Untitled (2017-04-01)

A/N: Playing around with the famous storyteller bots collaboration website here, and I thought it was too hilarious to not share.

~

What about poetry?

Oleander,
soft as well as sweet,
delicate against my skin,
brutal within my blood.
I violently plunged for a girl,
who unquestionably could not love me back.

Edgar! Nevermore! Please, you are ruining my shapes.

Why unquestionably? Many a man fails as an original thinker simply because his memory is too good.

Why violently? He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.

Friedrich, that doesn’t answer my questions!

Apple seeds and sunflower petals,
as all marvelous children learn.

Marvelous? In everything one thing is impossible: rationality.

These beings of delight are not impressive in anyway. However, are they inherently delightful?

Children can zealously be cruel,
they can be heedless.
They, who didn’t smell the fire burning,
are braver, yes,
but reckless and uncaring.

Charles? There are no eternal facts, as there are no absolute truths.

You’ve suddenly added a setting to this poem. Are these souls unburdened by melancholy on fire? Are they trapped?

Morality is the herd-instinct in the individual.

Untitled (2017-03-30)

“I could die,” she said with a shrug, as cool as a cucumber. She said it the way one might say, “I could go for some ice cream,” or even “I could pick up some milk while I’m at the grocery store, if you’d like.”

The irony being, of course, that she was highly lactose intolerant.

Her offhand tone and casual demeanor nearly masked the content of her words, to which a generous narrator might attribute Jack’s belated, unhelpful response of:

“Um. Uh, Maybe?”

Unfortunately, the truth was that Jack was both awkward and frequently overcome by a dense fog of emotional incompetency. Now was one such occasion.

She laughed, if it could be called such. It was the laugh of a sailor encountering a shark in the middle of a hurricane–unimpressed, stressed, and yet, somehow, slightly amused. Toeing the line of hysterical, perhaps.

“You’re my best friend,” Jack said, rushed and cracked and desperately honest.

Ness sighed, “You’re mine, too.”

It was not new information and so, regretfully, it did not change anything.

There is a freedom in apathy; or so you think, at first.

It feels like ascending. Like leaving behind all of your worries and frustrations and grief. Like purging poison from your body, making you lighter–unburdened, relieved.

But not happier.

There is a danger in apathy.

Numb to pain, yes, but to pleasure as well. The things that used to make you smile are now overtired, trite baubles cluttering your space. Your favorite station is now just an annoying racket. Watering your little potted plant is a hassle.

You set your fingertips against an overheated panel and didn’t pull away until your skin began to blister.

But for a moment, you felt something.

Sadly, that something was curiosity.

~

A/N: This is the first time in a week that I got to go home before ten? And, also, there’s a clusterfuck going on at work, as per usual, but it’s NOT MY FAULT. I mean, I’m still going to be the one who has to fix it, but knowing it’s not my fault vindicates me greatly.

lyricwritesprose:

bubonickitten:

do you think we as a society can finally acknowledge that “this thing didn’t have a name until recently” doesn’t necessarily mean “this thing did not exist until recently” or (worse) “this thing doesn’t exist at all”

Let’s also agree that “this thing did not have an English name until recently,” does not necessarily mean it was nameless.

I was talking to my coworker (who is over three decades older than me) who is both my friend and kind of like my mentor to adulthood, and we got to the topic of significant others. I already came out to him as not-straight, which he was really cool about, thankfully, but I don’t know how much he understands about my sexuality.

He’s not like my relatives who are “you just haven’t met the right man yet” (or woman, for the more liberally minded relatives), but he does often say “maybe you’ll meet a woman you’re into, so until then you have to work on your social skills.”

He’s right about the second half–I do have social anxiety, though I’ve been trying to mitigate it by going to weekly tabletop rpg nights–and the first half isn’t nearly as presumptuous as what my relatives say, but I’m not sure if he quite makes the connection when I say I’m ace/aro.

I’ve explained before about finding people aesthetically pleasing, but not sexually compelling or “attractive.” Some people–yes, even guys, I’ll have to explain–are pretty, but that doesn’t mean I want a relationship with them. My coworker nods and says, “I was like that, too, before I met my wife.”

And I was dreading hearing about “finding The One” and “love at first sight” and “just knowing,” but instead he talked about how they became friends first. About how they had mutual friends who kept trying to set them up with each other on dates, but neither of them wanted to be forced into anything. He talked about how he finds other people “sexy looking" but doesn’t want to have sex with them and he doesn’t get aroused by them. He can acknowledge that certain features are more attractive to him, but because he doesn’t know that person it’s kind of just looking at a nice statue.

And all I could think was “oh, you’re demisexual.”

But I didn’t say it. Because labels aren’t for people to use on others, but for people to help identify themselves.

And even though he and I are friends I don’t want to tell him he’s something when he’s pretty comfortable with his identity already. And, frankly, how would that change his life anyway? He’s married with a kid, he’s not in the market for dating so his demisexuality doesn’t affect his everyday life.

But I have to wonder, if demisexual was a more popular term when he was my age, would he comfortably self-identify as such?

Word Prompts (R2): Rage

There are two types of anger.

Or, perhaps, there are more. But you are not really one for anger, usually, so for now you have only experienced two.

Maybe types is not the right word.

Maybe stages is better.

That first flare of heat and action. Muscles tensing, blood pumping. You can feel adrenaline coursing through your veins, fingers curled tight into fists.

If someone gave you a baseball bat you would not hesitate to swing.

You shout at everything, every little irritation, cursing the way you’ve only ever seen others do before. You punch at inanimate objects and scrape your knuckles, another flare of rage pushing you to greater heights.

The second is when you don’t come down.

This has never happened to you.

Before.

Usually, after an outburst, you’ve expelled your anger. Nothing left but shredded skin and tiny bleeds already beginning to scab over. Usually a scream or two is all it takes, a walk where the air can cool down your flush and your temper as well.

This time there is no catharsis.

This time your anger coils in on itself, impotent, unable to be released. Your anger ferments and steeps like the worst cocktail, like poison now, the adrenaline twisting your nerves, the tension in your head ratcheting more and more.

You’ve been angry for so long you’re sick of it. Exhausted. And yet you can’t seem to stop.

Welcome to stage two.

~

A/N: surprisingly on the nose for the word prompt, considering my track record with them… sorry this is unrelated to yesterday’s posts, but I’m glad to see so many people enjoyed that one

Untitled (2017-03-23)

There is a story of a young goddess who comes to the earth in the form of a golden bird, then, a woman of unparalleled beauty.

She meets a prince of noble heart and they fall in love, but alas she cannot stay, she must return to her home in the heavens.

The prince beseeches her to choose earth, to choose him, to choose love, and for the length of one moonless night she considers it.

But ultimately the decision is not up to her, nor is it the prince’s, for there are two more characters in this story:

The goddess’ heavenly handmaiden, sent to watch over her mistress, and the prince’s loyal bodyguard, stalwart but severe.

There are three endings to this story–all of them dependent on the dance between handmaiden and bodyguard during that long moonless night.

Every day, it seems, you are reminded of how powerless you are. Always two steps behind and one to the left. Everything, even yourself, designed around her and her desires. Clothing and food, activities and lighting.

In the summer, you carry a parasol to protect her complexion from the sun. When it rains the umbrella in your hand is to keep her dry. Music is always set to her rhythm, not yours.

This is how it’s been your entire life.

She has power over you and doesn’t seem to be aware. If you ask for a favor, you make yourself vulnerable–she may choose to be generous, or she may reprimand you for being so daring. She does not ask you for favors, she gives you commands.

This entire sojourn has been a misadventure from beginning to end, and you know when you return it will not be her skin beneath the lash or even her neck below the blade.

This is your first time on earth, too. You are also a goddess.

And yet.

Tonight your mistress has gone to her mortal, and there is no moon tonight. There is no one but yourself to know these truths. Your actions are safe from prying eyes.

Or so you think.

~

A/N: … sometimes you get to make your everyday problems sound super flowery and beautiful and pretend like they’re not your problems at all!

To destroy him,
you will have to steal from my arms.
His ribs beneath my palm,
curving so sweetly.

Each breath I think,
will this be the last?
I will trade all of my tomorrows,
for laughter.

This is not the place for us.
We are voiceless here.
Our hellos were our goodbyes,
empty puffs of air.

But,
at least,
for a while,
he was
mine.

Lost at sea,
in the middle of the night.
How dire that rings.
And yet.
Water calm and glassy,
reflecting
infinite stars.

I saw a future in his eyes.

jacksgreyson, Untitled (2017-01-25) [2]

Word Prompts (B27): Blood

“We don’t get to choose,” she says, thousand yard stare, fingers curled into tight, pale fists.

With the cloudy sky and gray, frothing ocean she is the image of every suffering heroine. Enduring, longing, betrayed.

No, it’s never a choice.

You hear the screeching of seagulls, sharp and high and punctuating ever roaring wave crashing against the rocks. The coastal winds whip her hair back, streaming banner proud. Even the faded red of her old sweater seems deliberate.

How picturesque her fury, how cinematic her grief.

Maybe, if she were a stranger, this would be art. Instead, you leave your camera untouched around your neck.

Some wounds should not be shared.

In a forest,
green and growing.
In a meadow,
bright and blooming.
Is a lake,
still and waiting.
For a girl,
young and shining.

One night to fall in love.

The monitors beep, a shaky metronome for a song that does not yet exist.

Such unsteady ground to build a future.

But maybe you can do it.

He breathes, rasping and shallow, lungs so weak and tired. The energy that you saw before dimming with every second. His hand is so cold in yours.

You can save him, if you try. You might fail, even if you do. But at least you’ll have tried.

One night to fall in love.

He coughs. Harsh and pained and wet. Flower petals red against the bleached hospital sheets.

It’s not your fault, not your responsibility. There’s nothing tying you to this boy slowly dying.

You only met him today.

But he doesn’t deserve to die, for something so foolish as loving you. And maybe, if you try, you can save him before the night takes him away.

Maybe you can fall in love.

Word Prompts (V4): Velvet

I’d be so good to you, you think, watching the flush spread over his skin. Heat beneath your fingertips.

You have loved him for a long time. An eternity, it feels like.

He met you for the first time today.

You would be so good to him, maybe. But that is not the same as being good for him.

Today is all you will take from him. Today is all you will give yourself.

I’d be so good to you, you think once more, cupping his cheek in your hand, bringing your face close to his.

When he kisses you, soft and sweet, you try to memorize everything about this moment:

The texture of his lips, and the puffs of his breathing. The way his hand comes up to cradle at the back of your neck. At one point, you both open your eyes at the same time and chuckle into each other’s mouths.

You love him so goddamn much.

… But I have to let you go.

There’s treasure hidden in this room.

Or that’s what she’d like you to think.

It’s crammed full with boxes and drawers and shelves, piled high against the walls. But they’ve encroached inward, invaded the clear, undefended flat lands–there is only enough space for the narrowest of pathways from the door to the center of the room.

Oh there’s treasure, perhaps, but only if you’re willing to mine for it.

It’s all you can do to focus on the sensations around you. The lining smooth against your skin, the smell of flowers cloying. Sunlight slants into the room, painted by stained glass windows.

It’s all you can do not to scream.

You blink, eyelids heavy, moisture collecting, accumulating, falling. You can’t look at him.

What’s left of him.

The two of you were going to break destiny.

And, in a way, you did.

The sky is bright and cloudless the day they bury his body in the ground.

You have your whole life in front of you now.

That should have been you in that coffin.

Sister,
They stole me,
and put me to work.
Put me to sleep.

I didn’t wake
‘til long after.
After everyone else
had gone away.

Sister,
Do you remember?
The sound of crickets
in the summer.

The scent of ocean
in the air.
The taste of strawberries
on our tongues.

Sister,
Can you hear me?
My voice echoing
through the ruins.

Wood rotted,
cement grown over.
Everything faded,
eroded away.

Sister,
Are you with me?
Is that you
whispering on the wind?

Laughter crashing
in the waves.
Tears mixing
with the rain.

Sister,
They stole me.
Took me away
from our home.

The lights gone out,
the air turned cold.
I’ve returned
too late for you.

Sister,
Again I leave.
Awake and walking,
alone this time.

The road ahead
so daunting.
Empty.
Waiting.

jacksgreyson, Untitled (2017-01-12)

potpourri

six chamber revolver,
spinning, spinning,
each shining metal bullet
like raindrops against the roof.

each glance, each touch,
each conversation turned to rust.
our almost could have been,
lost to cherished anecdotes.

four chamber heart,
pumping, pumping,
red blue blood flowing
like fog over the hills.

we ran around, laughing,
breath opaque under streetlights,
iron fences, concrete, brick,
frontiers beneath our steps.

before i could speak,
my grandmother whispered,
the truths of the universe:

candy colored secrets,
silver lockets and smooth stones,
bitter paradoxes unspooled.

her fingertips carving
forgotten histories and
butterfly shapes in the clouds.

but dried flowers stole it all,
crumbled, fragile petals
displaced in my throat.

wait,
listen,
be patient.
at the ending,
there is a treasure,
that will make it worth it.
hush now and you’ll see,
it’s always been,
reflecting,
silent,
you.

Heading to my sister’s place to dog sit,
I’ve got a crockpot in my duffel bag.
It’s been at my place for months, unused,
now it’s wrapped up in my clothes.

Jury duty, back aches,
hot potato maybe plans,
this weekend I’ll meet strangers,
and build a better world.

Outsider watching,
scavenger waiting,
enjoying the secondhand heat,
of a night of passion.

jacksgreyson, Untitled (2016-12-08)