we use to watch Fight Club together, because she said that it made her feel a little less alone, and i could never reply so i held her in my lap.
and she told me she was kalea's dizzy mind.
and in real life, you would think nothing of anything really, because she watches the birds fly just like you do. the morning rises on the same side of her window, and she can watch the clock tick away hours, just like you.
and she told me she was kalea's spinal cord.
i watched her pick at her fingernails for too long, and always decided i would leave as soon as they started bleeding. her arms are full of scars where she thought she felt something crawling up her skin, only to find she was still alone. i told her i was here, but she turned over(and i can still hear her uneven breathing)
and she told me she was kalea's collapsed lungs.
it amazed me how everything reminded her of something. there was a time when she said her favorite color was orange, and a smile forced over her face. she was connected to the window the rest of the time.
"Did you know that jack-o-lanterns are orange, and for even a little while, they are happy just to be. and then one day, their light goes out, and sometimes, you can never find that light again."
I wanted to see if I could write an HiE... here's what I came up with. Not sure how it turned out..
Summary - Leon is tired of life and all the lies of his so called friends. So when he decides to end his existence, he somehow gets a second chance. How will he handle living in Equestria? Can he learn to live again and make friends? And why did he get a second chance to begin with?
MLP:FiM is owned by Hasbro. I mention a lot of other stuff in this story, so anything I mention is owned by their creator.. may make a list later.
you're a disco dancing, drama queen with dirty hair and the permanent smell of stale cigarettes. but god, are you beautiful, twisting and dancing under circular lights,
and vomiting when you're done.(acid does some crazy shit)
your hair was once blonde and beautiful like your eyes, but now it's laying in clumps almost everywhere, because you fucking pull out a strand whenever i'm around, i don't know why i do that to you.
but i never really ever offer to leave, either.
there's that one song that i always hear you listening to, it's the same old shit about love and loss and never being able to forget that special someone, i use to get mad at you for giving in to such conforming types of art.
but now i just let you go, because last time i actually made you cry.
"would you rather fly, or read minds?" i told you i'd rather read minds, and know what everyone thinks, because you can fly on a plane anyday, but no one ever thinks the same. and you nodded and pulled out some hair, turned over and watched the walls turn colors.
but that night i saw you jumping off your porch, and now my stomach hurts.
whenever you'd get fed up with me you'd leave out the front door, but you never slammed or shut it because you said you wanted me to feel sick as i watched you get smaller and smaller the longer i stared at you.
but i never told you, that i really did feel bad, and once even put on my glasses(and i watched you walk away longer than i ever have before)
i don't know when the time came that you just weren't happy anymore, but i remember the day that i forgot you altogether, but cigarettes just don't taste the same anymore, and i can't go on a plane without wishing i was falling from it,
but disco lights still spin, and sometimes i can see your eyes behind them.
He was tired. He was always tired these days; between the chemo, the meds, the fucking fighting for his life, he was exhausted.
And it never seemed to end.
Life was hard, getting the best of him these days. Most of it was spent alone in a quiet apartment he shared with no one. Most of the things that had been important to him had stepped back - not gone entirely, but just far enough away that their faces seemed blurred, unrecognizable.
Looking back on it, it made sense and the more he'd learned over the years, he understood why it had happened this way.
He would never have imagined him thinking it then, in his youth, but women dealt with shit in a way totally different than men. They tended to stiffen their upper lip and face life head on, for better and for worse.
He remember all too well, her leaning against the bright red monstrosity that was her car outside of the hospital: him out of his first bout of chemo and feeling so sick that he wanted to find a bottle to crawl in for several hours.
She'd driven him home.
And that was all there was to it. Nothing had really been said or done, but she'd been there, without question, without explanation, without needing a thanks. He saw her at least once a day - whether he wanted to or not.
It was hard for a man to ask another man for help. Maybe that was what it was. It had been different before, them in the thick of things, of life that had no seeming end. When you're young, you think you can do anything, be anyone. They'd been a rag-tag bunch, fighting for their lives and the lives of everyone else, it seemed. But years had gone by.
The day he'd told them all what the doctors had said, everything changed. And he didn't blame them. He could only imagine what it must have been like, them watching him go through the motions: the chemo, the sickness. His hair had fallen out; it would start to stubble back to life, and then there was the chemo again.
He didn't blame them.
The door to the kitchen swung open and she walked inside. A pair of scissors settled on the table at the chair opposite his. Then, his clippers.
Her boot slid around the leg o the chair, and in a neat motion, she spun it around, sitting in it backwards.
"What are you doin'?" he asked her, but she said nothing - nothing worth saying, at that point.
The only sound between them for a long moment was the sound of their breathing, the nearly-silent hiss of his cigarette burning between his lips, the thing that was helping him die.
She started to take her braids out.
They sat in silence, her fingers working - fingers that were rough and calloused, subtly stained with nicotine and too much grease from cars and cordite.
It took her a while and he didn't mind the quiet.
When she was done, it was nothing but kink after kink of dark hair, so brown it was nearly black - the color of good top soil.
"What are you don'?" he asked again, but she said nothing. Just smiled at him, as she started to gather her hair in her hands.
She suddenly looked young, her realized; like it was ten years ago and he was giving her a piggy back ride, the both of them sloppy drunk in the middle of the night, coming back from some bar. It was good to see her smile like that.
She hadn't done it in months.
Hair in her hand, she reached down for the scissors, lifting them.
"Madion," he said sharply, surprised that he still had that much bark left in him...but it didn't matter. With her, it rarely had, really: she'd always been stubborn, hard-headed, not willing to listen to him.
The scissors clicked atop the table and she set the handful of wild kinks on the table between them, before taking up the pair of clippers.
In mere seconds, the hair had been evened out, and now she had less hair than he had.
He couldn't quite recall the last time his throat had been that tight, that closed up, and this time, it wasn't because he was staring at a blank, empty ceiling at night, staring down his mortality. It wasn't because he was lonely or in pain or so unforgivingly tired.
She put the clippers down, one hand smoothing from the back of her head to the front, tiny, shorn-short hairs stirred up a moment, falling to the white of her wifebeater.
And after a moment, she reached out, taking the cigarette from his lips for a slow drag.
"These things'll kill you, yanno," she said, before giving it back to him, dark eyes half-masted and lazy, as they'd always been - even when he was at his worst, when he was furious with life, with everything, biting her head off because she was the only one there.
it's twenty degrees outside, and when he breathes into the air, the smoke spells sex.
but not the loving kind, the kind where taking a shower just isn't enough to get the smell of him off of me.
he's all wrapped up into disney movie, magic shit. when i know that he is just some dirty subliminal message, and i'll get sucked in.(but i'll tell myself it's not my fault, because my sub-conscious should be more aware, and i'll pinch myself to make sure i'm sleeping.)
i know that's not right. (anything to keep me asleep)
if and when he holds my hand he squeezes 3 times, and that means "i love you." and i am aware that i should squeeze back 3 times because that is just courteous to do. but for some reason i squeeze once, and that just means, "okay."
(there is this part of me that wishes my subconscious could catch onto bullshit, and i'd shove all the messages into a jar and make you eat the words you bury into my brain.)
it's the mistakes about you that are my favorite, your freckles and the gap between your two front teeth(you should have got that fixed). mostly it's the imperfect way i am reflected into your eyes, my face is all distorted, and my mouth is crooked, and bent.
(because you see me the way i really am, and no subliminal message can ever screw you into thinking anything different.)
Most tiresome and scintillating pathways Toward endlessly intoxicating lights, Glow longingly for better days, And the want of a nail for horseshoes rotten With the taste of blood and the steaming scent of regret. A purple eye and blood-stained thigh, And something better, maybe soon. A punctured heart and knotted veins, And telltale signs of wishful thinking For love in the morning, and the lights on at night.
Welcome to Rehab for Roleplayers, a series of articles aimed at helping roleplayers more successfully make the transition into writing fiction.
Introduction: How to Spot a Drow Illusionist
I can identify a habitual roleplayer from fifty paces. Those who've been spooked by my asking whether they're a roleplayer within ten seconds of reading their fiction will know what I'm talking about.
"But how did you know?" they gasp. When I'm done chuckling, I explain that I know they are a roleplayer, because they write like a roleplayer.
There's usually a pause, then, while the writer decides to what degree they're going to feel offended by this statement, and/or wonders whether I've been stalking them, before they pose the next question: "What, exactly, do you mean by that?"
What I mean is this: roleplayers almost invariably share the same basic writing habits, and some of these habits stand out as flaws in their non-RP material.
Many people develop their interest in writing via roleplay, and then a desire to write outside of that sphere as their RP skills grow past a certain point. The problem in transitioning from RP to fiction is that RP teaches people writing habits that simply don't wash in the real world of writing.
What makes these habits difficult to both identify and to shake is that they are generally learned by osmosis; the roleplayer does not deliberately or consciously learn them, but assimilates a set of habits over a period of time as they seek to become a better roleplayer, and strive to gain the esteem of their peers in the roleplay world.
The fact is, a great roleplayer does not need to be a great writer. While the best roleplayers are inherently, even obsessively, concerned with language, they still gain their successes in an area where the rules of publication-standard fiction do not apply.
In this series, I aim to help roleplayers identify these tell-tale habits so that they may, in doing so, eliminate those which are affecting their capacity to write fiction.
The language of RP is not the same as the language of fiction. The structure of a great RP is not the same as the structure of a novel or a short story. For the purpose of these articles, I have divided the relevant RP habits into two categories: language and structure.
In Part One, I'll begin the discussion of language, and identification of those RP habits which I have observed to be problematic in fiction.
her name is alice. there is a slight blood stain on the valley where her lips part, and her eyes are two supermassive black stars that can't show anything but hurt. she can't bring herself to look in the broken mirror puddles that are all over the ground.
(and i don't blame her)
she borrows her mother's raincoat because it smells like home. not the homes that are flooded with laundry soap or soft candles burning in the family room, but more like the paint she spilled on the carpet, or the whiskey on her father's breath.
(and sometimes, she swears she can smell her mother's sadness.)
when alice was little she remembers playing freeze tag with her mother. she remembers feeling anxious, and now she feels sick. "if daddy touches you, stay still, and don't make a sound."
(alice is the best at being numb.)
alice plays the piano, and the sounds are broken, and slow. sometimes she plays to the beating of her heart, irregular things are what she loves, like tracing the lines in the wall where she counted the days she was alive.
(a black cloud covers my heart at night, and eats through my soul, and when i wake up, i feel sick, and scared, and at night, i cry before i go to sleep. and all i want is the moonlight to pass over my skin and help me know that i'm alive, just one more night.)