|| Prompt Thread. || [Prompt: Posted]

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Kami
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|| Prompt Thread. || [Prompt: Posted]

Wed Dec 05, 2018 6:37 pm

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              • xx
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                Welcome!
                You have now entered the mysterious Sagacitan den of wonders. Here is a place where fellow foxes can submit all kinds of writing (e.g. stories, poetry, etc.) which are based on the varied prompts offered below. However, like everything in the world, this cavern also has a few guidelines. They're very easy to follow and even easier to understand!

                xx-- there will be one prompt offered every month (this might change if activity spikes and the foxes request for more) and everyone is free to write as much/little as they want to.
                xx-- every month, a few days (3-4) will be for people to vote on the best prompt that was submitted (not sure if any prizes will be given just yet; it might be just bragging rights). But, obviously, the favourite prompt of the foxes will be proudly displayed in the wall of prompts/fame down below. No one will be left forgotten as this grows bigger.
                xx-- the prompts will be varied (e.g. they can be words, songs, dialogue excerpts, etc.) and there will be a poll put up at the end of each month with the possible ideas for what the next prompt will be. It'd be absolutely perfect if the prompts were kept varied, however.

                I do hope this little thread will expand beyond belief with enough time and participation. ♥
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|| Rules & Current Prompt ||

Wed Dec 05, 2018 6:54 pm

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xx01. You can submit one prompt every month. You're free to edit it as much as you'd like, but, only until the voting begins.
xx02. Please make sure it adheres to the rules of AS and if the themes get heavier, mark it with the appropriate symbols.
xx03. I will be editing the front post when it's time to vote, so please don't post anything if you see the name of the title has been edited!
xx04. Your prompts should be posted here in order to be voted for (exceptions can happen, but I'd like them to be few).
xx05. Keep the voting fair so it's fun for everyone! I really don't like making people feel bad about their decisions and I'd rather not have to message anyone if I get a whiff that the voting might be unfair. You're free to refrain from voting if you don't like any of the prompts!!
xx06. Complimenting members on their prompts is encouraged, but in order to keep this thread clean (much like our Art Gallery), I'd love for all compliments to be made in our Common Room. Feel free to compliment people privately if you wish to do so!
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Prompt #3 || Feb, 2019
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The World Belongs To Me
Song | Lyrics
Time: March 1st, 2019 - March 27th, 2019
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Kami
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|| Wall of Fame ||

Wed Dec 05, 2018 6:58 pm

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xx
Prompt #3 || Feb 2019
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"Never trust a survivor until
you know how they survived."

BELOVED FOX WRITER:
N/A
Prompt #1 || Dec 2018
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"Nothing burns like the cold."


BELOVED FOX WRITER:
celestialcuttlefish
Prompt #2 || Jan 2019
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Separate


BELOVED FOX WRITER:
Kami
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Prompt #6 || May 2019
TBA
TBA


BELOVED FOX WRITER:
TBA
Prompt #4 || Mar 2019
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The World Belongs To Me


BELOVED FOX WRITER:
TBA
Prompt #5 || Apr 2019
TBA
TBA


BELOVED FOX WRITER:
TBA
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Re: || Prompt Thread. || [Prompt: Posted]

Mon Dec 17, 2018 1:35 am

(Post behind spoiler due to literal wall of text)
.: A Fight Harder Than Those to Come :.
Hidden text.
Ian had fought countless battles against the Galaxan Empire's forces. He'd made and lost many friends along the way. He is the only one left of his group, the only one willing to fight against the tyranny that the empire had wrought for so many years. As he stands at the stairs leading to the emperor's chambers, Ian couldn't help but think about all those he fought beside. All those he looked up to. All those he lost. Climbing the stairs to the chambers, he reflected on all that had passed. All the battles fought, the victories and the defeats. All the progress he made and the things he learned. All the people he was forced to kill in the name of peace. Those would be the ones that would haunt him for the rest of his days. Ian knew it was all worth it, though. After everything the empire had done, the world deserved the peace that he was going to bring. Coming to an area that looked something like a large open common room, Ian saw a figure at the far side standing in front of the emperor's door. "One last opponent that hasn't abandoned hope in the empire?" The simple thought of it made Ian snicker, even though he was dreading the very thought of having to kill another lackey that was merely following orders. He walks forward, closer to the figure. "Are you conscious?" He already knew the answer, but something in him wouldn't allow him to dismiss the thought that this person may just not know what's happened in the passed few hours. The figure reaches for some kind of weapon at their hip. This causes Ian to stop in his tracks before he's able to get a good look at the figure in front of him. All he can tell from this distance is that the figure has a feminine build to it. He lets out a sigh and gives the figure an inquisitive look before speaking, "You realize this didn't go so well for your friends, right?" He shrugs before continuing the thought. "I'll admit, some of them were smart and fled, but the ones that did stand against us...me were quickly dispatched." He couldn't help but catch himself in the middle of his sentence. Although Ian held hope that his friends were still with him, he knew they were gone. Seeing that his speech hadn't made the figure back down, Ian gives a reluctant sigh and puts on his claws. "Fine, have it your way." As he gets into his fighting stance, the figure rushes him. She draws her blade so quickly that Ian barely has any chance to block. It was then that he was able to get a good look at the figure. It was Mia, one of his friends that he thought had died fighting the emperor's army. The surprise caught Ian off guard, allowing Mia to spin and slice him across his left arm. Feeling the sting of the blade, Ian pushes away from Mia and jumps away. "Mia? What are you doing working for them?" All Mia does is give him a cold stare as she crouches, ready to dash in for another attack. "What's wrong? Did we do something wrong? Did I do something wrong?" She dashes at Ian again. It was obvious enough that she had every intention to kill him. This time, Ian was ready for her and was able to dodge and tackle her to the ground. With a few changes in stance, he was able to pin her with hopes of getting some answers. "Mia, what's going on?" But it was to no avail. All Mia would do is struggle against Ian's pin. Ian tightens his grip. "Answer me!" He yells at Mia. This gets her to stop struggling, but her cold stare doesn't show any sign of giving Ian any reason for her betrayal. Suddenly, in the back of his mind, Ian can hear someone. It was faint, but it was almost as if Mia was asking for help. He didn't understand, but this feeling made him loosen his grip on Mia, allowing her to escape. All Ian can do is sit there and watch Mia as she slips out of his grip and gets distance from him. "What was that? Why did I just hear Mia ask for help?" Ian stands and looks at Mia, puzzled as to what was happening and what had happened to her. He doesn't have enough time to ponder any of this, though, as Mia was already readying her next attack. His arm hurt from where she cut him before, but Ian got into a fighting stance and was ready to defend against anything she could dish out. Just then, another thought creeps into Ian's mind. Mia's voice was clearer this time than it was before. "Trapped... within... my... own... mind..." Keeping a keen eye on Mia, this new information made him realize exactly what happened. He didn't understand why only Mia was captured and brainwashed like this. What Ian did know was: he had to either find a way to break this curse that the emperor had put on Mia, or he had to kill his only living ally and friend. After feeling like Mia had been dead this whole time, the later didn't feel like an option. The battle between the two went on for quite some time, they seemed to be evenly matched. Then, Mia was able to get a major hit in on Ian's right leg. This made him fall to the ground, grasping the stinging wound and yelling out in pain. Ian had been holding back against Mia this entire time, trying to talk her out of this possession that the emperor had her under. Doing so had costed him dearly and made him clumsy in his approaches and defenses. His blood dripped from Mia's blade and splattered as she swiped it clean in the air. Mia sheathes the blade and takes another battle stance, her hand on the hilt and ready to perform a quick draw for her finishing blow. Ian knew that he couldn't defend himself in this condition. He knew he could stop Mia's attack, but he feared the strike would kill her since her body had become nothing more than a puppet for the emperor's games. He shakily stands to his feet, finally making his decision. He looks back at Mia, rage filling his gaze. "I promise, he will not get away with this, Mia." He takes his stance, putting most of his weight on his left leg. This is always how his and Mia's sparring matches ended. One last attack to keep their skills sharp; however, this isn't a sparring match. This will be the end of one of them. The two of them dash at each other. Mia draws her sword with lightning speed, leading into a slash unseen to the naked eye. Ian punches a mighty punch, air seeming to bend around his claws and fist. After the blows are dealt, Ian falls to his left knee, grasping at the wound on his right leg, as Mia falls, her body giving in to the slashing punch that Ian attacked with. Ian gathers all his strength and stands, limping over as quickly as he could to Mia's fallen form. He turns her over so she was facing him. Mia's chest was rising and falling slowly. The impact from the punch had broken her body and the claws had slashed open her right subclavian artery. As her body grew colder, she looks at Ian, the cold stare replaced by a thankful/sorrowful one. Tears start to fall from Ian's eyes as Mia gives him a weak smile. Her voice is weak as she speaks. "That move... is supposed to... decapitate your opponent... Ian." He hugs Mia close and, through heavy sobbing, manages to get his explanation out. "I was trying to paralyze you, Mia. I knew it was a slim chance, but I had to try." Mia lifts her arms to wrap around Ian in a weak embrace. "Still trying... to save the... unsavable? That's just... like you, Ian." With the last of her strength gone, her arms fall from Ian's back and bounce once on the floor before settling. Ian's whole body starts to shake as grief starts to take hold. He gently lays Mia's now lifeless body on the floor before standing and letting out a massive yell. If the emperor didn't know he was outside the door before, he did now. His body felt as cold and lifeless as Mia's, but also, somehow, burning with rage. He slowly walks to the emperor's door. Compared to the battle he just went through and the rage filling his body, Ian had no doubt that the emperor would be no match for him.
A wild Cured Zombie has appeared.
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If you've played a few online games, you may have also seen me use the handles of Ixi Frey (FFXIV), Kaysa (Too many games to count/list), CatDemonIchozu (Mostly just Gaia Online), FinalProxy (Any hacking simulator game), Kesh'lani (Elder Scrolls Online).
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|| Prompt Thread. || Smite the Messenger

Wed Dec 19, 2018 10:06 am

SMITE THE MESSENGER
1103 words I think | Sheridan xx & Adrien xx

“Do you plan on staying out here all week?” Adrien asked, hovering at the edge of his field of view. Sheridan tried to ignore him, preferring the spinning of wheels that he’d been doing for the last day and a half. He leaned further forward, as if that’d plunge him back into his freefalling state of grief, where he could tread water and still drown. “It’s freezing. Come inside before I resort to setting you on fire.”

“Nothing burns like the cold.” Sheridan muttered, refusing to take his eyes off the tombstone. He knew every single blemish on it by now, each ridge and pebble that made it up. He could point out where every last imperfection was, yet he couldn’t bring himself to read the name on it again. Not after the first time, when he got halfway through and suddenly couldn’t breathe. He’d never know death himself, but for a split second he felt what Lorin felt when he died.

“Nice one, why don’t you embroider it on a pillow.” Adrien rolled his eyes, wandering closer. Snow crunched underfoot, each step wearing on Sheridan’s nerves. He almost swore Adrien was doing it on purpose.

“Shut up Adrien.” Sheridan snapped, and Adrien was almost surprised at how droll the attack sounded. Almost.

“Listen. You’re hurting, I get it. You know better than any one of us what it’s like to lose someone you love.” Adrien pushed a mass of snow off the edge of the concrete bench, hesitating for a few moments as he eyed the damp spot it left behind. He pressed a palm on the stone, watching the circle that formed grow as he evaporated the water. “But you can’t keep doing this to yourself. You’re really going to break one of these days.” He added, sitting down beside Sheridan with just enough space between them that it would have been uncomfortable for anyone but siblings.

“I already have.” Sheridan sounded exhausted, his voice near void of emotion as he spoke. It was the voice of a man who thought himself too far gone for help. A man who was aware of the road he’d chosen, and yet chose it anyway, as if this time it’d be different. It wasn’t. It never was.

“You’re drained, not damaged.” Adrien was blunt with his words, not focusing on Sheridan as he uttered them. He instead focused on the best way to shove his hands into his pockets, looking to block out the chill without twisting the fabric so hard he left indents in his skin. “Dad might think your unsalvageable, but your mother and I don’t. Why do you think I’m out here?”

“If she really thought that, she’d be out here too.”

“I told her not to come. She coddles you and you don’t need to be coddled.” Sheridan let a long pause air out between them, and in that time Adrien had found a stick and began to draw in the snow. He watched with muted disinterest, spending more time trying to force out his thoughts than trying to compartmentalize them. The lull in conversation was good for that. He could shove them out, not aside. Finally, he sighed, heavy and long.

“And how do you presume I start to get better?” Sheridan asked, not looking at Adrien. Instead, he looked over the tombstone, staring across the snow covered field dotted with several other graves and searching for nothing among the trees on the other side.

“I don’t know, I’m your brother not your therapist.” Adrien quipped, tossing the stick to the side and crossing his arms in his lap. He leaned forward on them, using his body to shield them from the icy wind. “But I’d start by leaving humans alone.”

“Says the one who runs with them.” Sheridan was bitter when he spoke, all but glaring at Adrien through his peripherals. The suggestion was hypocritical at best, and near impossible for Sheridan to follow. Not when he had such a natural draw to the mortal world, like the magic in his blood was made for humans rather than to protect the source from them.

“They’re my scapegoats, not my heart and soul.” Adrien looked at Sheridan, lifting a hand and resting it on his shoulder. He squeezed softly, finally locking Sheridan into a shared look. “I’d slaughter every last one of them for our court. You on the other hand...”

“Do you think I want to keep falling in love with them?” Sheridan bristled, shifting the way he sat to better face Adrien. There was a sudden brightness in his eyes, so reminiscent of his youth that for a second Adrien thought he’d gotten through to him. But even if he hadn’t, Adrien had at least fractured the dam that was holding him back, and he knew better than anyone that a trickle could easily become a rush with a few well placed hits.

“No I don’t, that’s why I said leave them alone.” Sheridan cast Adrien another sharp look, electric in his frustration. It put Adrien at ease, seeing his brother with even a fraction of the energy they’d had when they were kids, before their existence had began to work at beating them down.

“Thanks, jackass.” Sheridan hissed, turning back to the tombstone and deflating all at once. He reached out for it, tracing the inlay of the stone, following the elegantly carved script with his fingers. Adrien sighed, his mouth pressing into a thin line.

“Don’t smite the messenger.” Adrien raised his hands in a flare of dramatics, an attempt to draw Sheridan’s gaze away once more, swinging them downward to grip the bench and push himself to his feet. “But seriously, come home. The court needs you.” He held out a hand to his brother, the most open invitation he’d extended to him in years. Sheridan pushed it away, hyperfocusing on the grave again.

“I will, just...” Sheridan looked at his hands, knitting them together at the first knuckle. “Not yet.” Adrien dropped his head back, rolling his eyes at the sky.

“Fine. Have it your way.” He stepped over the bench, the snow crunching underfoot as silence overtook Sheridan again. “I was hoping to see you one last time before I left, but I can see your priorities aren’t with the family.” He turned back towards the little cabin he’d come from, stopping just before he got out of vocal range. “Feel free to send a note once you’ve finished digging this hole for yourself.” And with that, Adrien turned, leaving his brother to slide back to the starting line on his own.
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nothing burns like the drug inside

Fri Dec 21, 2018 6:52 pm

putting this in a spoiler box because it contains a explicit language, mentions/plans of suicide, and mentions of drug use. in fact, drug use is basically the theme so if any of these themes affect you then skip over this post please!

words: 1702

Hidden text.
nothing burns like the drug inside
hayden, reid | nyc, usa

The distant wail of sirens echoed in her ears, going unnoticed by the skinny young woman slouched in a dark corner of a quiet alleyway. On this side of Park Avenue, nearly every alleyway had been claimed by gang members, the homeless, the druggies, or a mix of the three. Someone like herself. However, she had found solace in an alleyway so wretched and secluded that not even the others had dared to claim, and she had called it "home" for the past three days. Winter was creeping up upon New York City as though it were a body bag being zipped up over a pale, dead corpse, ready to entomb the city in an icy grave for a few months at the least. Now that she was truly on the streets, Hayden wasn't sure how she was going to survive. Thankfully, she wouldn't have to for much longer. Lazily, her gaze drifted down to her hands, nimble fingers grasping onto the very thing that had single-handedly ruined and saved her life from being ended sooner. The needle seemed innocent enough - as innocent as a needle could be, anyhow - but what mattered more was the contents that lay inside. Heroin. Her lover, and now her soon-to-be killer. There was more than enough in this little syringe to cause her five foot four, shivering bone-thin frame to overdose. All she needed to do was the same old routine, add another hole to the many already scarred on her forearm. Experience one last delirious high, and die.

Loud footsteps confidently striding down the dark alleyway - her alleyway - caused the brunette to swiftly slide the needle up the sleeve of her ratty, navy-blue hoodie that she had stolen from an inebriated college kid that had come into the strip club with a few of his pals about a year ago. She was sure mommy and daddy would just buy him a new one anyway, and even then she had needed it more than he did. Hayden could already tell whose footsteps were approaching her; after all there were only two people that could find her wherever she was, and only one that would actively seek her out himself. She tilted her head back to rest against the rough brick of the abandoned building that encompassed half of the alley to watch him enter her vision. "Well, it isn't the King of Kings himself," she drawled, observing his tall stature wrapped in Armani and the like crouch down in front of her. She preferred his signature leather jacket over his business attire; he must have just come from a meeting of some sorts. "You shouldn't be on this side of Park Ave, you know. Bad people live over here.

"I am a bad person," he answered, calculative eyes taking in her sunken appearance as well. They both knew he could handle himself, seeing as he was the leader of one of the two largest gangs on this side of the bridge. "It's you that shouldn't be here. What are you doing, Hayden?" His question came out almost as a sigh, and she shrugged in response. "You know, the usual. Double crossing the Jackals for the Kings, no big deal. Just taking a break before I get to work on gathering some more Intel for you, boss. If you ask me, I'm right where I should be." In a flair of sarcastic cynicism, the woman flung out an arm to gesture to the surroundings around them. As was fitting with her luck at that moment, the needle flew out. The two watched as it hit the blacktop, rolling and stopping amongst the leftover glass remnants of a shattered beer bottle. For a moment, there was silence. "Oh, fuck," Hayden swore wearily as Reid turned his eyes on her, the furious flame in them nearly warming up her insides. Then, "You should come with me, Hayden.
Nothing burns like the cold, and you've been out in it long enough."


"Look, if you're referring to my drug habits-"

"What the fuck else would I be referring to?" He scoffed, standing up to his full height once more. "I can't believe you're using again. I thought you were quitting. I thought you were getting better-"

"Well then, you thought wrong, Reid." Hayden pushed herself up from her own crouched position, her legs nearly giving out as they snapped to adjust to the sudden movement. How long had she been sitting there, staring at her own suicide? "I was never getting better. The only thing I got better at was hiding it from you and Natalie.
In fact, I think I only got worse."
A hoarse laugh left her lips, and she shook her head slightly before raising her eyes to meet his. "I tried to quit, at first I really did. And then the pressure grew.
Being the Kings' snitch bitch isn't an easy job. I'm putting my life on the line - and my nine-year-old sister's life - on the line in order to get you the information you want. You think it's easy going behind the backs of an entire gang? Especially when Jay's always got his eyes on me? He's always watched me closely, and you fucking know that. I am suffocating under all the pressure, and this, that-"
she pointed to the needle, "that's the only relief I get from it. And you also know what? Go ahead and shove that 'nothing burns like the cold' shit right up your fucking rich asshole because you have no idea what I'm going through. Nothing compares to the burn of the needle sliding into your vein, the fiery sensation that ignites in your body at the drug rushes into it, and the warmth that is brought by a fucking good high."

"And what about after that high, Hayden?" He challenged, stepping forward into her personal space in just one step. "What about after that high, when you come to your senses in an alleyway hours later, having scarcely a clue what happened in that time span? What about the itching you get everywhere on your body, and how bad it gets when the need for your next hit rises again? What about the nausea, the vomiting, the staying up at night because you can't sleep? The constant shaking? I watched my mother die from an overdose, and you could die too! Does that make it all worth it to you?"

"Yes!" She screamed, nearly ripping the sleeve of the sweatshirt in her haste to yank it up, revealing the numerous scars that dotted her skin as well as the fading bruises of her most recent hits. "This is how many times I've taken the pain away, and it works. Even if just for a few hours, it works." Her voice dropped to a lower volume on the last word, a quieter murmur rather than the yelling she had let loose just a moment ago. Reid recognized it as a cry for help, even if Hayden did not realize she was sending it out. "I lost the apartment,
Reid,"
she continued. "Natalie's staying with Aisha and Marcus with some of Aisha's family until I could get something figured out. I also lost my job at the club. Miguel found out I was using, saw my arms. I missed a few shifts while I was shooting up. Jay's given me less work with the Jackals, I think he's catching on to me being a backstabber. Any minute now, I'm expecting a bullet to the back of the head." Tears gathered in her eyes as she looked down to the ground. "I've lost everything that I worked to maintain for so long. I'm losing my mind just trying to survive. I figured it wasn't worth it anymore. That needle was my way out. I was going to end it all, and then you showed up."

"Fuck," Reid exhaled after a moment of quiet passed between them. He reached forward and pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her. Hayden returned the action, closing her eyes as she left herself sink into the warmth his body provided. "I had no idea," he murmured, resting his chin over her brown hair. "I didn't know the pressure you were put under. I mean,
I had a guess as to what it would be like, but I didn't know the toll it would take on you personally. But Hayden, eventually you'll have to realize that using does no good for you in the end. A few hours on a high are nothing compared to what your life could be like if you quit and got back on track. I'll get you the help you need, I swear it. I can set you and Natalie up in an apartment-"
he hurried on, sensing she was about to object, "-yes, only until you can either start paying for it yourself or find a different place. If you need help paying for Natalie's medication, just say the word and she'll get it. We'll get you a good job, better than bartending at a strip club, and... maybe you can get out of the Jackals. The Kings and I can offer you protection.

"Why would you do all of this for me? Hayden questioned, releasing herself from the embrace and taking a step back. "That deal sounds too good to be true, and I hate being in debt to someone. Besides, I'm just an informant to you, that's it."

Reid cleared his throat. "Uh, yeah. Well, the Kings look after their own. And your sister needs you. We can work out paying me back later. You can't give up yet, Hayden, not when there are people reaching out and offering to help. So, are you ready to get your shit together?"

The woman mulled over his offer for a few moments before releasing a heavy sigh. "Alright,
I give in. I'll try to quit. But it won't be easy. I'm in pretty deep,"
she warned, watching the man as he stepped over to the needle before crushing it under his foot. Reid chuckled, turning to face her with just the smallest quirk of a smile on his lips. "Nothing is ever easy with you."

Last edited by periwinkle on Mon Dec 24, 2018 11:05 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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|| Prompt Thread. || Good mornin', darlin'.

Mon Dec 24, 2018 2:40 am

x
x

──.I SEE YOU FALLIN'.──
| colette blyth. || modern day usa. || 1,536 words. |
Image
| failed marriage. references to adultery. divorce. |
IN AND OUT OF LOVE!
              • Pale rays of early morning sunlight warmed Colette's skin, faint but cheerful birdsong filled her ears, and a feeling of sleepy contentment settled in her chest as she rolled onto her side, stretching her arm out in search of her husband. Her fingers met only the soft, cold fabric of empty sheets and the feeling in her chest fell sharply to pool in the pit of her stomach. She closed her eyes tight and desperately willed the brazen morning light to disappear behind the clouds, wished the jeering birds would all fly off, begged the world to stop ridiculing her with its vibrancy.
                text It felt like ages before she could muster the will to slip out of bed, to slide on the elegant sheer dressing gown her absent husband had gifted her a month before and face the idyllic morning outside her blinds. She took extra care in fixing the covers her husband had not slept in, in fluffing the pillows he rarely used, in replacing the uncomfortable but lovely accent pillows she always took off the bed in the hopes that he'd sleep in his rightful place.
                text She found his note in it's usual place, under a gift wrapped box on the center of her vanity. On heavy paper, the stationary of the advertising Blyths' business, was Charles' familiar chicken scratch.
                text "got called in early, sorry for being so busy"
                text She barely glanced at the words before she slipped the note into the center drawer of her vanity, alongside something like thirty of the same, and turned her attention to the black velvet jewelry box the note had been tucked under. That day it was an opera length string of pearls, flawless and white and longer than her arm when she stretched it out completely. The week before he'd given her a designer handbag. A week before that, a diamond bracelet. Every gift came with a written apology that was never spoken. Every gift came after an argument left unfinished.
                text She lifted her left hand and gazed silently at her wedding band, at the large diamond in her engagement ring. That had been the first gift, after their first fight. When she'd discovered she was pregnant she'd told him first. She'd hoped he'd be supportive. Instead he'd been angry, so angry. He didn't talk to her for a week, that was when he'd proposed. It had been the first expensive gift of many, the first peace glittering peace offering of dozens.
                text Colette carefully arranged the necklace back in its box and set it with the rest of her rarely used evening jewelry and readied herself for another day alone in her empty home. Without even the promise of her son coming home to amuse her, it was bound to be another empty day. More busy work to do, more meals to cook and eat alone, more hours logged staring at walls waiting for her husband to come home so she could greet him and ask him about his day and willfully ignore the smell of perfume on his clothes, the long dark hairs clinging to his jacket.

                text Around noon Colette received a simple 'home for dinner' text and dedicated the rest of her day to cooking, as if cooking the perfect meal would somehow fix every issue in her marriage, as if the key to repairing a relationship that had stagnated and suffered for the better part of a decade was a perfectly cooked steak and a red wine-shallot sauce.
                text She set the long dining room table with meticulous particularity, taking great pains to make every detail exact. Charles had always had an eye for detail, always seemed to fixate on every error in her presentation and in her appearance and ─ and she did her best to make a good impression for him, the way she always did, and then she settled into her chair to wait. And wait. And wait some more.
                text Mrs. Charles Blyth sat alone at her end of the table, staring at her husband's seat across the way. As the light of day slipped slowly away she could almost feel the distance between her seat and his growing longer, more pronounced, until it felt like the table was no longer a table but instead a cavernous expanse of time dividing them. As the last rays of daylight faded from the room she found herself sitting alone in a dark room in an empty house with a cold meal untouched in front of her. She clutched an empty bottle of red wine in her left hand the way the dying might cling to a cross and brought the glass in her shaking right hand slowly to her lips.
                text The sound of keys in the front door did not rouse her. She couldn't bring herself to look away from the seat, from the ghost of him, and rise to greet him like some loyal dog. She only sat and stared until he was in front of her, his hand on her shoulder, his voice near her ear, and at the contact she flinched so violently that the glass in her hand fell to the floor, shattering against the hardwood.
                text She watched, wide eyed but barely seeing, as the wine seeped into the leather of his shoes, as the shards of glass on the floor glittered in the light of the gaudy chandelier their interior decorator had insisted was in the best of taste.
                text "What's gotten into you? Why were you sitting in the dark?" He sounded surprised and she couldn't help but wonder how, how he could sound so genuinely surprised when the answer was so clear, so obvious. She couldn't choke down the bile in her voice as she lifted her eyes to meet his, pleased to realize as she did that the tears in her eyes blurred his familiar face beyond recognition. "Who is she, Charlie?"
                text He didn't reply, just stood straight and tall before her as her whole body began to shake. She rose to stand, to face him. Her feet felt unsteady in her heels for the first time in years, her knees wobbled dangerously, and she rested her empty wine bottle on the white table cloth and leaned on it like a crutch. "Who is she, Charlie?!" Her voice rose with each subsequent word, months of doubt and frustration and distress seeping into her tone, years of trying so very hard for him and apparently failing all the while turning her usual calm demeanor to a fiery passion.
                text His tone in reply was cold. Not biting, not icy, just a pale and even chill. Like a spring evening instead of the frigid winter she wanted, needed to hear. "Jessica."
                text "Jessica." The name should have burned like fire on her tongue but it fell on her like a gentle rain. His secretary, Jessica, had been young and pretty, clumsy but kind. She'd only met her once before, nearly a year ago now, and she'd been sheepish and deferential. She'd wondered then, if idly, why Jessica hadn't been able to meet her eye. She'd chalked it up to shyness but now she realized it was guilt. There had been no vixenish pride, no challenging air, only a string of quiet apologies that hadn't meant anything to Colette at the time.
                text Suddenly she couldn't find it in her to be angry anymore. She'd never had the energy for grudges, for anger. She'd always been forgiving, could never manage to hate anyone for anything. She hadn't been able to hate her parents for abandoning her, hadn't hated Charlie for getting her pregnant, had never had anything but love for the son she hadn't wanted until he was suddenly there, and even now, even knowing what she did, she couldn't work up the energy to fight. Instead she sunk back into her chair and pressed the base of her palms to her eyes.
                text "Go."
                text It was the only word she could manage to breathe out, the only coherent thought she could pull from the slow drip of distress in her minds. Charlie, for his part, was completely unwilling to press. Instead he only said, "We'll talk tomorrow."
                text His voice was still so even, so calm, so cold. Even as her whole world tumbled down around her head, he maintained the cool facade of a businessman. She wished, impossibly, that he would be angry, passionate, would show any amount of feeling for the two decades they'd spent together. Instead he was cold as the night breeze, simple and emotionless.
                text "I wish," she took a deep, shaky breath and let it out as a heaving sigh. She heard his footsteps stop in the archway to the dining room, waiting. "I wish I'd meant enough to you that you'd care it was over." She laughed, humorlessly, and pressed her palms into her eyes until she saw stars. After a moment she heard his footsteps, heard him leave, and when she was sure she was alone she leaned back into her seat and stared blankly at the artistically tiered ceiling.
                text "Nothing burns like the cold."

                edit;; spur of the moment format change, all the text is the same.
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Kami
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❖ sᴇᴘᴀʀᴀᴛᴇ

Sat Jan 19, 2019 8:33 pm

SEPARATE
(v.) cause to move or be apart.

----------------------------------------------------
Image
---------------------------------------------------- Your absence has gone through me,
Like a thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its colour.

-- W. S. Merwin
            • It was a lonely, miserable existence. The pain had become a steadfast companion, rarely ever parting from him. It felt somehow poetic, in a way. It never took long for an overwhelming agony to take control of his limbs and bring the lost soul to the coasts of England. With hot tears prickling the corners of his blue eyes, he would stand and gaze longingly at the horizon. Silently begging for a reunion that might never come. It was unfair, but to him, it was very much deserved. Even if all of the misdeeds he had committed against their homeland weighed down his shoulders, remaining alive was no punishment. The reminders of his failure and his mistakes plagued his mind daily.

              That fateful night in Monkwearmouth-Jarrow Abbey repeated itself in his mind every single night, his dreams often stained in red. The screams of his comrades echoed inside his head, ripping it to pieces and glueing his sanity into a battered mess until he was nothing but a shell of the proud man he had once been. Whenever his eyes were closed, he saw everything replaying in an endless loop in front of him. This never ended and he could do nothing.

              And, thus, he lived on the shores of England, his eyes always looking towards home. Separated from his people, he lived with a tiny grain of his true self, forgetting about their traditions and beliefs as time passed by. Life was a mysterious thing, often causing nothing but suffering for those already lost in their own destiny. He was not overly different, searching for a sing that he was to be accepted back into those welcoming arms of his tribesmen, forgiven by those who had raised him. Every night, when he woke up from a deep slumber, the grinning faces of those left behind were haunting him, blaming for all of the deaths his actions and foolishness had caused in his youth.

              Now, he was older. Wiser and more experienced. But the sea was calling for him throughout the day, not relenting until his feet would greed the salty waves, his eyes focused on the horizon. He had a conflicting relationship with the ocean. Even though he had grown up seeing it as his companion, the waves were now keeping him away from what really mattered. It was a barrier that he could have gone past but didn't dare to. Years had passed by since his arrival in England, but the sea was just as impassable as it used to be. The waves laughed at him, taunting him until his mind broke apart, leaving nothing but agonizing regret and guilt. It was painful but he had earned this.

              Even now, at the ripe age of twenty-nine, the man still greeted the ocean as a fearsome enemy. His pale blue eyes looked at the waves, ignoring the chilling bite they delivered to his bare feet, barely reacting as he slowly advanced forward, stopping only when the water reached his knees. It took every bit of his strength not to break down and dive under the waves, swim until his limbs would grow numb and stop moving. The familiarity of the sea roaring at him was difficult to bear as his mind slowly fell into the depths, vanishing into nothingness. It was laughable.

              As dark grey clouds rolled over his head, the man let out a roar. It was filled with untamed fury as the man yelled for what felt like hours, screaming until his throat become sore and not a single whimper could be heard. Alone on the shore with no one to take care of him and soothe his pain, the Viking fumed at the unfairness of it all. He knew that people were often let go for the mistakes they would make, their failures often ignored and left in the past. But not his. Dyed in the screams of his friends and his enemies, the memories remained inside of his soul, mocking him daily. No amount of punches was enough to will them away, to make them disappear and let him return home.

              Separation killed him. Wrapping its clawed fingers around his heart, the burning feeling pulled it out of his chest, leaving a hollow nothingness behind. And now, as he glared at the ocean licking at his scarred limbs, there was an emptiness that left him unable to truly be angry with the depths. Even if they were an obstacle keeping him from his home and from everyone he had left behind, he was the only one at fault. A man responsible for creating his own wounds, he had no right to whine and beg for the pity of others. No matter how much it pained him to live knowing that the distance between his true nature and the shell of a man he now was grew with every passing day, there was little to be done about it. Live was unfair to all lost souls, never discriminating between good and evil, taking equally for everyone. And petty mortals like him were unable to change these laws of mother nature.

              He was no god. A mortal like everyone around him, the man was just a speck in their grand universe. His problems weren't more important than anyone else's and, still, he yearned for his pain to be acknowledged. Raising his blue eyes to look at the cloudy skies above, he hesitated for a moment before slowly moving back to the shore, ignoring the waves licking at his bare skin, inviting him to come back. The feeling of loss and emptiness never left, tugging at what had once been a heart full of pride and loyalty. The physical and emotional distance between himself and his home was almost impossible to bear, growing even if he remained in one place. He was dying on the inside.

              'Is everything alright?' She would ask once he returned home, looking as if he had battled an army of men, coming out victorious with not a single bruise on his skin. With concern in her voice and in her eyes, few men could have lied to her as quickly and effortlessly as he did, offering a curt smile as he nodded. 'I'm okay.' He always replied, evading her questions and retreating into his chambers with strict orders not to let anyone inside. Life went on.

              If his sins kept him away from home, he would use the ocean of blood in his chest to keep others from himself, building walls out of the corpses of his fallen brethren to keep him safe. And they came, one by one, slamming into his protection and trying to tear it down, to expose him to the elements raging in the world around them. Life was a lot more complicated than he had first found it to be, but it didn't matter to his exhausted, apathetic mind. Her timid smiles were useless as she was met with a closed door and a grunt to her face. Being alone fit him too well.

              Separation was a curse, eating him from the inside and threatening not to leave a single bone remaining. It howled like a starved wolf, its jaws snapping at his sides whenever the room became too quiet, too cold for his fragile consciousness to fade away, inviting the nightmares of his past to dance in what had once been an undying, iron will. He was nothing without his home and that showed to those who bothered to look. And it pained them. For a man was nothing without his people there to support him and he was just that; lonely and forgotten by those he had once known as comrades, he was withering in a strange land that offered no comfort. The sea was no comfort.

              He had come to England looking for a way out. Hoping that his good deeds would offer some sort of leverage against those blaming him for the deaths of many. But in turn, it gave him nothing but sorrow and guilt, bringing his spirit to its knees as the man's mentality followed soon after. And when nothing seemed to work out, the ocean had become his only friend, providing as much comfort as it did pain. But when his soul gave up and lost the fight, it opened the Viking into its cold embrace, finally ending the separation it had caused. It brought him home.
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on the origin of soulmates ["separate" submission]

Sat Jan 19, 2019 9:07 pm

on the origin of soulmates_________________________________________ They had been fools to think that the gods could be conquered. Humanity thought that with their greater strength, four arms, and four legs anything was possible – including the overthrow of the gods they had worshipped for so long. Aggelos had been chosen to lead the assault against the gods, a proud androgyne that was highly esteemed and seen as the bravest of all. All too soon Aggelos would learn that mere humanity could not stand against the all-powerful deities. The fight had been short, a battle too short to even leave the slightest mark in the span of all of time. The consequences of their actions, however, would henceforth change the outcome all that was yet to be. Zeus’ rage burned against the humans, and for days they were plagued with storms of the highest intensity as the gods contemplated how they would respond to this act of rebellion. The sky was covered in the clouds of darkest grey and the winds wailed along with the people as they begged and prayed for mercy. Some of those among the humans swore that they could see the form of Zeus himself pacing and stomping back and forth atop Mount Olympus in between the frequent, brief flashes of white lightning within the clouds. On the fifth day of this torture, Aggelos decided to climb the mountain. If only they were to go, then perhaps they could plead with the gods on the peoples’ behalf. They had planned and led the rebellion, after all. With shaking legs they climbed the mountain, each step bringing them closer and closer to the wrath of Zeus. As they neared the top the storm grew worse; it was almost as if Zeus was trying to turn them away. But Aggelos would live up to their reputation of being the bravest, and they persisted through the blinding rain and toppling gusts of wind before reaching the top.

Image

Aggelos would never see Zeus or any of the gods personally, but they could feel the power of the gods around them. Whispers surrounded them, filling their ears. Before Aggelos could make their case, a cutting pain shot through them. With a cry, they fell to their knees. It began as an itch, a sensation that only intensified as Aggelos attempted to relieve it with all four hands. The itching turned to a burning that was so much worse than the previously felt itching feeling. Aggelos could not even hear their own screams as they grabbed desperately at their skin, tearing off their garments to leave them bare before the eyes of the gods. Still, with the rain beating down on them and the wind whipping past them, Aggelos was left burning. Just as they thought that the burning could not get any worse than it already was, their very skin began to tear apart. Somehow, be it by the will of the gods, Aggelos then understood exactly what was happening to them. They were being physically and spiritually ripped in half, to be left as two separate beings with two arms, two legs, and their own set of genitalia. They would be left with half of their current power, and humanity would be humiliated before the gods once more. With this, they could never attempt another rebellion. Aggelos’ temporary screams of rage at their predicament soon turned to cries of pain once more. Desperately, they tried to outrun their pain. They tried to outrun the gods. They tried to escape the consequences of their foolish actions. Crawling did not get them far, as the pain of being split in two caused them to collapse on their stomach onto the ground like a worm in the dirt. Fingernails dug deep into the wet earth, staining fingertips brown as Aggelos attempted to drag themselves away from the misery of it all. Grabbing, pulling, ripping, crying, screaming. Flesh tore apart. Bones snapped and cracked. Blood stained the ground. Exhausted yells turned to quieted whimpers as Aggelos slowly lost their will to fight. After what seemed like hours passing, the pain finally subsided. It was done. Aggelos lay still, very aware that there was a new presence next to him that was not himself and yet it was. He could not move to look; he could scarcely breathe. With each agonizing pant he felt his skin slowly begin to knit itself back together. During this time, the rain slowed to a drizzle before stopping completely, and the wind subsided to a gentle breeze. Soon, his body was whole again. However, the aching feeling in his chest just would not recede. Before being ripped in half he had been enraged at the thought of losing half of himself physically, and yet it had never occurred to him that the split also entailed the splitting of his very soul. His chest felt empty and incomplete. Seeking answers, he turned his head to see the figure lying next to him. It was a woman, the other half of Aggelos’ original form that had taken the female genitalia during the split. His other half. Athanasia, the name came into his mind immediately. He knew her because she was him. They were two naked halves of an incomplete whole. Her eyes opened and Aggelos reached out, hoping to grab onto his other half in a desperate attempt to become whole again. Before he could brush his fingers along her unmarred skin, Athanasia disappeared. Aggelos was left looking at an empty space next to him in complete and utter shock. The gods’ cruelty held no bounds – he would be left incomplete until he could find her again. It was the one thought that filled his head, the one motive that pushed him to stand on two feet and head back down the mountain. He would travel throughout the whole world – known and unknown to mankind – in order to find her again. As he neared humanity, he heard the distant screaming of the people. With a sinking heart, Aggelos stopped on a ledge overseeing the valley and saw that what had been done to him was being done to everyone. People writhed on the ground as their bodies split in half. Blood ran down the streets. One by one, a person’s other half would disappear, being flung to some other corner of the world far, far away. Aggelos fell to his knees once more, this time in the deepest sorrow as he watched mankind separate.



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March prompt.

Mon Jan 21, 2019 12:21 am

You find a recording, it's old but mostly clear when you play it back. The voice starts out calm but gets more and more frantic as the recording continues.

....

When one looks back on their life they often wonder, or so I was told, how they came to be not just where they are but who. Who they are now from who they once were. Who I once was was very naive and foolishly brave. I thought I knew everything but really I knew nothing. I was just as blind as all my fellow men, wel most of them. The ones we thought were crazy well, they had the right idea I think. They saw something they weren't supposed to, from some flaw in their basic design, some imaballance they saw a sliver of the truth that we mere mortal men werent meant to see. The stores and myths we once knew so well they had a purpose it was to keep the foolish and the brave alike from cutting through that barrier and peeking through to the other side.

When I was a boy I spent long nights looking up at the stars and imagining all sorts of things. Playful childlike images of God or gods looking down on me, maybe angels? I never thought I'd find myself alone with nothing but the stars for comfort; and without that illusion of someone or something looking back at me it's not the same. I honestly don't even know who I'm leaving this for. I haven't seen another living soul in so very long now.

If your reading this don't go searching for secrets in the dark, leave your personal Pandora's box sealed shut tight. Hold those illusions you were taught to believe in tight in your hands and your heart! In the darkness you can keep your stars but out here they don't shine the same. The truth I'd more blinding han the darkened in which we were raised. I fell through the cracks and am no one of the forgotten. Alone in this world that now belongs to me. We live and die by our words and so does everything else. My words killed the world I knew and in a sence me with it. The stars were my happy memory and so followed me here. The stars are now all I have. I know this sounds like the ramblings of a crazy man and if I ever find my way back that is exactly what I will be to everyone who doesn't already know. I accept that. Remember I said the one we thought were crazy knew the truth or had at least glimpsed it? You can't unsee once you see but you can't understsnd until you do. Take the world I dont want it anymore! Give me back the lie, take your stupid box back too!

I don't know who I think I'm talking to. I've looked to the stars so many times now but there really is nobody watching is there?

...

The recording ends abruptly there
Hidden text.
posted evening March 4 2019
510 words
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