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Angstbucket Edgelord Captain
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 Posted: Tue Jul 31, 2012 3:40 am
>>> Truth Be Told
by PoppiHollaPuddelz for Juliet-in-Black
The Konoha dawn was no fiery, vibrant affair – just a lone gray wisp of twisted-rope cloud seemed to highlight the shadowy shape of an azure sun. The dark-haired girl could feel a decidedly autumn-toned breath on the wind, a hint of beginnings and endings. Autumn was, for Hinata, a new point on the circle of life. A time for goodbyes, a time for greetings. A bittersweet, melancholy melody, foreshadowing possible hope.
A spectre had joined her on the brink of the earth, his hard black silhouette outlined on the horizon as winds whipped his clothes awry. She didn’t even have to taste the faint, acrid regret like an afterthought to know instinctively just who he was. Always the afterthought. The careless, too-late, blush-inducing impulse that swept a heatwave along her body.
Too late.
Well, there's always next time.
Too many times.
Too many weak, weak, unsuccessful attempts.
Flashback, if you will, to an earlier time. Where the fuzzy childhood impressions ended and the sharper, defined memories seamlessly caught on, Hinata remembered the stern looks, the confident stances and voices.
From all but herself.
As the heir of the Hyuuga clan's main branch, there was always the impassiveness. Coolly in control, unflinching from dangers and threats.
That was her father.
It was Neji Hyuuga.
It wasn't her.
Of course, they'd tried.
Pushed a glittering set of kunai into her frail hands at the age of three.
Surrounded her with the best of the best - jonin instructors came and went, and Hinata never learned a single thing.
And yet, for all the preparations and strict encouragement, she'd never been prepared.
And so, with her naive smile and open heart, she'd ventured into the world of genin. Leaves danced by, flowers glowed and branches made disapproving tut-tut-tut motions at her.
There was big world and little Hinata. There was also Sasuke Uchiha.
Tut-tut-tut. You aren't ready, my girl.
Sure enough, she wasn't.
On that fateful summer's day, the air was salt-drenched with notes of sea, a brief foreshadow of what was to come. She heard the names being announced.
Naruto.
Sakura.
Sasuke.
And just like that, Hinata's heart gave a stutter.
It was stone-cold and silent in the room.
A million female eyes stared daggers at the lucky pinkette who had claimed the ultimate - a place next to him.
Her thoughts warred, a clamouring, noisy group of children.
Naruto. Sasuke. Naruto.
The blonde boy was easy to love.
The dark-haired male was easy to adore.
"H...hinata?"
Amidst the thoughts, his face loomed clear. Sasuke's lips formed the word, a slap back to reality for the hapless, lovestruck fool of a girl.
But he had stuttered.
Now, Hinata could only wait, and wonder if his heart had done so as well.
Love, at a glance, was a supremely weak and useless thing.
Not a even a thing. A concept, that by all rights, seemed nonsensical to Sasuke.
Well, that was justified, given his past and childhood. Not even with a blonde, perpetually esctatic frenemy could Sasuke learn about the comradeship that had brought his village so far.
Now, love was only one part of the perceived weakness. Indecision and lack of confidence were present as attitudes to be scorned and avoided too.
And Hinata Hyuuga, the very personification of such weakness?
She was a fool and an easy target.
On the first day, he hadn't noticed her, silent and unimportant as she was.
Nor on the first week.
Or the first month.
In fact, it wasn't until Iruka-sensei's sick day that Sasuke realised the presence of the little dark-haired kunoichi.
The replacement was an imbecile. A useless, bumbling fool who had no right to command a classroom of eager students. Suffice to say, he was not half the shinobi that Iruka was, and barely up to standard as a chunin.
And of course, he struggled with the names of all present.
"Hyuuga Hinata?"
There was no response, none that he could hear anyways.
There was the general craning of necks, a snickering from the obnoxious side of the class, and uninterested glances.
He wasn't interested.
Until his brain processed the word "Hyuuga".
Now, Sasuke had to remind himself that the idiot of a teacher had every reason to stumble over the illustrious clan name. The Hyuugas were a clan as famous - or infamous - in Konoha as his own, maybe even more so. The two clan with mystical Kekkei Genkai and a silent, all-pervading strength.
This was the one clan that his family had never failed to verbally abuse, perhaps of the very reason that they were on par with his own clan.
A frightening enough thought, but the girl was something else.
Their first real meeting would have been the night just before he had left. Like a worthless fugitive, now that he looked back, and yet so poignant, so important.
It was one of the best memories he had ever - or would ever - have. Though the thought of escape had been in his mind for countless years already, Sasuke Uchiha had never felt more at home.
He was watching her watching the sunset, and for a moment, all was well. The light was enticing, as if begging him for a moment to stay.
To rethink his decision.
And it was all because of her.
Silent, breathless wonder at the sky. It was ebbing and flowing, painting a new, brighter day into the heavens.
A one-day delay.
He hadn't known, however, that she had known.
Felt his invisible, brimming presence.
And she couldn't know, however, that he now knew.
Watching him, watching her.
"Hinata."
His voice didn't tremble this time.
Her heart didn't waver.
He held his hand out to her - a strong, steady grip.
She held his gaze - a long, steady stare.
And yet, for all the outward calmness and serenity, both hearts were stuttering in a disjointed, sporadic, erratic dance.
They met in the middle, in the dead centre of acres of wind-blown territory and the silent dawn. There was something quite magical about the unsual silence and clandestine nature of it.
And now, staring straight into a pair of gemstone-white eyes, Sasuke finally managed to fathom the delicate tenderness that was love.
Truth be told, there wasn't a single trace of weakness in her eyes.
1054/1000
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Posted: Wed Aug 01, 2012 10:33 am
>>> A Faun's Footsteps
by PoppiHollaPuddelz for Dax the Hero
There was rough bark and fading starlight, and the nocturnal hum of the forest edge.
There was a rosy fireball in the sky, and the cacophony - monotony of human life.
There was faun, and there was endless green.
Among the speckled emerald, dappled shades danced. They were muted, barely visible to his eyes, not to mention a human's.
There was no question whatsoever. He was a faun, and proud. He set himself apart from the humans, lounged in the lofty rafters of branches and laughed from the heights. He scorned the strict, everyday rules of a society.
It was a little risky, maybe. Perhaps illegal. Certainly not mundane.
And he was content.
For now.
And as it always happens, change came about.
It crept along. It idled in the short, hot daylight hours and lingered on the silver tips of moonlight.
It hovered, danced in circles to the clear, reedy melody of his tapping fingers, whispered out on a careless breath. Glimmers moved about the trees, weaving and ducking through the maze of foliage.
A knowing smile. A glint of the eyes.
Wood elves and humans, fauns and men.
What defined them?
Head against rock, eyes filled with starlight, Timanthes dropped his flute and mused aloud to the night sky.
It occurred to him, then, that the moon that smiled down at him was the same silent guardian of the humans. Two peoples with a shared sky.
What if?
Why not?
Suppose, now, that the faun dared venture out of his forest.
Yes, that was quite a tempting thought. Timanthes was curious, filled with an utterly flaming desire to see, hear. To know the humans.
To walk the footsteps of a stranger...
And so away he went, tracing the heavy human footsteps deep into town.
303/300
9300g [300w+OC]
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Angstbucket Edgelord Captain
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Angstbucket Edgelord Captain
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Posted: Wed Aug 01, 2012 8:11 pm
>>>The Road to Ohio
by PoppiHollaPuddelz for thewoundedangel#2
They say life’s a journey, and that it’s the trip that matters.
But personally, I quite like the destination.
It’s the destination I’m going for, with all my wishes and fears pinned on a single, nebulous hope.
I’ve thought about it many times.
If that one destination fails, if that light at the end of my dark tunnel flickers out, I’ll have nothing.
But I digress.
And I’ve made it through quite nicely so far, haven’t I?
It was hard to say what the twin expressions of apathy masked on the road to Ohio. Autumn would have affirmed that both their thoughts converged at a single point – the future. On that tremulous note, their hearts were fluttering weakly in their chests and sightless eyes stared.
Dissecting the environment.
Blindly struggling into the unknown.
Whether they saw the sights will remain a mystery. The miles of clear blue sky flashed past, over hedges of green speckled with an occasional sun-browned slab of concrete. Speed was exhilarating, but Autumn felt nothing of it.
John Doe sat still and silent in the seat beside her. Pondering. Obervant.
The one thing Autumn would pride herself on was her boundless hope. She felt the sun-warmed air like trails of liquid gold on her and her immobile companion – tasted notes of her namesake on the crisp air.
Winter was coming.
Soon, they’d both feel alive again.
Dear John.
Dear Victor. Just what are you thinking?
Could you spare a thought for me?
The speedometer trailed, stuttered. Roads ceased to flash by at breathless speeds, and Autumn's wandering eyes came to a complete standstill. Synonymous with the car.
"Victor?"
No response.
Well, how utterly unexpected.
She reached a tentative frail hand out, surprised that he let it stay.
"Victor...I do wish we could confide in each other some-"
"Understand, Autumn, that we'll never be the same. I'm beyond repair. Missing the crucial parts. You, however..."
His hair glowed the white-blond of a halo in the sun. If anyone were missing a soul, it couldn't, wouldn't be him.
It couldn’t hurt to try again, could it?
At least, that’s what Autumn thought.
“Victor…”
That endless note of longing, sorrow, and dependence etched into the creased syllables of a word.
Victor…
Why won’t you tell me?
Why can’t we try.
And a tiny, hidden, grudging truth.
I desperately need you.
And you need me too.
She saw, belatedly, the harsh angles of his face. Closed-off eyes. Blank expression.
“Let’s just leave it at that, Autumn.”
When she refused to move, he did it for her, spurring the car into action. Autumn grasped the steering wheel with a hidden desperation, feeling his hands – blocks of ice, cut into her fingers.
He was sliding, sliding away into the rough darkness ahead.
Leaving her behind.
She could only hope, to see him again as she had at first, somewhere on the long road to forever.
493/500
13k+600 [2OC's]
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Posted: Thu Aug 02, 2012 6:48 am
<<>><<< Airplanes>>>
Bright lights, a city hums.
You see the bright streaks of traffic along clandestine midnight roads.
They flash by, detuned. Deformed.
For a moment, you think every earthbound soul along that speck of concrete could step into light speed - drift for a moment . . .
but they can't.
The rythym grows more insistent. So eerie. So uncanny.
So unnatural.
It's there, reflected forever in a glass-and-steel web.
But your gaze remains, lingering a moment longer. Two, three . . .
It swoops out heavenward, almost imperceptible in the darkness.
What is it?
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Angstbucket Edgelord Captain
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Angstbucket Edgelord Captain
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Posted: Sun Aug 05, 2012 8:59 am
>>> Penny for your thoughts?
by PoppiHollaPuddelz for riot on the road
Rowan Vicente, the child of filth.
A paragon of perfection and order, born of the lowest of the low.
It gives me just the tiniest inkling of amusement when I think of how others must see me.
Inhuman?
Quite possibly.
Give me a world, and I’ve seen it all before.
Give me a stale silence of an austere, white-bleached detention facility and I’ve walked those very halls.
Low-class, a face among millions to the glory of recognition.
Filth to filth.
Rising among the faceless ranks to new fame.
I suppose that should make me happy.
In all truthfulness, it does not.
There is myself, and there is this war-ravished place. There is work to be done, and done well and efficiently.
It makes perfect sense, does it not?
We’ve all dabbled in flirtation.
Grudging respect. Hopeful, eager compliments tossed about to test a stoic eye.
I’ll concede that it’s effective, to some extent.
Though you can make it to the top, don’t hope to breathe a sigh, secure in your throne.
They’ll come.
All hell will break loose, intent on toppling your seat of power.
For me, it’s a mere trifle.
Let them come.
But let me send my condolences to those who tricked their way to the top.
The eye of heaven spares no-one.
With a bird’s-eye view, you can divide the world.
Unlike the stark black-and-white, myopic view of many others, I see the shades.
Grey. Silver. Dark tar-black.
Waving. Ebbing. Flowing.
Do you know the beauty of ink diffusing in a crystal-clear glass?
See the twisting, curling, splatter-marks on the faces of men?
It’s what I come across every day.
This said, I must acknowledge the discrepancies in the lines that are justice.
If you’d like to be pedantic, I’ll have you hear this:
Strict performance of moral obligations.
A definition.
Why do we limit ourselves so pointlessly this way?
They speak, I follow.
It’s the simplest way to be rational.
A blank slate. Input your commands.
That’s why humans are such trouble.
We all have the rules. Just throw in some emotions, and you have it.
Utter chaos.
But for all my words, I am human.
We all are.
There is a capacity in me to feel, to think.
A thought-jarring, menacing, personal Pandora’s box, if you will.
The pressure amounts, and is ever-expanding.
Count to three.
Feel the dulcet bell-tones escaping the gaping fissure.
Let a smidgen of building pressure escape.
And taste the bittersweetness of unshed tears on your stone heart.
Maybe it’s better not to think.
Perhaps it is the answer.
Quiet the cries of outrage.
I may yet be proved false.
Calm the wailing of a screaming heart.
Blind myself to the sights of the innocent.
But for now, I’m incapable of it.
And in the future?
Only time will tell.
Give me your thoughts, and I’ll return more than a penny.
I swear it.
I’ll show you something, to make you change your mind.
493/500
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Posted: Mon Aug 06, 2012 7:43 am
Mother
once spoke of springdrops -
tingling, brimming, bursting,
a speckled diamond explosion
awash on her tongue
with bright
flavours.
Father
once told me of cocoa -
wooden, stolid, solid,
a mute inexplicable aftertaste
dribbling sweet whispers
in silent
streams.
I
recount to the cold night air -
regretful, yearning, unrepentant,
a ghostly contradictory smile
throwing wondrous shades
on cracked
teeth.
owo the dangers of candy!
[size=10]Mother
once spoke of springdrops -
tingling, brimming, bursting,
a speckled diamond explosion
awash on her tongue
with bright
flavours.
Father
once told me of cocoa -
wooden, stolid, solid,
a mute inexplicable aftertaste
dribbling sweet whispers
in silent
streams.
I
recount to the cold night air -
regretful, yearning, unrepentant,
a ghostly contradictory smile
throwing wondrous shades
on cracked
teeth.
[color=lawngreen]owo the dangers of candy![/color][/size]
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Angstbucket Edgelord Captain
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Angstbucket Edgelord Captain
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Posted: Mon Aug 06, 2012 9:59 am
[ϟ Tнє fяєё-fоґ-all] [affґaу]ϟ[Ьяоїl]ϟ[dоииувґоок]ϟ[fґaca$]ϟ[fґaу]ϟ[мêléє]ϟ[яоцgн-aиd-тцмвlє]ϟ[ґош]ϟ[ґцcкц$]ϟ[ґцcтїои]
: a competition, dispute, or fight open to all comers and usually with no rules
[Hёґё'$ тнє dєal]
ϟ1] Tʜᴇ TᴏS - ɪᴛ's ᴜɴᴀᴠᴏɪᴅᴀʙʟᴇ.
ϟ2] Aɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ-ʀᴇʟᴀᴛᴇᴅ ɢᴏᴇs. Aɴʏ ɢᴇɴʀᴇ, Aɴʏ sᴛʏʟᴇ ᴏʀ ғᴏʀᴍ.
ϟЗ] Sᴘᴇʟʟᴄʜᴇᴄᴋ. Pʀᴏᴏғʀᴇᴀᴅ. Tʀʏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙᴇsᴛ.
ϟ4] Oʀ ғᴀᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʀᴀᴛʜ/ᴍᴏᴄᴋᴇʀʏ ᴏғ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀs ᴡʜᴏ ᴠɪsɪᴛ ᴛʜɪs ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴅ.
ϟ5] CᴏɴCʀɪᴛ ɪs ᴅᴇsɪʀᴇᴅ, ɴᴏᴛ ғᴜʟʟ-ʙʟᴏᴡɴ ɪɴsᴜʟᴛs ᴀɴᴅ ғʟᴀᴍɪɴɢ.
ϟ6] Bᴇ ʀᴇsᴘᴏɴsɪʙʟᴇ ғᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴡᴏʀᴋ. Sʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴍɪsᴜɴᴅᴇʀsᴛᴀɴᴅɪɴɢs/ᴅɪsᴀɢʀᴇᴇᴍᴇɴᴛs ᴏᴄᴄᴜʀ, ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴠᴏ ᴛᴏ PM's.
ϟ7] Lɪɴᴋs ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴅᴠᴇʀᴛɪsɪɴɢ ɪs ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ. Sᴘᴀᴍ ɪs ɴᴏᴛ.
ϟ8] Fᴇᴇʟ ғʀᴇᴇ ᴛᴏ sᴜɢɢᴇsᴛ ɪᴅᴇᴀs/ᴀᴄᴛɪᴠɪᴛᴇs.
ϟ9] Fʀɪᴇɴᴅʟʏ ʙᴀɴᴛᴇʀ, ʀᴏʟᴇᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏɴᴠᴇʀsᴀᴛɪᴏɴs ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡᴇᴅ.
ϟ10] Rᴜʟᴇs ᴀʀᴇ sᴜʙᴊᴇᴄᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇ.
[Tнє pёи ї$ мїgнтїёя тнaй тнё gоddaми $шояd]
This is a thread that encompasses all things writing-related. Post any of your works here, for ConCrit, feedback, or even get it sold! It's all up to you. Prices? Your call.
You're limited only by your imagination, morals, and, well, maybe your ability.
So get writing!
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Posted: Wed Aug 08, 2012 9:34 am
 ❋xᴏ ɴ . ᴡ ɪ ɴ ɢxx
{⚔} {⚑} {⚖} {⚓}
ᴡ ɪ ᴛ ʜ . ᴛ ʜ ᴇ . ᴄ ʀ ᴏ ᴡ s
xxx|| |[ a к a и є . c н ї у о к о ]||| | | |
Then came the silence that was the calm before the storm. Akane had seen it all before - a room turbulent with emotions, warring states of belief and deep cynicism rooted in lack of faith in that which could not be quantified and defined within their human knowledge. Whipping wind-words, harsh tempests of flowing tirades.
Though she'd wanted to avoid a confrontation, Akane almost expected one. Then there was the matter of personal space, the clash of personalities, and whatever rain of troubles the humans could bring. Teru would be comfortable enough with the attention of the girl, Nikolai eager for new friends, and Michiko too kindly to turn them down, though Inoue seemed frosty enough to count her vote for disapproval. All in all, not a very pleasant thought, but Akane didn't quite feel like throwing them out. Not yet.
Soon, they'd be demanding proof - like they'd demand tricks of a circus animal on display for mockery from the world. There was no telling how the others would react, but she herself would refuse. Akane had realised early on, even as a lesser spirit, that no amount of demonstration and proof could convince the most disbelieving of humans. It was then that they would cling onto their rationality and deny anything threating a safe, sheltered world. Those were the worst, and they were far beyond help.
Feeling the flow of spirits still thick and tense around the house, Akane decided to take her leave and check on the Gate, and was only reminded by a faint burst of Nikolai's laughter that the more mischevious ones among the yokai could disrupt the delicate meeting. Guided again by her senses, she vaulted out an open window, following the sweet, bright morning air and dust-notes higher up the gradient. Grass was young and tender under her feet, interspersed by rough patches of sun-warmed stone. Almost a mile on, she turned a sharp right. Here the earth's humming was faster and more insistent, almost like a heartbeat that was the River of Light.
Under the shade of a nearby tree, Akane sat and listened to the chatter of idle yokai around her. Many from the house had joined her, and were currently swirling around in a multicoloured discord around her, seeking their direction through the gate and generally wreaking havoc. A few stray crows that circled the higher-up atmosphere of Mononoke mountain joined the influx of spirits, almost breaking the barrier between worlds. Akane supposed there was a reason for the supposed link between crows and death, since both were objects of human fear and scrutiny. What most didn't realise that the yokai themselves played a gigantic role in their daily affairs.
A cacophony near the gate broke into her thoughts, and a rush of crows swirled a vortex into the sky, breaking away from the fray. Akane was now aware of a looming presence spanning the distance of the gate wall, forcing its way into this world.
A hand on the burning red-brick, crumbling wall. Just as the huge bake-mono twisted free of the gate, Akane moved backwards, feeling the overpowering bloodlust directed at the newly-healed scar from her accident.
||||| | || | | || | | | || `█|
*}||But Crow Crow
Crow nailed them together, - - - [`❁]
N.a.i.l.i.n.g. [ h e a v e n ]&&& /- e a r t h - together
❋ ❋ ❋ ❋ ❋ ❋ ❋
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Angstbucket Edgelord Captain
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Angstbucket Edgelord Captain
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Posted: Thu Aug 09, 2012 4:05 am
>>> Snow Flowers
by PoppiHollaPuddelz for Prince Ciel
The child had noticed, increasingly as he became older, the common usage of the word “morbid” around him. More often than not, it had been linked – strung along a sentence with the word “curiousity”. Quite curious indeed.
Gabi, or, Viv, as Roma would often call him, was largely adept at being the agreeable little child he seemed. Even the nickname, which smacked of rebellion and revolution, was shortened to a monosyllabic, common call.
Roma understood him – understood his preference for silence, and for the sweet, musical night air over the stoic façade shown to most other grown-ups.
She was curious, as he was, about the grave-digging.
She was not obnoxious, or contemptuous, or scornful.
She did not use that hateful, hateful word : morbid.
In her words: Adults often need the advice and guidance of a child.
One winter’s evening, Viv had taken her by the hand. A brother to a sister, or a father to a child – and led her to the graveyard. Just beyond a little strip of raw brick wall, an unkempt tangle of green spanned the world outside. Inside quarantine borders, they were supposedly safe.
Out there in the wastelands, they were not.
As he stood silhouetted against the beautiful frost-crystals in the sky, Viv smiled.
The grave-digger, the shadow of the dark. The burier. The grim reaper on earth. Backlit with the last rays of cold sun, he began his work, Roma watching in surprise.
There was a tenderness in the way the boy gripped the corpse, a profound hope and simultaneous savagery with which he chipped at the crusted dirt.
He seemed to be wheedling, begging, threatening the earth to give up the secrets of its very core.
In the event of snow, you must make sure you use a good shovel. You must dig deep; you cannot be…
As for Viv himself, he buried them with the sentiments one would associate with an old friend, or a wise, respected man.
They were old friends.
They’d fought and died alongside Viv, in the invisible war against the Disease, as well as the visible, unavoidable one.
They hadn’t mocked him, interrupted, or patronized. Only sat, listened, and contemplated.
They were wise and respected.
They’d kept him company in the frosty fields, taught him to stay calm.
It was, for Roma, a snowflake kaleidoscope into Bambi’s unknown, decidedly melancholy past.
And from the teachings laced with fingers of ice, Roma watched her little boy grow.
Pointless. Futile.
Viv had often mumbled the words to himself to the rhythmic slashings of the shovel – at times it became almost a mantra.
Lost, cold, and wet. A little boy hardened beyond his years was out where no living soul was, digging graves. Digging into the superfluous past. Digging into the bleak future.
Digging to his own demise.
At one time, the sheer wonder of thin ice had stopped him in the monotony of putting the souls to endless sleep. The ice flowers creeped, entombing corpses on their own. A web of crystal spanned the fields, turning mounds of dusty earth into diamond heaps.
"Do you like the cold, then?"
A remark carelessly tossed out into the frozen air.
Only Viv could understand the unspoken assent of the ones around him.
"Me too. I won't be getting cold feet about burying you guys anytime soon."
His crinkled-nose laugh echoed around in circles, and at that moment, he truly didn't want to break his promise. For his aching legs and frozen appendages, Viv wanted to be the burier of the dead, the nameless face of death itself until he was taken.
In due time, the pointlessness came back to haunt Viv. A boy with no fear of death, with a fear of wasting his life.
In due time, he came to think: The sheer numbers are frightening.
One last goodbye, a last grip of the eyes. Viv bowed, clumsy, akward, to the corpses before him.
So many friends to leave behind.
So many memories, and lessons learnt, and childhood bantering.
Know that I hate to leave you, and to break my promise to you on that clear winter's day. But understand that you are, after all, dead - and I am alive. I'll cherish the memories, and someday, we'll meet again.
Only reluctantly did he take his shovel with him, receding into the darkness with hope in his mind and ice on his tongue.
Many years later, Viv saw the snow flowers in a flurry outside the musty glass again.
Turning. Revolving with the agonizingly slow motion of a clock, or a funeral knoll.
Then he knew.
Roma, the kindest person he’d met, was among his fallen friends.
Sprawled out in the glittering cold, a snow angel.
It was far too late, too hopeless for hurrying now.
Taking up his shovel again was a hard thing to do.
Like a retired man long out of his profession, there was the initial loss.
Stings of rusty agony coloured the darkness ahead.
It was almost a strict replay of the night when Roma had ventured a little deeper into the dark crevices of his past. And she was there, unmoving, not questioning, and curious as ever. As before, her Bambi took her by the hand.
I’ll show you something, Roma. Something new.
It was a little too poignant to be labeled déjà vu. The stars twinkling a sweet symphony in the blazing sky above had a humbling effect on the boy and his motionless companion, and under the cold reaches of moonlight, Viv began to to chip away.
So loving. So precise.
And in the dying light, he breathed out a sigh of reverence.
She was as beautiful in death as she had been in life.
Persevering. Strong, wise, and gentle.
Morbidly beautiful.
/1000
17k+300
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Posted: Tue Aug 14, 2012 5:41 am
>>> Of macarons and mille-feuillesby PoppiHollaPuddelz for Keeta Silverman This one’s for all the little lost girls of the world. I believe that every child can have her fluffy-cotton clouds and gumdrop rainbow skies, even if there is a large price to pay in between the jump. Take it from little old me, who has done it all and seen it all before. It took me fifteen years, up and down yellow brick roads to wonderland, back through dim, back-lit tunnels of despair and meadows of green. Fifteen years of searching, of flickering hope and dreams just within grasp.
Success stories are many a time dismissed, because they occur so few and far between in this cynical world. For me, the illusion was dispelled at four years, breaking my thoughts into broken-pastry crumbs while my schoolmates still lived in sweet, sweet innocence. I wish my childhood would have lasted a bit longer, and that my parents would have let me taste a few more mundane sunsets and lazy weekend with them, even if the memories would only be justified in dusty reminiscences. Nevertheless, I’ve made my own childhood, and enjoyed quite a bit of it too.
Holidays were in France, and France was home. To speak like a foreigner in those picturesque side streets, and take wondering second glances at the quaint boutiques – surely that alone marked me a tourist. I would wander the d’Alembert, the Gassendi, the names on the tip of my tongue and that full-throated accent, so peculiar to English schoolgirls, hovering in my voice. My world was not one of macarons and mille-feuilles- though they later came into my repertoire – but of puddings and tarts and trifles.
My fairy godmother came at age thirteen, in the form of the kindly, patient, Monsieur Bonheur. He was the family cook, and a second father, a friend, and a brother to me. Not for a moment have I considered his name a mere coincidence – translated literally (and not quite correctly), it means good time, or good hour, and as I later found out, the correct meaning was lucky charm. Not that Monsieur Bonheur could quite be defined within a single description – or even two, but bon-bons, the French word for sweets, fit his personality to the letter.
The first days back home were bittersweet – bitter with the broken promises that trailed their way through halls and empty bedrooms from the letter my parents had sent, and sweet as the cookie dough, raw sugar crystals and bonbons on their way from Monsieur Bonheur’s thoughts, to the table, to the kitchen counter to my own hands. The hours flew by then, and we’d spend long hours inhaling the rising golden mess in the oven, head to toe in a silken sheen of flour. The first time was disastrous, with me leaving chocolaty paintings on blank-slate tiles, drawing a future for myself. Monsieur Bonheur firmly but politely refused to clean my end of the mess.
Do not bite off more than you can chew, and finish what you have started, were his wise words for me.
So it was sullenly and unwillingly that I went back to school. Just before the joyless plane ride, Monsieur Bonheur amended his motto: “Do not bite off more than you can chew, unless your friends are there to help.” This said, he handed me a gigantic box and bade me farewell, reminding me not to look until my friends were present to clean up the contents. Four hours later, all that was left of the box of éclairs were the fading chocolate stains and the lingering sweetness of France, of home, and of a friend.
Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down. This time, English customs were laced with a little bit of home. Unappetising as school dinners were, the desserts were undoubtedly brilliant, though they still paled in comparison to those legendary Bonheur éclairs. Life is lackluster without entertainment, and all the more so without good food. This I firmly believed in, and didn’t hesitate to join my school’s cooking club. The puddings and tarts were all well and good for a beginner, though often too heavy and none too delicate in presentation. I was aiming for something a little more light, something a little more French.
Just for memories, I started with éclairs. Cookbooks are widely available, but to really set your creations apart from the rest, experience is invaluable. Like a link back to home, little quirks began to pepper my way with the pastries. A twist of cinnamon, a dash of Bon-bon-style caramel. Suffice to say, it was a great hit.
Oh sweet goodness, the next few years of school life were a treat, interspersed with the good, the bad, and everything in between. I’d frequent the kitchen, take a stroll around the local bakeries and cakeries, swap recipes with anyone and everyone, and buy and sell goods. Best of all were the cake trades between our school’s cooking club and another school’s club nearby, and it was then that I truly believed in a lemon-meringue utopia with cream skies, where all of mankind would lounge around under a shared sky and a shared love for all things sweet – to just enjoy, and just be.
Though that utopia was never to exist in perfect entirety, I’ve found my own slice of heaven (if you’ll excuse the pun) in my very own bakery. It’s a place of memories, childhood baking accidents, accumulated flour stains and rising gooey messes in the oven and a place to have a good time. It’s that halfway place between home and heaven, and a whiff back to French streets in a British neighbourhood. A place of bon-bons, faded photographs and letters gone stale, a place where you can sit and have a generous portion of reflections on life, served with a light dash of syrup.
Six years on from my dream’s beginnings and spurred on endlessly by a certain lucky charm, I’m proud to declare that I’ve finally finished what I have started.
999/1000
[size=15][color=silver]>[/color][color=lightgrey]>[/color][color=grey]> Of macarons and mille-feuilles[/size][/color]
[size=8][color=powderblue]by PoppiHollaPuddelz[/color] [color=lightpink]for Keeta Silverman[/color][/size]
[size=10][i]This one’s for all the little lost girls of the world. I believe that every child can have her fluffy-cotton clouds and gumdrop rainbow skies, even if there is a large price to pay in between the jump. Take it from little old me, who has done it all and seen it all before. It took me fifteen years, up and down yellow brick roads to wonderland, back through dim, back-lit tunnels of despair and meadows of green. Fifteen years of searching, of flickering hope and dreams just within grasp.[/i]
Success stories are many a time dismissed, because they occur so few and far between in this cynical world. For me, the illusion was dispelled at four years, breaking my thoughts into broken-pastry crumbs while my schoolmates still lived in sweet, sweet innocence. I wish my childhood would have lasted a bit longer, and that my parents would have let me taste a few more mundane sunsets and lazy weekend with them, even if the memories would only be justified in dusty reminiscences. Nevertheless, I’ve made my own childhood, and enjoyed quite a bit of it too.
Holidays were in France, and France was home. To speak like a foreigner in those picturesque side streets, and take wondering second glances at the quaint boutiques – surely that alone marked me a tourist. I would wander the [i]d’Alembert[/i], the [i]Gassendi[/i], the names on the tip of my tongue and that full-throated accent, so peculiar to English schoolgirls, hovering in my voice. My world was not one of [i]macarons[/i] and [i] mille-feuilles[/i]- though they later came into my repertoire – but of puddings and tarts and trifles.
My fairy godmother came at age thirteen, in the form of the kindly, patient, [i]Monsieur Bonheur[/i]. He was the family cook, and a second father, a friend, and a brother to me. Not for a moment have I considered his name a mere coincidence – translated literally (and not quite correctly), it means [i]good time[/i], or good hour, and as I later found out, the correct meaning was [i]lucky charm[/i]. Not that [i]Monsieur Bonheur[/i] could quite be defined within a single description – or even two, but [i]bon-bons[/i], the French word for sweets, fit his personality to the letter.
The first days back home were bittersweet – bitter with the broken promises that trailed their way through halls and empty bedrooms from the letter my parents had sent, and sweet as the cookie dough, raw sugar crystals and [i]bonbons[/i] on their way from [i]Monsieur Bonheur’s[/i] thoughts, to the table, to the kitchen counter to my own hands. The hours flew by then, and we’d spend long hours inhaling the rising golden mess in the oven, head to toe in a silken sheen of flour. The first time was disastrous, with me leaving chocolaty paintings on blank-slate tiles, drawing a future for myself. [i]Monsieur Bonheur[/i] firmly but politely refused to clean my end of the mess.
[i]Do not bite off more than you can chew, and finish what you have started,[/i] were his wise words for me.
So it was sullenly and unwillingly that I went back to school. Just before the joyless plane ride, [i]Monsieur Bonheur[/i] amended his motto: [b]“Do not bite off more than you can chew, unless your friends are there to help.”[/b] This said, he handed me a gigantic box and bade me farewell, reminding me not to look until my friends were present to clean up the contents. Four hours later, all that was left of the box of éclairs were the fading chocolate stains and the lingering sweetness of France, of home, and of a friend.
[i]Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down.[/i] This time, English customs were laced with a little bit of home. Unappetising as school dinners were, the desserts were undoubtedly brilliant, though they still paled in comparison to those legendary [i]Bonheur[/i] éclairs. Life is lackluster without entertainment, and all the more so without good food. This I firmly believed in, and didn’t hesitate to join my school’s cooking club. The puddings and tarts were all well and good for a beginner, though often too heavy and none too delicate in presentation. I was aiming for something a little more light, something a little more [i]French[/i].
Just for memories, I started with éclairs. Cookbooks are widely available, but to really set your creations apart from the rest, experience is invaluable. Like a link back to home, little quirks began to pepper my way with the pastries. A twist of cinnamon, a dash of [i]Bon-bon[/i]-style caramel. Suffice to say, it was a great hit.
Oh sweet goodness, the next few years of school life were a treat, interspersed with the good, the bad, and everything in between. I’d frequent the kitchen, take a stroll around the local bakeries and [i]cakeries[/i], swap recipes with anyone and everyone, and buy and sell goods. Best of all were the cake trades between our school’s cooking club and another school’s club nearby, and it was then that I truly believed in a lemon-meringue utopia with cream skies, where all of mankind would lounge around under a shared sky and a shared love for all things sweet – to just enjoy, and just [i]be[/i].
Though that utopia was never to exist in perfect entirety, I’ve found my own slice of heaven (if you’ll excuse the pun) in my very own bakery. It’s a place of memories, childhood baking accidents, accumulated flour stains and rising gooey messes in the oven and a place to have a good time. It’s that halfway place between home and heaven, and a whiff back to French streets in a British neighbourhood. A place of [i]bon-bons[/i], faded photographs and letters gone stale, a place where you can sit and have a generous portion of reflections on life, served with a light dash of syrup.
Six years on from my dream’s beginnings and spurred on endlessly by a certain [i]lucky charm[/i], I’m proud to declare that I’ve finally finished what I have started.
[/size]
Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it~ Again, I must complement the music choice ;3
Could you please leave a comment in the shop thread? Customer's feedback is always invaluable <3
xPoppi
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Angstbucket Edgelord Captain
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Angstbucket Edgelord Captain
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Posted: Mon Sep 10, 2012 2:51 pm
>>> Frosting Wings
by PoppiHollaPuddelz for Violet_Dusk
After much thought, she finally realised.
Hope, for her, was contained in the paper-crisp, whisper-soft folds of old dresses, woven into the history of fabric. Hope was icing, fluffy and snowflake-sweet on a fresh sponge cake. Hope was a slice of blazing sky.
And Sorrell was a crawling midget of a bug.
Mirelda supposed that it was human instinct, to crush bugs. There was just something that oozed utter repulsiveness from the little critters, almost a giant invitation to kill. A taunt. Imagine a clear day, with glowing azure sky, too-emerald grass laid out on a softly rolling hill. There had to be a whole crowd of every imaginable type of insect to ruin the scene - such were her memories of some of the first picnics she had had.
Even now - breathing in the sweetness of browning cookies in her oven and feeling a soft brush of heat near her hand, Mirelda felt the ghostly fleet-footed brush of something. Shivering to herself, the girl expertly flipped a baker's dozen worth of steaming cookies onto a cooling rack and examined her hands.
Nothing.
Paranoia, then?
Fluttering her fingers in a rippling wave, she willed the crowd of imaginary winged critters to disperse. Good riddance.
A sharp waft of cinnamon caught Mirelda's attention then, and she turned to take a tentative bite of the extra cookie. Lucky number thirteen - always there in case of a slip-up or just to see if they tasted good.
And taste good they did.
Maybe even to bugs.
Nothing in the world smelled quite like an extra serving of dedication and passion-swirled frosting, a mellow golden from the heat. That was exactly why Mirelda's bakery was the best in town - and even possibly the country, she'd wager.
The doorbell chimed with delight, borne on gossamer wings. She stopped short. Two small figures tripped in blithely, paper wads clutched in tiny, entangled hands, faces alight with cherubic smiles. Adorable.
The boy walked up to the counter with a braggart's smile and a swagger that would have been insulting, had it not been so endearing.
"What can I get you, sweetie?"
"I wan' the best cake, for my girlfwend!"
He cast a gaze around the bakery imperiously, roving gaze finally resting on a rainbow-hued cupcake.
"That one."
There was a hint of amusement in his eyes to go with the whipped-frosting smile.
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Posted: Fri Sep 14, 2012 2:00 pm
- ▋▋▋▋.- - ▋- ▋ ❥ -▋▋- - ▋- ▋▋ ♠▋
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx . . . . . . . . . . . . .
T h e y ' l l be t h e King o f - `*h e a r t s
&& || Y o u ' r e | - t h e Q.u.e.e.n. of spades
[and we'll fight] f o r * y o u like we were your /soldiers
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxI know we got it good, but they got it made
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx&& the grass is getting {greener} - each day -
I know things are looking up, but soon they'll take us down
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxb.e.f.o.r.e anybody's `knowing our names
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx . . . . . . . . . . . . .
|❋| - it don't matter what you see, I know I could never be someone that'll look like you -
- it don't matter what you say, I know I could never fake someone that'll sound like you -|❋|
xx . . . . . . . . . . . . .
- ▋▋▋▋.- - ▋- ▋ ❥ -▋▋- - ▋- ▋▋ ♠▋
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Angstbucket Edgelord Captain
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