[x]

because love is a lesson in trial and errorI wish I had the words to tell you what I mean. I used to store sentences between my breaths – things that I couldn’t say at the moment, but wanted to remember. Now I can barely string together enough nouns and verbs to make you understand exactly what you mean to me. And I’m afraid.

I’m afraid that if I can’t get it together fast enough I’ll lose you. It’s like your water slipping through my fingers and I’m not quick enough to chase you through the currents. I know enough to know that you’re wild and free in a way that I’ll never be and maybe I’m jealous of that. Or maybe I&r

Futuro-Mamá esa chica se parece mucho a la tía Isabella -cuando escucho decir esto a Amanda, dirigiéndose a la Candace del futuro, una sola idea salta en mi cabeza haciendo eco e inevitablemente tengo que decirla en voz alta.
-Oíste eso Candace, voy a casarme con Phineas!
-O Ferb -me responde ella dejando mi mente en blanco.
Dirijo mi vista al peliverde y este me giña un ojo mientras hace un gesto con su mano señalándome. Bueno lo que dice Candace es verdad, para ser tía de Amanda tendría que casarme con Phineas o... Ferb.
Miro fijamente al chico frente a mí y de pronto todo desa

they were divorced before you criedI found hope walking a corner down 9th and I was afraid to ask, really. I was afraid to ask, "I'm sorry to bother you but did you kill your wife?" And I kept praying that if I did muster the courage to croak out loud, his jaundiced eyes adorned in kohl would widen and his gaze would fall before he sighed and muttered, "I'm not who you think i am and she cheated on me."
I would laugh because I expected it and my stature would stagger. It would lower and crawl into the pavement with my dignity as hope stands there worried, asking if there was a gas leak in the basement. I wouldn't stop laughing until he asked why and when he would, I'd smile. I'd smile and wipe a tear before murmuring to him, "Happiness sleeps around the minute you leave the house. I haven't laughed this hard since she told me she was going to stay."

Music Shuffle (Kyrie)Cage the Elephant – “Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked”
The sun finally sank below the horizon. Under the cover of a moonless darkness, the proxies slipped stealthily between the trees. The densely packed forest offered excellent protection from peering eyes, and so familiar were they with the many pitfalls and snaring brambles that they glided along effortlessly.
Masky took the lead, guiding his two charges along toward the night’s goal. Hoodie followed at a short distance, his video camera fully charged and stocked with a fresh tape. Close beside him was Kyrie, bringing up the rear and making sure the

She was distant.Her emotions sat on the ceiling.

they marked me blue and yellow, mama.between graffitied walls and a lone, chipped sink, they watched me curl in upon myself and combust. it was the only way i knew of to stop the swirling in my hips and heels.
a week later i found emma, the smallest of the vultures, kneeling at my altar. and with her wing-bones hunching and heaving, she mimicked my combustion.
but her eyes were violet when she saw me. violet and brimming with the emptiness of her heels. and i knew. i knew that this could not hold her the way it held me.
and mama, that hurt more than anything. her heels were empty, mama. empty. empty. empty. the way mine should have been, if only you had kept papa away.
if only you had kept away the first vulture i had ever know. if only, mama. if only.

Sweet Nothings'if i could, i would devour you. i would eat you whole, consume you mind, body, and soul. because i am a selfish person. i want you all to myself. no one else may have you.' he said to her, as they lay tangled in each other.
her reply came with a sleepy smile.
'there is a part of my mind which understands the intended romance in your statement. that part is wooed by it. there is also a part which insists upon my realizing the reality, the literal. you, my dear, are a cannibal.'
he placed a kiss on her head.
'well, we'll have to work hard then, to make sure that you are only wooed. we will make you want to be eaten. we will make it so that part of your mind which is literal, is quiet, so when i whisper sweet nothings into your ears, you are completely swept away. lifted off your feet by my obvious romantic intention.'

The Cat and IA biography of myself.

Real Name: I’m not telling, but KP stands for Kev Pickering

Nickname: I refer you to the previous answer

Birthday: July 16, 1963

Current Residence: North West London, United Kingdom

Height: 5’ 8”

Weight: Trying to lose it, thank you

Hair Color: Dark brown but turning grey as it recedes.

Eye Color: Hazel

Likes: Films, musicals, fine literature, my family, and graphic novels.

Dislikes: Shellfish, Lager, “Scripted Reality” shows.

Personality: I’m very shy until someone gets to know me, but those who do tell me I can be a very kind, gentle and yet silly person.

Biog

The Blood on Our HandsBut it feels so good.

To touch the open slit is pleasurable beyond belief. Of all of my fantasies, it was never conceivable that I wanted this. It was never that I felt so satisfied drenched in the afterglow of my adrenaline-bred homicide.

The swooping curdling in my veins remains beyond the last breath of him. It feels like I need more, like the blood on my hands isn't enough to slake the drought in my bones that vengeance has brought. My fingertips touch at the open gash in the left-center of his chest, swimming there with dainty strokes in the fresh, bubbling blood.

What have I done...? And why do I need more? Why does it feel like the

RecursionRecursion

Day 12

I hate those infernal hounds.

I can hear them approaching. I regret now that I have not walled off this little corner of the forest that I have chosen to call my own. I am tired, I am hungry, and I am weak from the venom of those spiders. I fear I have just enough time to fashion a spear before they come for me.

Wilson's hands shook as he read the words in the dying firelight. The darkness pressed in against him all around, crawling inward as the fire sputtered.

Those were the last words on the page. Dark spots marred the edges of the papyrus, dried deep into the reeds. A thick swipe of brown streaked along the bottom as

Winter-childi found her in november, wrapped in a sweater.
they wheeled her away on a cart too big for her; two days old, half-dead and blue as the ocean.
i waited, her sweater held in hands that shook and shimmied.
they brought her back to me a week later; nine days old, pink-skinned and plump.
i named her in big letters on a yellow form as she slept in the crook of my arm; mavis.

La cenaLa música palpitaba en sus oídos, invadiendo su cerebro de forma que no hubiese espacio para ningún pensamiento. Música era lo único que deseaba escuchar en esos momentos. Cerró los ojos. Tampoco quería ver nada. Aquella realidad convertida en pesadilla. Tomó aire despacio por la nariz, soltándolo después del mismo modo. Su espalda se reclinó en el respaldo de la silla. Sus músculos se relajaron. Como una droga. La música, en aquel instante, era como una droga. Una droga más o menos inofensiva que le aislaba de sus ideas frenéticas, que controlaban sus alteradas emociones. Se concentró. Aumentó su concentración y aguzó los oídos. Captando cad

HomecomingDestination:
A place I'm me.
Home.

Character Analysis : Ruzai LockeHow to talk about him without revealing too much... hahaha. ; ) Don't expect an in-depth revealing analysis since I still wanna keep him an ambiguous character...

Lol he looks more closer to his age when he's not all sobcrypls... weeps.
He's actually a character type I'm not super comfortable with rping since I tend to play more strong(?) type characters. He's purposely given a "weak" personality and because of that he can be frustrating to play a lot of the time. I can't count the number of times during rp where I think to myself "OMG U R SO DUMB" or don't agree with his course of action. But at the same time it's refreshing to play a character that's very different than what I'm used to. But anyway... please excuse the in-cohesiveness of this analysis. I'm pretty much writing sections separately instead of trying to tie them together... dfchsfs
Thematically, he's pretty much designed around his mage item

From Afar, Thunder RoaredLike a bright eyed magpie, I have been scratching out and collecting pieces of Joseph for years, his indecision fuelling my already redundant habit of nest-building.
On good days, I would take the wrinkles around his eyes; filled with memories he had tried to shed, they glittered in the deepest part of the night - beacons for lost hearts and flightless souls.
On days that were just some days, I would take the mishappen, roughly jewelled scars lining his arms, hips, thighs; within their imperfections I found facts, each with one thousand facets.
On bad days, I would take the marrow from his phalanges; in the soft light of morning it turned to mallow and stuck to my own bird-bones, a constant reminder of that which you cannot shed, no matter how many years you spend trying.
But like all nest-builders know, there comes a day when the nest fussing is over and the children must come to it but instead of children, tobacco fireflies fell upon our arms and set us to screaming.

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The Truth About Drama LlamaThe truth about Drama Llama is that she wasn't always called Drama Llama. She used to be called Betsy the Llama. In the beginning, Betsy liked her name, but her great ambition to become the most dramatic llama in the land made her dissatisfied with almost everything.

Betsy's best and only friend was a tree frog named Gerald, who rode on her back and sang ridiculous Irish drinking songs while Betsy did all the work—if walking could be called work. One day, Betsy decided that a truly dramatic llama would never be ridden upon by a tree frog, friend or no friend, without at least making a fuss over it. So she did.

"Gerald, get off my back! I'm

The Belly of a WhaleThe belly of a whale is cleaner than you'd think. It's the seashore on a wet day: a red beach with red clouds and red sand. And the voice of the whale is the voice of God.

God sings, "You were delicious."

"Spit me out." I'm on my knees, though my god cannot see inside itself to find my supplication satisfying. "I'm a wicked man. You don't want to devour wickedness, oh Lord. You'll be disgusted when you know you've devoured such a polluted thing."

"I will not," sings God.

"I've murdered a man."

"So have I."

"I've murdered a woman, too."

"So have I."

"She was pregnant."

God laughs. "The ship I sank held hundreds."

This calls for humil

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Character Study

by ~juniorel, May 5, 2011, 11:25:44 AM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

The newspapers said he did it for thirty pieces, but that simply isn't true. There were a good many more than thirty pieces to be had for the follow through, and on top of that, it's who he was: a betrayer, doomed to the ninth circle of Hell. But it didn't matter. No one could convince Blessed Damn he hadn't entered his final resting place years ago.

In the early hours of the morning, he tottered down the streets of his own grizzled city, muttering. He puffed away as the sun broke over hundreds of domed rooftops. Seagulls swarmed down to get a peck at whatever he had in his mouth, but he batted them away. "Geroff, you rats, you good-for-nothings!" He waved his cane in the air long after they'd flown. Gulls were persistent. He granted them that.

Blessed didn't even need a cane, to be honest, but he carried one anyway. It served him the way a rubbing stone served a bank manager: stress relief. It's crooked top had a shining divot where he would rub his thumb back and forth any time a person irritated him, which happened almost every time he spoke to one. He would stand and nod, imagining what it would be like to crack them over their dirty, greasy heads. But the best part of his cane was the tip that popped off and revealed a precious stash of what only he would have the gumption to call "medicine."

He knocked the ash from his pipe and popped the base from his cane to retrieve more.

Character Studyby ~juniorel

Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

This is just a character study I thought I'd share. I've never been able to decide what to do with it, but I like my grouchy old man with a weird name. Originally, he was going to be a main character in a cyber-punk story, but I never could manage to plot it out. Maybe one day…

*katarthis May 5, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Sometimes it's the simplest details that keep someone sticking around your head for a few years. I like this. At first I thought you were going to give us a new spin on Judas himself, and who says you haven't? If The Christ could have been reincarnated (Richard Bach - Illusions) or lived through his crucifixtion (ala Dan Brown and others), then who is to say Judas couldn't have done the same? (Well, besides the Bible, of course...)

k

~juniorel May 5, 2012 Writer

It's funny you mentioned Illusions. That book was a college discovery for me. I still have the old, wrinkled paperback on my bookshelves. Jonathan Livingston Seagull, too.

The idea of Judas as an immortal-esque character hadn't occurred to me while writing this piece, but I think it's awesome. I always thought The Last Temptation of Christ's Judas as a tragic victim of destiny was an interesting take, too. I know a lot of religious symbology and culture seeps into my writing because I was immersed in it as a child. I don't always mean for it to be literal, but the ideas are so much a part of my history, I can't help toying with them.

Thank you so much for your comment! I'm glad you enjoyed this little piece.

*katarthis May 5, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

And thank you for the fantastic reply to my comment. It's good to be appreciated, no?

k

~juniorel May 5, 2012 Writer

It is. Thank you.

!DramiraSK May 6, 2011

Oooo this is great! Short and sweet but it has a wealth of character goodness.

I want to read more and know more about him.

~juniorel May 6, 2011 Writer

Thanks! I'm glad you liked it.

~monstroooo May 6, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

There's a lovely dichotomy to his.

Is Blessed some timeless, tragic victim of fate? A damned immortal walking the streets for all time? A Faustian figure who sold his soul for a pittence?

Or is he just some hobo, wandering the streets and looking for a quick fix?

~juniorel May 6, 2011 Writer

Ooh, interesting take on it. I hadn't thought of either of those options. They're both fun ideas.

~Tronde May 5, 2011

Okay so it's me again! Gee, I'm like a stalker O.O But in my defence, I didn't know until halfway into this that you were the writer! I was looking through deviantwatch messages and just started reading. Usually if I don't like the first few sentences, I move on. But as usual, your introduction grabbed me,I clicked, and away I went.

This is so colorful, so vivid. And as always, you please by being able to paint a perfect picture for the reader. Your words are like the strokes on a Kinkade. =]

I especially like the way you describe his cane and use the comparison of the rubbing stone.

I would like to know what the beginning is all about.. who he betrayed, why, and all that fun stuff...

~Moondapple22 May 5, 2011

_{I like stalkers. Hai. :3}

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