#quickwriting

[mont-del-clare]

Author’s Note: This was inspired by a dream I had. Because it was a dream a good amount will be vague. Anyways I might add more onto this but probably not. I am satisfied as it is for now. I have another project I’ve put way too much time into that I’m currently working on. It is my main project. I love it and it is my priority.

Rise of the Flower Queen

By Mont Del Clare

She cried out as fell to her knees beside the river. Pain. White hot pain. Her bones thrummed underneath her skin. She clawed at the ground. Dirt burying itself underneath her nails. Ice. began to spider web from her fingertips. The water closest to her turned cold. Frozen to stone. She knew the journey would be difficult and unpredictable but the pain that gripped her was a surprise. She wanted to call out for her sisters. But they had gone ahead. Not far but not close enough to hear or see her pain.

She felt something warm brush against her side through her pain. A small creature. A cat. Its eyes reflect something akin to sympathy. It was trying to soothe her. She felt a touch of gratefulness at the creatures attempt. Her trembling hand reached out to it. The cat pulled back. An uncertainty caused its body to stiffen. She glanced at her hand. The cold energy still flowed through her hand. She slowly began to breathe through her pain, slowly drawing the energy back.

“Sister!”

“Margarita?! Sister?!”

Her sisters’ fearful voices brought on relief-filled tears. She wouldn’t die alone. Their voices mixed together in a choir of fear, panic and confusion as comforting hands reached out to Margarita. Margarita tried to assure them that she wasn’t physically wounded. They calmed for a few moments.

The cat observed all three of the sisters curiously.

“Where did this small creature come from? Why is it here?” Margarita’s eldest sister asked

“There are others, sisters.” the second sister announced

There were others. Several different species of creatures. All possible natives of the surrounding area. But why were they here? They seem to be almost waiting.

“Murielle? Why do they wait like that?” the second sister asked the eldest in awe

Murielle observed the creatures as she held Margarita closely. Her eyes scanned the wooded area before she spotted the frozen sections of the water. The animals seemed to wearily observe them back. The sisters were, after all, foreigners in their home.

“They seem to be waiting for an apology, Metztli.” Murielle explained as she carefully helped Margarita into a sitting position.

“An apology?” Metztli questioned as she sat near her sisters

“Yes. Our dear sister turned their water to ice in her pain.” the eldest pointed out

Margarita felt guilt as she turned to start at the nearly frozen river. It seemed incredibly out of place under the bright sun and the greenery.

The pain had dulled down to a throb allowing Margarita to relax some.

“How do we apologize?”

“Its not us that they want an apology from. Just Margarita.”

They were taught three main rules when traveling. One was to be careful with magic. The second was to respect nature and its habitants. The last was that ancient things are to be respected.

“Okay. How do I apologize?”

“That is up to the inhabitants, my dear sister.”

Margarita watched the animals. They seemed uncertain but the small cat approached her once more. It rubbed its head on Margarita’s knee before Margarita placed a gentle hand on its head.

The cat rubbed its head into her hand pleased before returning to the group of animals. Another stepped forward and Margarita repeated the same action. They also accepted her gesture. A larger tiger-like creature with horns approached carefully. Margarita felt intimidated at his size. She shakily reached for his head. Her fingers grazed his rough horn and he huffed out an irritated sound. She quickly clutched her hand to her chest. He waited. She took a steady breath before slowly and firmly petting him. He pressed his head into her palm before pulling away. Several other small animals followed before they disappeared into the forested area.

The sisters sat together in awed silence. They waited for Margarita to recover before they continued their trek to their destination.

It was several days before the sisters found the ruins. It was said to be a place of great power. A weapon that had turned the tide of many wars. Only those accepted into the ruins would have the chance of an attempt at finding this weapon.

Margarita passed under one of the old arches onto cracked stone steps. There a few feet away stood a huge figure. His dark ancient eyes did a critical once over, over her. He was intimidated in all his height and power. He was at least six feet and his figure was one of a warrior. Or maybe a guardian? His long dark hair contrasted against his brilliant grayish armor. All of his being screamed power. Ancient power.

“What do you want, human?”

“We seek a weapon. Our home is being threatened. We’ve traveled far. Its the only hope for our home. Our people”

“We? I only see you, human.”

“My sisters and I. They believe I am the one that needs to wield this weapon.”

“There is no weapon here. Leave.”

Margarita felt an impatient raise inside her. Her family and her home would fall into her corrupted uncle’s rule. He was manipulating all those around them. Her home would fall if she couldn’t get the approval of this guardian to let her have the weapon.

“No.” she replied as she raised her chin and shifted her stance for a fight. Her magic danced along her fingers at her side.

He glared at her. His eyes sparked an unnatural blue before he appeared inches from her. His hand raised to her and her magic reacted.

A strange string of magic exploded between them. He stood unharmed but a new emotion filled his eyes.

Something had shifted. Something that could cause an extensive change in creation. A shift he felt obliged to guard.

He let out a tired sigh as he spoke.

“I accept.”

“Truly?!”

“Yes.”

“I am grateful.”

They waited. Watching each other,

“Umm…where is the weapon?”

“It is here.”

He stepped back. An energy flowed out of him. As energy formed at his back. Large powerful wings. Energy formed wings. Energy filled his left palm and a large bow manifested into his palm. It was made of dark wood but the bow string vibrated a brilliant blue.

The sisters returned home. The Guardian, Osiris agreed to join once he was ready.

The snake was already slithering around the castle. Attempting to poison all.

Margarita would be crowned. Her treacherous uncle Aiolos, refused to give up. He would go after his sister in law. He would rule. He gifted her things. Things that would be frowned upon if others in the court were aware. One such gift was an amulet. Its power was in fertility. The promise of three births instead of just one. Heirs. His heirs. Heirs that could he could puppetry. Margarita’s mother was loyal to her family. She would also continue to love her husband into the afterlife.

Margarita grew enraged and tired of such insulting gifts presented to her mother. So she planned to confront the sly worm.

A meeting room. One that appeared private and quiet. Aiolos would take comfort in that. Something she could take advantage of.

He entered confidently. Arrogant as always.

Margarita started with simple issues of the kingdom. Ones’ she was aware that he caused, with his misdeeds. Ones he swatted away cleverly. She stood as she paced the room. Now came the fun part. She asked him about his thoughts on her coronation. Her rule. He attempted to remain supportive. Before his own snake like poison began to seep from his lips.

He had been rejected by her mother. He made advances at her now. She shifted away. He saw it as her playing coy and innocent. She felt his words crawl over her like a thousand little bugs. Power hungry. Disgusting. Treacherous. He approached her like prey. She did not let him intimidate her.

She reached over into a wooden chest. Several familiar items scattered across the long meeting table. The amulet being the most condemning.

She felt his mood change. He coiled.

“Now dear uncle. Have you seen these items before?”

She received no response. Aiolos’ eyes were glued to the amulet.

Margarita picked it up. The small metal picture of three goddesses dangled on the chain.

“Hmm. Seems like you have taken a liking to this amulet.” Margarita spoke as she stepped around the table. Circling her uncle.

His eyes darted away from her and the amulet. He seemed to be looking for a way out. There were guards outside the meeting room. What would they say if they saw him hurrying out? What is he somehow just pocketed the amulet, damn all the other gifts. That old shriveled hag wasn’t as lost or desperate as he thought. She was smart too.

“It's an interesting piece.” his voice wobbled

No. He would have to burn all the gifts. He would have to convince or make use of other methods to keep such rumors from leaving this room. Keep it from reaching others in the court. It was all damned. He needed a way out.

“Uncle Aiolos? Are you okay? You seem preoccupied.” Margarita asked innocently

“Oh all will be well.” he replied as he turned on her quickly

There was a small struggle. He pinned her to the wall. His back pressed into hers.

“I could snap your neck before you spread such lies. You made a mistake, that's all. Or maybe I could forgive you. You could make it up to me right now.” he hissed

His sickening words stirred Margarita into a panic. She twisted. She swung an elbow. It caught Aiolos in the face causing him to stagger before he lunged at her. Their magic clashed. He tried sending electricity through her and she deflected it. The lightning shattered a window. Not a sound either was worried about. The guards were instructed not to enter unless she ordered them too. Margarita could enjoy this fight.

He attempted his attack once more and this time Margarita focused her energy into her hand. He struggled as she snatched his arm and pulled him forward. Her hand harshly struck the side of his face.

He yelled out in pain and anger as he stumbled. The table screeched across the stone ground as he grasped onto it.

He took several angry breaths before he glared at her. An ugly black mark consumed half his face. Deep frostbitten skin. She wished the ice reached his brain.

“So all can see how vile you are. You can no longer hide behind a kind face.”

A furious roar tore through Aiolos’ mouth as he once more threw himself at her. She stood unmoving as he directed his magic at her.

His magic clashed into a powerful and strange magic. He stepped back as uncertainty choked him.

His eyes wildly searched around for a source. No one but her.

He stood once more but froze as he looked over to the shattered window. He raced past Margarita towards his freedom.

Margarita felt the world slow as she whirled around to reach out for her uncle.

He was mad. Desperate.

She wouldn’t reach him. He had caught her off guard. The bastard.

A rush of air surprised them both as Aiolos was tossed back.

There standing in the room with them was a familiar figure. One Margarita was all too happy to see.

“Osiris.” Margarita said as he approached to stand at her side. He glared down at her uncle.

[productre]

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[hopeisawriter]

A quick excerpt for the sunrise

As the bus rolled onward, sun splashed through the window like waves, a strong glow of gold then back out the window it went.

It’s the only thing that makes waking up this early worth it, and she thinks that if she wasn’t trying to avoid music this week, she would not have noticed it in favour of her thoughts.

The sunrise looked beautiful.

[quaxorascal]

nor whole and unbroken

Back during the Gretsin arc Taber rolled a nat 1 to get out of the blast zone of a factory we'd rigged to explode, and she lost an eye as a result! Calling this fic a spiritual successor to this one. Featuring canon dialogue that I've had written down for two years now because I feel as insane about these two in 2023 as I had in 2021

175 words, exactly 1,000 characters (cw: eye gore (alluded to))

Even flying high above the explosion site, Felix already knows something's wrong. Nymerinae in her eagle form flies them closer to the ground. Headcount: Belasco, Rachel, Ophelia, Aracelli, Bonnie…

Then he sees her, and his heart explodes, too.

"Taber!" he screams. He runs before his feet touch the ground, and crouches next to where she's lying prone. "I'm here. I'm right here." In clear agony, she can't whimper quietly. He takes her hand in both of his. "It'll be okay, vehera."

She turns her head to him. A huge piece of shrapnel makes blood pour down her face. "I'm s-sorry."

…What the fuck?

"Y-You shouldn't… have to see me like this…" She sobs.

"No. Don't apologize." He chokes, then brings her hand close to his chest and squeezes. "Don't you dare apologize. I swear to the gods, Taber, don't apologize to me ever again." Neither can stop crying now.

Nymerinae, an elf again, kneels down and puts Taber's head in her lap. Grateful, he lets her work. His heart can mend once Taber is okay.

[jenniferratcliffe]

These hallways are felled

oak in grand deaths,

I weave myself

Echo’d step after echo’d step,

light warbles

ominous songs of shadows;

interjection of grief in logic.

Both ends are bleak

unseeable future’s

with only one certain freedom,

encased in my own

Humanity.

[the-sunshine-dims]

The world turns on its head.

The earth pulls and pushes, knowing.

The man walks, unaware.

Then the man stumbles.

The ground stumbles with him,

He falls, being caught by branches.

blood.

The man is left near-death

An accident.

[americana-antihero]

Practiced writing at work! I was inspired by one of the showrooms at my job :)

[molonline]

if I could give you the moon

i’d swallow it whole

carry it to your door like a dog with a bird in its teeth

drop it at your feet, panting, waiting expectantly

[curlynye-blog]

Create Your Own Earthseed Community (Parable of the Sower Quickwrite)

It was a bright sunny day in the country of Persusia, June stretched his arms above his head, his shaggy hair covering half of his face before he pushed it back behind him. Today was the day, the day that he dreaded, citizens of Persusia have been talking of a strange plague that is overtaking the animals and rain hasn’t come for 14 months and counting. The end was here and he knew it was. But he didn’t worry too much, he had a plan. The other day he told his girlfriend of five years to meet him by the old crooked farm so they could escape. Not having a father or a mother, for June his partner was the only thing he had. There was an abandoned mill factory 56 miles west, he knew of it from stories old drunkards spilled while he was on shift. It would need a lot of work, but it was far away enough from infected animals and close enough to a hidden cave of water that no one knew of. He never felt that it was anything other than real: discovery rather than invention. While a part of him felt bad for not telling the rest of the town members about his plans, he knew deep down how greedy humanity can be. He told his girlfriend to bring her mother and younger brother, her father was abusive and they needed an escape. One that June was certain he could provide. All that you touch you change. All that you change changes you…God is change. This was going to be good for all of them. June wasn’t an authoritative man, but he understood that order was needed in order for their new safe haven to thrive. This is why he hoped to rule with a transformational model of leadership. If they are constantly pushing to think of new things together as a society, maybe we can find a solution to the plague affecting the animals, and if God prohibits it, even the lack of rain. Looking down at his open hand he stared at the tiny device he’s been working on for the past few months, he called it Entuisha, when inserted into an animal it cleared the plague long enough to make the animal edible, another reason why he was scared of the town finding out about their plans. He was scared of using force but will do whatever means necessary to survive, while he worked at the bar he bribed some of the security guards to help them sneak out of the passage, while the journey is long and tiring, they have enough provisions and Entuisha to survive. The lack of water is troubling, but if we keep purifying the water in our bodies hopefully it’ll be enough. And once we settle down, we can create an Entuisha farm, full of animals safe to eat and drink from the water in the hole. And once we build a lab to further develop more technologies, we’ll come back, and save this town. But first, we need to save ourselves.

[lonestar827]

Strike the Metal

(Small bit of prose based on a single word prompt: Strike. I decided to use my hrothgar doing some metalwork as the base, enjoy)

(Small written prose below)

CLANG, A dent put back into place CLANG, A nick put back into line CLANG, A scratch made non-existant

Each strike against the armor morphed it back into what it should be; a piece of apperal made to protect the flesh from harm. Each strike against the armor removed proof of its work; an attempt at the wearers life. Each strike against the armor mended it back into place; as if the attacks never happened.

With the last strike, the metalworker hrothgar held up the fully mended armor, giving it one last look to make sure. A smile creeps onto his face as it passes his own tests, placing it aside to move onto the next piece of armor, the striking continuing into the day

[zumicho]

oikawa is back in japan for the first time since renouncing his citizenship. the very moment the plane wheels graze the concrete runway, he feels the difference.

he feels the difference over a warm bowl of chinese noodles, when iwaizumi catches him up on athletic trainer life, complaining about salary and overtime, cracking jokes about how tooru would never relate, “he's got it good.”

his volleyball career skyrocketed, after all.

he feels it bumping into hanamaki at the convenience store, when buying melatonin gummies to help with the timezone adjustment. his former teammate feigns starstruck, theatrically gushing and pleading for his autograph. makki shows him a picture of his girlfriend; teases him about a bet made in high school. oikawa remembers the fight he had with you, about not having enough time. about choosing volleyball. about priorities.

he feels the change when he kicks off his shoes haphazardly in his parents' house, dreading the absence of a nagging mother, who would tell him to set them aside where they actually belong. he reaches for the light switch, the muscle memory of home still ever present - it doesn't take him long to find.

in that dimly lit sanctuary of his childhood, he learned something new.

at twenty seven, oikawa tooru learned that maybe change isn't bad. not always. not if it meant strawberry cheesecake. not if it meant happy birthday, idiot! piped neatly in vanilla frosting across the top. not if it meant watching you fight sleep (losing), as you wield a kitchen lighter in your left hand, candles in your right. you waited.

not if it meant he could see that look on your face, when you wake up on the bed, with your back to his chest, his chin hooked over your shoulder, absolutely livid over the fact that he surprised you, when it was supposed to be the other way around.

not if it meant that though everyone will change eventually, he can sign a truce with difference for now, because being able to recognise difference is the evidence that something is worth missing. and until the day he has to miss you instead of have you, he'll cherish every moment. even if it one day becomes a memory.

tooru knows now,

that to be loved is not (just) to be known.

TO BE LOVED IS TO BE REMEMBERED.

masterlist panorama

a/n : happy belated birthday loverboy! late night quickwrite that might get deleted in the morning. I’m not sure if I hate this or if I can tolerate it, we’ll see what happens to it lol. NOT PROOFREAD

[gohyuck]

you&i

image from user themightyjen on twitter

pairing: jeno x reader and they are exes but they get back together sort of (i mistakenly used a previous work of mine’s earlier pairing when i first posted this!)

genre: angst, fluff

word count: right under 1.5k, this was a quickwrite

notes: liam payne died so i started listening to one direction again and you & i just had me Thinking long and hard... also f1 mentions lol

It is a bizarre cliché, really, and you wish you could laugh at Jeno’s outstretched hand as he wordlessly begs you to follow him out onto the fire escape. Your building is not at all up to code, and you have to force yourself through one hardly-cracked open window to make it out to where he is, having climbed up from the outside. In a completely unsurprising move, he has an overloose black leather jacket on, though it doesn’t stay that way for long — he ignores you ignoring the hand he’d put out to help you through the window and instead puts it to use shirking the leather off and throwing it over his shoulder like some two-bit greaser. 

He dangles a Corona bottle — yeuch — from his other hand, and he treats it quite gingerly. Jeno’s projecting his feelings onto the delicate glass, because of course he is. He’s a shrink’s wet dream. Not too troubled, not too troubling, but still itching to hurt and be hurt. You expect that Jeno’s “fixable,” but neither you nor him expect you to be the one to go about doing any fixing. 

“Want some?” He anticipates that you’ll shake your head, can visualize the peach moscato in your fridge door at this very moment, practically tastes how too-sweet it is. You so badly want to grab the bottle from his hand and take a swig of what really is dry bready water just to spite him, but you can’t justify the assault on your taste buds. 

You shake your head, already dreaming of the peach moscato in your fridge door. That’ll be a treat after this whole thing. You, of course, are pushing your emotions away — your psychiatrist will love and hate the debrief that’s coming to her within the next 24 hours. 

“We’re like day and night.” You want to expand on your thought, but it seems impossible to verbalize beyond this vague utterance. Fuck your life. Jeno nods, bites down on a corner of his mouth before taking the kind of swig you’d briefly daydreamed of. When he puts his other hand down right by yours, your breath catches on impulse, but only for a second. 

“They bleed into each other sometimes.” He tells you this as if you’ve never experienced the sunset. You wish you could laugh at him, but that would be cruel, unusual, and untrue. Jeno, for all his pompous exterior, is the day in this make-believe situation. Of course, the two of you are more similar than you are different. Of course, if one of you actually acknowledges this fact, the other will refute it. Maybe you’re projecting now. His leather jacket and building climbing and Corona drinking self is such a caricature that he circles back to being unequivocally real to you. Unequivocally yours. 

“They’re broken up in the same way we’re broken up.” You try your resolve. 

“Are we broken up?”

“We could probably make it if we try.” You fold a corner of your lower lip into your mouth, tucking it gently between the harsh rows of your teeth. This is a tell, though of what, you remain unsure. Jeno thinks you’re being honest when you say this, but there’s something inherently duplicitous to even having thought it. Do you mean ‘making it’ as in ‘making it as a pair of exes’ or in some other more ephemeral way? He tries his luck. 

“Do you think they ever fight like us?” 

The reason for your most recent break up is, of course, some fight over something that must have been extremely important to both of you in completely separate ways, but neither of you can genuinely recollect the entire experience. For one, he’d been high, and you’d been drunk. Neither of your problems are too far gone to kick, but everyone relies on something or the other to get them through particularly rough weeks. It was rare that your vice intersected with his; it was rare either got out of hand. 

And yet. A joint may be the only thing conspicuously missing from him at this very moment, actually, but you don’t doubt that he has rolling papers in his back left pocket even now as he leans his ass against your building’s run-down brick walls. 

“The day and the night? I think they can’t stand each other.” You reach for his beer, and he gives it up with ease. He’s nothing if not giving. Your chest hurts, there’s a reason you don’t smoke. Jeno reaches around and puts his jacket over your shoulders as you take the tiniest of sips, and you settle into it like you’d slip into conversation with an old friend. Jeno’s pinky finger extends, and you feel the dull coolness of his faux silver ring press almost imperceptibly at the bottom of your own fifth finger’s second knuckle. 

He pulls a pack of Golds from his back pocket — you’d been wrong about the weed stuff, it seems — and you pull a cigarette out when he flips it open. Jeno’s eyebrows pull together, but every feature of his drops simultaneously when you simply turn it upside down and put it back in. The designated final smoke, for good luck. Your ex — ex? — pulls it together quickly enough, and you do him the service of pretending. 

“You can’t stand me?”

The defiance mingled with disbelief, confusion, genuine apprehension all come together into the kind of cocktail that can only break your heart. Jeno hasn’t even fished out a cigarette yet, his brilliantly red lighter undoubtedly still in his jacket. He really wants a straight answer from you. 

“Two Ferrari wins in a row, in the double header,” You just say, every other word tamped down on by an impenetrable force. “I still haven’t canceled my F1 TV subscription.”

“You’re really into it, no matter what you say.” He’s certainly right, but you refuse to let him know just how often Forza Ferrari Siempre really comes into play for you. Jeno, with his head in your lap as you take a swig of absolutely horrendous Big Red from a mug he’d made on a pottery date (“it’s good luck” your ass). Jeno, pacing around his dining table while he mutters about how Charles Leclerc suffers more than Jesus. Jeno, pulling you into his arms after you give him a Ferrari-red lighter on a whim. 

“I just like watching car crashes.”

“I still have the lighter you gave me.”

Both of you speak at once, stunned immediately into confused silence. A sob gets caught in your throat early enough to where it becomes a snicker, and Jeno sniffles into a snort of laughter, and suddenly you’re face-first in his chest and he’s giggling into your hair. He says something about being incapable of remembering what your fight was about, and you whisper that you know he’s smoking cigarettes so he stays off of weed and off of paranoia. You appreciate him. 

“We could switch vices,” He gestures towards the beer that’s in your hand. “Ever think about lighting up?”

“I’d rather die.” Your eyes turn up with the corners of your lips.

“We could make it if we tried.” Jeno shrugs, and his hand finally settles onto yours, a weight you’d sorely missed. Stupid, stupid argument with very real implications. 

“You and I?

“I can more than stand you, if that’s what you’re asking.” His tone of voice is jovial but his gaze is steady. His implicit question hangs in the air, the begging of reciprocity only unbecoming if verbalized. You turn your hand over under his and lace your fingers together, jagged and messy. 

“With all this teen angst in our twenties, we should probably start sitting down instead.” Jeno isn’t going to get too far through your general sense of levity, but he knows that you’ll murmur apologies and promises to him later tonight. You’ll make good this time, and so will he. 

“I’ll pour out your moscato if you put on the highlights from last week’s race.” He tilts his head towards your open window, and you set the Corona down at your feet, knowing full and well that neither of you are finishing that now. He’s made some amends though — you’ll work on the cigarette smoking, but at least it doesn’t affect how he treats you — and you recognize that you need to do the same. Jeno is sound to your silence. 

“Pour it into the sink, if you can.” 

Your boyfriend seems stunned, comically so as he pauses to look back at you while only halfway into your apartment. You follow up with some rib about how you still have Big Red in your fridge, stifling a laugh at his own wince, but his overarching surprise reigns supreme. He doesn’t even have to ask if you’re sure — his eyebrows do it for him. You nod, knowing all kinds of questions deserve answers.

“We can make it if we try.”

[sadlydismayed]

ITS HEREEE (pt. 1)

GUYS.... also btwww sorry if any of you have given me requests this was a quickwrite anddd I'm sick so my writing isn't as good as usual....

Ashlyn flinched as she heard a thud and grunt, her eyes quickly darting to the sight. Logan's knees were bent under him, as he was on his back. He was positioned in a way where his rifle was pushed into his back hard enough for the metal to bruise, and leave indents in the skin. His leg placement caused significant pain; your body wasn’t supposed to contort like that. The phantom above him kept him down as he fought. Ashlyn could see his glasses get swiped off of his face, but due to the motion that the phantom has used, Logan could momentarily rise up a bit to try and grab his gun from behind him, only to be pushed back onto the ground. The way his arm was pushed behind him caused the pain to intensify even more, his elbow bent in a way it shouldn’t be, his hand stuck against the base of the barrel of his weapon, twisted painfully. Ashlyn could only look as the horrible sound of skin being torn apart pounded in her ears.  Logan’s entire bottom jaw had been torn off. Ashlyn looked down as she saw the bloody hunk of flesh being thrown towards her, a few teeth being knocked out of the mangled bone. The phantom’s hand had stretched out the entire inside of Logan’s throat, tearing away at the flesh and grabbing whatever it could, a massive puddle of blood under Logan as he convulsed and choked. He tried to form words but the pain was debilitating, doubled with the fact that you can’t form words without a tongue, or a jaw for that matter. Logan kicked helplessly at the creature above him, eventually kicking it’s knees out, only to anger it further and making it hiss. The last thing Ashlyn saw before being dragged away by a horrified-looking Taylor was the Phantom digging in Logan’s eyes, ripping out whatever was inside the wet sockets, and digging behind them to mutilate further. This was the absolute worst thing they had seen yet, Logan’s abnormally pretty face being utterly mutilated, and deformed by the sole the thing they all hated the most. Ben was caught staring at his body; Ashlyn could hear Ben’s oddly labored breathing at the sight. The only one of their friends they had seen die was Aiden, and it was a quick death, by blunt force. What will happen when they wake up? Will there be sirens? Will the rest of them be interviewed? What will happen to Logan? No one knew. And no one wanted to think about it. All they could do was watch as the Phantom continued to harm the motionless boy, and wait until the rift closed for the night.

[tmbgaresuck]

9th grade SUX! My English teacher is a TMBGhead and he put on their disturbing music during a quickwrite and I said "TMBG SUCKS! Put on Oingo!!" And he refused so I called him some names and he sent me to ISS! Now they might take me off the Junior National Honor Society!!

I hate TMBG even more and their stupid fans too! Grrrrr!!!

[veraladaine]

Quickwrite

Part 1

"Into the abyss." Jack repeats this slowly, as if trying to process my words. To pull them apart and dissect them, find a hidden meaning. He stares at me with a serious gravity. His stone gray eyes are hard as steel. His immobile form and stolid expression perpetuating the feeling of being a child chastised.

"Further perhaps." I say to goad him, stung by his callousness. His eyes seem to flare and his mouth twists into a firm line. His jaw visibly clenching. "Paisa, you know it is a matrimony with death." He drops his wall for a split second in the way his mountainous shoulders slump. "You owe this world nothing." He whispers. He looks defeated but I know better than to fall for his tricks.

"I owe you nothing." I snap. The cold air seems to plummet further, the wind suddenly encircling us, igniting an icy swirl of chaos. His black hair blows perfectly with the wind, his muscles strain in anticipation. Prepared always for a war that will never end.

I have become similar. A defect of my mind. Flames snake from my fingertips and slither up to my forearms. The muted heat is an electric sensation of exhilaration and power. My eyes search the sky for answers, but I know my answers are carnivorous and deep.

Jack is distinctively a primal force. A mountain against a mound. But I know what lies under the mound. And it will shake the mountain to its core.

He stalks right up to me, ignoring the licking flames that start to toy with his chest. Pressing himself chest to chest. Feeling my heart pound strong and sure. No faltering anymore. "You are going to fail." He snarls. His chest heaves with anger and I feel my flames stutter underneath his icy presence.

His eyes miss nothing, catching the flames receding to my hands. His eyes slowly make their way back to mine. Razing everything in between. There has never been love between us. Just an understanding of what the world needs. I have never wavered. I can't imagine why now, he has suddenly become selfish.

[adayinflash]

I Pity You

TWs: Implication of suicidal ideation

(wrote this at my school's writing club, where the quickwrite prompt was to describe your muse. hopefully I'll post more but it's not looking great)

            I pity you. Not because I feel sorry for your past. But because I know where you are right now. I look at you and see someone who has no idea what they want to become, who has no idea what their place in the world is. I look at you and see someone who loved so much they lost the ability to love. I look at you and see someone who is tired. Someone who is willing to give it all up. Someone who is looking for a lifeline.

            With every glance I shoot in your direction, trying to think of any way to help, I find myself in such pain that I need to look away, to gather my breath, my thoughts. Because in you I see a thousand conflicts. I see racial insecurities, internalized queerphobia; I see the inability to cope with any of your trauma or seek out help, professional or amicable, for fear of what may happen if you do. I see someone who doesn’t know that, if given enough time, things will be okay. Someone who is so blinded by anxiety and apathy and agony that they cannot see more than a day into the future, unable to imagine something they are unsure if they will even live to see.

            I pity you because I know you have so much more pain ahead of you. I pity you because I know you’re going to survive. I pity you because you won’t get the help you truly need for a long time. I pity you because you’re going to regret the way you lived when you were the age you are right now. I pity you because I’ve done it all already.