atrophied with age. As his hands went back to his cane to protect it from potential thieves, he looked down to see a card that was attached to a lanyard. With frail fingers that were freckled with little liver spots, he ran the finger down the lanyard to realize that it was around his neck.

Nonplussed and uninterested, he turned his attention away from it. There was no harm in having it around his neck and no excitement from it either. He decided not to bother; it was too warm to want to do anything, really. If he had the choice, he would stay where he was seated, under the cool shade where the harsh sunlight hardly broke through the foliage. Here, the air the tree breathed out was fresh and cool, kissing the old aches and joints that hurt and throbbed. It felt nice and he liked it here.

The man scratched the itch on his brow, and ran his coarse fingers back against the patch of his thinning, gray hair. It was a little sad to feel nothing but the dry skin of his scalp. He wondered if he ever had a head full of hair.

Then a girl walked over his way, but he paid little attention to her. It was a skinny young girl, eight or ten. He thought nothing of her until she took a seat near his yogurt cup. Feeling alert now, he eyed her, silently questioning her motive. There were a ton of empty benches! Why did she choose the one the closest to his belongings!

Trying his best to be subtle about his caution, he picked up the yogurt and the spoon gently and moved it closer to him. He did not want his things to be stolen, especially by the ambitious and rancorous young folks. Yet, with another sideways glance, he realized that she did not have the look of a trouble-maker. The girl was lightly tanned with straight black hair and big green eyes that had a crown of chestnut around her pupils. Her cheeks were full and rosy with youth, but it was her dim witted expression that made her look the most youthful.

“Excuse me?” said the little intruder. “Excuse me, sir.”

He had come here to relax and be alone, and here he found himself in a situation quite contrary. “What?”

“Do you know where we are?” she asked, her voice damp with meekness.

“No.”

“Oh okay… um do you know what country we’re in?”

What was she, stupid? The elderly man grumbled. “We’re in England.”

“Oh… okay.” She muttered, quieting down a little.

It was about time she stopped talking. In a moment’s notice, the ambiance fluttered in by a gentle breeze, by the sway of the leaves that rustled above them. The man felt a bit relaxed now, silently forgiving the girl for her folly. He reached for the yogurt container and attempted to open it, but he found that his stubby fingers could not pry away the plastic. The frustration brought heat to the tips of his ears.

“Let me help!” she volunteered eagerly. The sprightly child moved in closer so quickly, he swore she was going to try to push him off the bench.

“No, I can do it by myself. Stay away.”

“Here!” Quickly, she snatched it away from him. “I can help you! Really!”

“No! Stay away from me!”

When she reached for the silver spoon, his eyebrows puckered together with unconfined and unexplainable fury. He let out an angry holler as he tried to take both of his things back. The thought of reaching for his cane strayed from him but it was already too late when he took the curve of the handle. Frightened, the girl set the yogurt down and took off, her eyes glinting with tears.

The old man felt the absinthe of guilt flare down his chest; though he thought about using the cane, he didn’t intend to really hit her—he had only wanted to scare her and tell her to not steal his things. He knew he was a bitter old man, but not senile enough to hurt children for petty things.

From a short distance away, he saw a woman sink down to one knee to receive her child. The girl hugged the woman, sobbing loudly against the juncture of her mother’s neck and shoulder. The mother gave him a sad, sympathetic look and a thin smile on her faded pink lips.

“It’s okay sweetheart,” the mother hushed her child as she picked the little one up. “Grandpa will get better.”

Looking away, the man scoffed and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He wanted none of other people’s slights and remarks. Thereafter, he set his bony hands on the bench and felt around the grainy flat surface. The dust and dirt rolled against his skin, brushing his fingertips in a smooth shade of grey. He touched the handle of the spoon and then picked it up. He squinted and tried to read the engravings on it.

71 years of love, Vesna.

Perplexed, he looked around the area blankly and set the spoon down. He wondered if had left it here on accident. It was a shame too, because the spoon looked rather endearing and important. Reclining back, he relaxed his shoulders and scratched the back of his neck. It turned out to be that he had forgotten why he was here and what he was about to do.

[Deleted]

FUCKING HELL, ICY

THIS WAS ANYTHING BUT OKAY I

NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE

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