|
|
|
|
|
|
|
X x __ compos M E N T i S Captain
Quotable Conversationalist
|
 Posted: Sun Oct 17, 2010 6:37 am
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Thu Oct 21, 2010 6:43 pm
xxxxx♫ ♪xxxlyric
xxxxx♪ ♫xxxconmanLyric closed the door quietly behind him, and dropped his shoes in the hallway, only then putting them on. He fanned the money between his fingers and counted it deftly before stuffing it into his wallet and shoving it into his back pocket. If he weren't hesitant about waking the neighbors, he might've whistled an uplifting tune. It was definitely a nice morning. Lyric slapped his fedora against his leg, as if to shake from it dirt he knew didn't exist, before plopping it atop his head, in its rightful place.
Lyric knew he needn't worry about her calling the police, and the embarrassment would be hard for her to live through. What would she tell her husband? Lyric liked to think of it as, rather than robbing, teaching valuable lessons to strangers truly in need of them. For one: don't trust strangers. Another? Don't cheat. Most importantly: don't trust a smile. There were always those that would melt at the sight of the right kind of smile, and Lyric was good at playing the part of the romantic gentleman looking for nothing too serious.
The problem? Lyric was identifiable. He stood out in a crowd, and that was why he had to make sure they were people in no position to tell. How would she explain the money missing from the stash in the mattress? What would she describe the intruder's appearance as, and if she did-- how would she explain what he was doing in their shared bedroom? Lyric might've laughed, but what kind of person would that have made him? As he tackled the climb downstairs, he allowed himself a little whistle. He couldn't help himself.
He met the rest of the city with a much slower version of Take Five on his lips, already thinking over the day's assignment. He was sure that there would be something nasty in store for whoever it was that had decided to start an assault on the local police. There was no way that that could end well for Les Gens, or the person at fault. After all, they were supposed to be lying low until they could take on the police department properly. Now was not that time, and they were especially not supposed to go through with anything that might end in violence.
Either way, Lyric was ready to meet those consequences head on. Bring it on. Lyric had received his name from his love and knowledge of music, current and old. He'd been raised in a family whose life centered around music, and it had had a profound effect on him as a person. Of course, no one knew that. In Les Gens, your life started the day you received your new name, and anything beyond that didn't matter, at least, not unless you made it matter. It was better if you didn't, though, no one liked to dwell on the past.
Lyric stopped in mid whistle and took an abrupt turn. His mailbox was attached to a set of apartments. The others were operational, but the lock on his was broken. The reason people didn't mess with his mail? With Les Gens as powerful as it was, it seemed like people generally stayed out of their way. There was a sort of attraction to a life of organized crime. Everyone rooted, very quietly, for Tony Soprano, despite his actions.
Lyric retrieved his mail in the form of a small manila folder. He pulled from it the typed paper, and left the rest where he'd found it. It was something universal, a sign that they had received their message. The cops or anyone else would take the folder with them, maybe try to extract fingerprints, or whatever they did, from the adhesive that close the envelope. That was how they kept tabs, the organization. Lyric glanced over the note only briefly. The paper was small, it took only a couple of folds for it to fit in the black hole that was his wallet.
Ordinarily, he might've stopped for breakfast, but it seemed as though his assignment on this particular day was particularly important, and it couldn't be put off for longer than it absolutely had to. Lyric lowered the brim on his hat, and found a pair of sunglasses in his pocket. He put them on and resumed his walk in the direction of his next destination. It was exciting, sure, but it wasn't exactly his favorite type of job.
|
|
|
|
|
|
X x __ compos M E N T i S Captain
Quotable Conversationalist
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
X x __ compos M E N T i S Captain
Quotable Conversationalist
|
Posted: Tue Nov 02, 2010 3:13 pm
 yøu cαи’т мακε мε
αиd
yøu ωøи’т вяεακ мε
тнε fίgнтεя
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxIt's easier to say anything, than the truth.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxBut, then, I was never opposed to lying.
xxxxxI sit.
xxxxxxxWasting away,
xxxxxxxxxbecause they couldn't throw me in jail.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxYou've done a lot of damage, here.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxThat's what they told me.
xxxxxxxxxxxxIn front of God and everyone.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxI wanted to laugh.
xxMostly, now, I just want to go home.
xxxxxBut, no.
xxxxxxxxInstead, I'm swallowing pills whose names I can't pronounce.
xxxxxxxxIf I so much look at a nurse wrong, I'm sedated.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxMy slender arms folded on the long arm of the chair
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxholding me upright, as I fight the affects of today's mystery drug.
xxI live in a haze,
xxxxxxxxxstaring across the table at someone too incoherent to talk back.
xxxxxxMy first episode was violent,
xxxxand expensive,
xxxxxxxxxxNow there's no one coming back for me.xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx❝ Taylor? Are you feeling alright? ❞xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxI said no once,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxbut they didn't like that.xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxit's because they're scared
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxif a needle has to come into play, they want to make sure
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxthey're not the one to get hurtxxxxx❝ If you didn't drug me up so bad, ❞xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx❝ I could play pingpong, with everyone else. ❞xxxxxxxxxxxxxxHer sarcastic laugh would've made me bristle, during an episode.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxIt did, even now.xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx❝ It's better than jail. ❞xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxBut sometimes I wonder.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxSituation averted, and she was gone in a flash.But that didn't suit me.xxxx
As per usual, I was in the mood for socialization.xxxxxx
That's from where most of my problem stems.
I pulled myself to my feet,xxxxx
my head swam with the effort,xxx
as I dragged myself to a new chair, nearest to the couch.
My drugged,xxxxxxxxxxxxx
sleepyxxxxxxxxxxx
body resisted my efforts until I, at last, curled up on the seat of the armchair.
I faced the television, but was searching out someone who looked responsive.xxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx❝ I hate daytime tv. ❞ xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxEveryone on the couch looked at least slightly less than
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxcatatonic xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxEither way, it was better than nothing.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun Nov 28, 2010 2:30 pm
|
X x __ compos M E N T i S Captain
Quotable Conversationalist
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
X x __ compos M E N T i S Captain
Quotable Conversationalist
|
Posted: Sun Nov 28, 2010 7:21 pm
  Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post.
Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post.
Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post.
Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post.
Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post.
Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post.
Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post.
Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post.
Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post.
Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post. Samples post.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed Dec 01, 2010 5:02 pm
schizophrenia vαℓεитίиε jαy αdαℓyии Baby?
c'est le malaise du moment
Did you
l'épidémie qui s'étend
forget to
la fête est finie on descend
take
les pensées qui glacent la raison
your meds?
protect me from what i want xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxWith the nurse gone, I could breath easier.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxThe hospital is something like tolerable, when the
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxin e x h a u s t ible
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxbrutes are away.xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxyou'd hate anything capable of breathxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxwho are you to judge?xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxOh great and benevolent hallucination,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxstep down from your pedestal, so that you may teach us your
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxp i o u s ways.xxxxxxoh, now that's better.xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxbut you sure are one to talk.you're the one arguing with yourselfxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxYou're not me.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxI would never hurt Evan, or mom.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxThat's all your fault.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxIf not for you, I wouldn't be here.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxI'd have a life, if not for you.xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxwhatever you say, chief.xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxHell, yeah, it's whatever I say.xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx❝ my name's billy. ❞xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxWho said that?
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx[The girl. The blond one.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxShe wore something like a smile,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxbut it was spread thin.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxand made fragile.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxIt was easy to imagine her different
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxstronger.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxIt was easier to imagine them all different, though,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxwhat had they been like?
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxOut in the big, dirty world?
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxI had lived for others.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxI was the guy you thought wouldn't make it
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxout there
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxToo soft.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxI was working a dead-end job,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxand living, practically, at school.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxAnd all because I wanted to be something.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxHe should've liked to hear that.xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxawwxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxkiddie miss his daddy?xxxxx❝ jay. ❞xxxxxxxxxxxMy name is Valentine.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxAfter the saint.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxI don't tell people that, anymore.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxThe dark-haired girl,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxthe one who can't or won't
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxbut doesn't
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxtalk.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxShe writes her name on a whiteboard.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxAdelaide.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxI offer her a smile.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxBut I feel like I'm intruding,
xxxxxxxxxxthis isn't mine to join in on.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxI was away when it started.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxBut I have to talk, or listen.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxSo that I don't have to think,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx because introspection is dangerous.xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxjust talk to the pretty girls,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxignore me, and i'll just go away.xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxwrong.xxxxxxThe nurse is back, and I receive my pills.
xxxxxxxxxThey're sounding the war drums in my head.
xxThe damn whoevers, they'll die for what they've done.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxWe'll burn their crops, and steal their women.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxI tilt my head back, and I down the pills.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxThis is a skill no one should have to learn.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxThere's someone new, now,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxsitting beside the girl named Billy.
xxxWas he there before?
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxNo one acknowledges him,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxI wonder if he's even real.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxThere's a lot going on,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxand it's all happening at once.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxThe nurse asks Adelaide to smile.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxWhat an asinine request,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxa damn smile wont change a thing.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxNot a damn thing.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
xxxxxxxxxxxxI can think this, but I can't feel it.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxThey might as well have been someone else's words,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxSomeone else's thoughts.
xxxxxI might as well be someone else's auditory hallucination.xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxmaybe you're mine.xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxmaybe i'm the one pulling the strings.xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxdance, monkey. dance.
|
|
|
|
|
|
X x __ compos M E N T i S Captain
Quotable Conversationalist
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
X x __ compos M E N T i S Captain
Quotable Conversationalist
|
Posted: Sun Jan 09, 2011 5:01 pm
xxxxxxxxxxx  Early that morning, roughly four-ish, a plane touched down somewhere in Washington, bringing to its passengers a bumpy landing on a wet strip. An old friend, but not a best friend, picked Valerie Kayla Mason up from outside the airport, and she slept the entire ride to her hotel. Really, there was no staying at her house, there was no point in even asking.
A hotel was probably the very best place for her, and that was where she stayed until the earliest rays of light came crashing through the window of the room that smelled like disinfectant and, oh yeah, reluctance. It was true that, a couple years ago, Valerie loved her friends-- really, she did, but now, once years had passed, she wasn't so sure of how excited she was to see them. She certainly hadn't changed, but what about the others?
When the sun accosted her, entirely too early in the morning, Valerie rolled into the pillow and tried to fight off the day. It was a futile effort, and she finally got out of bed and wandered to the bathroom. The door opened again, to let steam unroll out into the main room. Valerie, showered and dressed, felt significantly less... confrontational. But less confrontational was still very confrontational.
Valerie dressed as she usually did, in a pair of half-shredded skinnies that were stained with paint and, well, mostly it was paint-- but there were probably some oil pastels, and maybe some glue or graphite. Mostly, it was whatever art supplies had graced her presence and survived the wash. The hot pink and electric blue paint contrasted brightly with the dark grey denim. Her tank top was easter yellow, and the jacket she wore over it was blue, its sleeves cut off slightly below the elbows-- perfect for nervously pushing up when conversations went awry.
Valerie's wrist was a tangle of friendship bracelets, beads, and a leather cuff displaying a camera. The other one held a thick-banded watch, whose face was almost unreadable due to the numbers that looked as if they were written almost illegibly. Valerie wore a thin a skeleton key around her neck, and a much lower locket-- a large, gaudy one who was designed intricately with flowers and curls, it seemed to clash horribly with her personality.
The first thing on Valerie's mind was caffeine. She pulled on her chuck taylors, pocketed her phone, and grabbed her camera bag. Lists of places went through her head. There was a diner down the street from the old house, a number of quick places between the hotel and the school, but she was feeling Starbucks. Why not?
Valerie left the hotel and started her walk. It had been quite a while since she'd left the school, at least, it felt that way. Twenty-one, and she was seeing the town through completely different eyes. She could definitely say that there were aspects of it that she had not missed. Her aunt was definitely one of them, her mother was possibly another, though there was nothing she could've held against her.
Feeling suddenly impatient, and too nostalgic for comfort, Valerie pushed open the door and moved into line, her eyes on her phone as she browsed the messages she'd missed while in hibernation. After all, jet lag was a b***h. Mostly, they all said something about photography that they thought Valerie owed them. Something that was due, some project reminder. With titles that were so horribly passive-aggressive that they threw over Val a wave of only mild sickness. Things like: "Almost finished with those photos?" or "Retouch the skin tone?" or "Any ideas yet?".
They were all projects that needed doing, or people that needed pleasing. Shame for them, that Val was not all that good at people pleasing, it was never really her forte. Being July, there was only a bit of a chill in the air, but it was still enough that Valerie was leaning toward hot coffee. She snapped her phone shut as she stepped up to the cash register, offering the barista an insincere "morning" smile before shooting her answer. "White mocha, thanks." She handed over the cash, and dropped a couple of dollars into the tip jar, stepping to the side as she waited for her coffee.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun Jan 30, 2011 4:49 pm
  Angelo had long since been the dark-haired, dark-eyed little boy she'd once dreamed of. He was diagnosed with Schizophrenia at a remarkably young age, fourteen. It was almost unheard of, someone so young being diagnosed with such a damaging mental disease. He was diagnosed with undifferentiated sub-type, and by the rule of thirds for every one of him there would be two with some hope. Some people that might recover, some that still get to see the rest of the world from time to time. But Angelo? He would never recover. So said the rule of thirds.
Angelo's eyes were set forward, cold and unfeeling. His posture was straighter than usual, he stood perfectly straight, his motions were fluid, natural, but almost robotic. As though he were a marionette, and it was a master puppeteer pulling his strings. Nurses, other patients, doctors, and even the security personal stepped easily out of his way, not making eye contact or making any attempt to rouse him from his almost catatonic state. It was all too familiar, too routine for anyone to bother themselves over. No one was perfect.
Angelo's lips moved slowly, parting only slightly to deliver a jumble of confused words and fragmented sentences into the waiting, but impatient, air. Words like "watching" and "soon" and "time" jumbled with articles and verbs, things they ought not to be paired with. Things that sounded almost foreign. Sometimes there were things that were foreign, words in Italian, fragmented thoughts, none of them relating much to anything but a trained ear. But, still, no one had any eyes in Angelo's mind. Perhaps, if he had the choice, that would not be the way that he might've preferred it.
Angelo's steps were well measured, each equally distanced from the next, each silent in his hospital shoes, the ones with rubber soles. They were leaving soon, but he didn't seem to know, or care. Maybe he was beyond knowing anything about the world that physically anchored him. Maybe he'd passed that point long ago, and only came for brief visits. Medication used to help, but that was a time long ago. No amount of little white or blue pills could drag him back to reality, not after such a long stay in whatever dream world to which he seemed to belong.
Finally, someone stopped. Garbed in a calming blue, it was a nurse, holding a clipboard. She was blond, her eyes were a dark green. The name tag read, well-- it didn't matter what it read. They were all clones of one another, each walking in the other's shoes, because in reality, even the skewed reality in which Angel lived, they were interchangeable. One in the same. She stopped, and took Angelo's elbow in her hand, pulling him to a gentle stop. Maybe she was new, maybe that was why she cared.
"Angelo?" She checked her clipboard, looking up awkwardly for the nearest room number, getting her bearings. West Wing. And besides the visitors, those that didn't belong but were simply passing through, it was nearly empty. Today was road trip day. Maybe it was because of his "paranoid schizophrenia" as the doctors said it, Angelo had stressed over the trip, as he had with every trip, since it had been announced. No amount of bowling or films could make up for the stress these deviations from the normal schedule brought him. "Angelo, it's almost time to go. Are you ready?"
"Ready." Angelo echoed softly, though whether it was a gut reaction that a question needed a response, or a real answer couldn't have been told. He laughed quietly, it was a toneless laugh. Going through the motions. These were the signs of a disturbed mind. The nurse seemed convinced, she shook Angelo lightly by the elbow, looking impatiently at her opposite wrist, where a small face told her that she was running out of time. Angel blinked hard, multiple times, and gazed blankly down the hall, as if searching for something that had once been there. "I, uh--"
He put the back of his palm to his head, blinking as if to clear his mind. "Not a lot of time for that." The nurse was impatient, it was easy to read, as well. She was a naturally nervous type, it was all too obvious. "I said, are you ready?" She asked him again, as if he were supposed to have heard, or even remembered it before. As if his response prior had meant a damned thing. The woman was not only impatient, and rude, she was ignorant as well.
"Ready for what?" Angelo responded, he sounded puzzled even as he removed his hand from his head and looked at her. It wasn't hard to imagine, maybe it wouldn't even have to be imagined, a certain amount of horror in his face. Angelo had always been suspicious, of everyone. Perhaps that was the reason that he hadn't made many friends during his stay here, or maybe it was the fact that people have little desire to mingle with those living, even if only in their head, some million odd miles away.
"The trip!" The nurse responded, irritation colored her voice, and Angelo pulled his elbow away, as if in fear that that anger might somehow spread to him. Only in his mind. Perhaps she had given up. She was a nurse, after all, not a babysitter--though in a place like this, the roles were interchangeable, and she walked off at a brisk pace. As if she had found something better to occupy her time. Outside, it was raining. Streaks of water falling from the sky as if the clouds were shedding tears, there was plenty for the heavens to cry about.
There were many a figure out in the rain. Three, at least, and only two crowded under an umbrella, the other jogging, or something. Angelo knew them by name, though it had taken a long time even to achieve that. Michael, jogging. Franklin and Serena under the umbrella. The man beside him shook his head with disapproval. Angelo could only agree silently, but knew that the man already knew his opinion. The man was impossible to describe. He was tall, impossibly tall, and wide in the shoulders. He carried the air of authority, but past his shape he had no distinguishing colors. Angelo could not name his skin color, the shape or color of his eyes, and when the man spoke, Angelo couldn't describe his voice.
|
|
|
|
|
|
X x __ compos M E N T i S Captain
Quotable Conversationalist
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
X x __ compos M E N T i S Captain
Quotable Conversationalist
|
Posted: Sun Jun 29, 2014 11:23 am
TAKEN WITH THOUGHT, STILL PRONE TO CARE
outfit | theme | profile
A wet, hard blow echoed through the empty level with a crushing air of morbidity. Anthony sucked in a shaking breath, and grimaced down at the emaciated corpse, which strained futilely away from its broken body before its useless twitching stopped. The entire level stunk of rot and feces, but Anthony was long past gagging on the stale air. The adrenaline settled, his heart fell back into a smoother rhythm, and the realization hit him. Katie. A sinking feeling came over him as he turned away from the corpse and toward his partner, whose ragged gasps had eaten up the silence.
The thing, the corpse, had surprised them. Anthony had thought he'd swept the room, but he must’ve gotten lazy -- this was the seventh or eighth apartment they'd checked, in the past couple hours and they’d found nothing. He had started to think that the creatures had already been starved out, here. But then one of the things, surprisingly lithe for its frail body, launched itself -- it was on Katie before he’d had time to react. He’d managed to pry the thing off of her but too little, too late. Now, he stood before her, frozen in place by some ingrained awareness of what had to be done. ”Katie? Can you hear me?” Anthony knelt before the body, alive only in the most basic definition of the word.
Her breath bubbled and frothed red at her lips; her eyes stared off at nothing. <********> The deep gash on her neck, bleeding fast, was a testament to Anthony’s failure. There wasn’t a whole lot of time, he knew, but Anthony was somehow unable to lift the wrench he had taken as his weapon. Katie drew a sharp breath and choked on the liquid rushing into her lungs, her eyes seeming to refocus. His muscles acted of their own accord, taking a firm grip on her shoulder and bearing the wrench down with a resounding, chilling crack. Despite himself, Tony gagged, and could feel something warm splatter across the front of his shirt. His mouth filled with a coppery taste, and struggled to hold down whatever was still housed in his stomach.
Anthony tried not to look at her – what he’d done to her – and instead, dug in his bag for one of his jackets. The group, the seven of them, had split off into smaller groups to cover each level of the apartment complex, trying to build up their rations. They were supposed to meet back down on the first floor, but things had been quiet. Surely someone would’ve come back to rendezvous after sounds of an altercation. Anthony draped his coat over her, trying not to think of what would happen to her if there were more living corpses on this floor, and started to head back to the first floor.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Thu Jul 10, 2014 5:56 pm
Avery knelt beside an overturned cabinet, picking through canned goods. Peaches! There was a prize! Greedily, her hands, shaking in anticipation, gripped the can and pushed it into her duffel bag. She and Poppy had split up, but she didn’t wonder why. It was faster that way, and probably Poppy was hoping something would happen to her, while they were making their sweep. She had a feeling that the other girl, a natural redhead to Avery’s fading roots, had some animosity toward her. But she wasn’t willing to admit that her particular character traits were faults.
After all, Avery was one of the last to have joined the group, and she was very much aware of what exactly had kept her alive. The strong lived. The weak merely clung to life and served as mere stepping stones to her prolonged survival. A little reluctantly, she picked up a can of asparagus and an unopened box of crackers. She didn’t bother to open the fridge – she wasn’t willing to risk her lunch for what meager findings it might find. She considered, for a moment, what her partner might think – she might have called her wasteful, that she was overlooking possible resources for her own comfort. Perhaps she was projecting. It didn’t much matter.
The sound of a bang had her suddenly standing bolt upright, her heart drumming frantically in her chest. In a moment of fear, she called out, ”Poppy?” No answer, but she heard a door close somewhere. Avery picked up her bag and slung it over her shoulder, pausing only as long as it took to glance over the counters for anything of use, and half jogged to the door, peering around the frame into the hall. No sign of her partner. No sign of anything amiss. For a moment, she stood there – muscles flexed and ready to move – but there was no sound. She could’ve sworn she heard a voice on the bottom level, and moved quickly to the stairs. It wasn’t a long way down, but at the bottom of it she was rewarded with the sight of Tony, spattered in blood. ”What happ--?” She didn’t finish, she didn’t need to.
Poppy put her hand on Tony, and apologized. Avery’s heart started to sink, but she swallowed hard. Buck up, kid. Everyone kicks it eventually. Get it together. Avery took slow steps down the rest of the flight of stairs, and jogged the bag on her shoulder, rattling its contents. But her eyes were wary, and when she took another careful step toward Tony she held out the hammer in her hand with something like menace. ”You didn’t get bit, did you?” With the hammer, she gestured toward his arms. ”Show me.”
|
|
|
|
|
|
X x __ compos M E N T i S Captain
Quotable Conversationalist
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
X x __ compos M E N T i S Captain
Quotable Conversationalist
|
Posted: Tue Jul 29, 2014 3:26 pm
x
x WATCH OUT, THIS KITTEN HAS CLAWS
When the sun rose, it did so with gusto. In a room dimmed by dusty, drawn curtains, Kit shielded her eyes from the slit of sunlight that fought its way through, squinting. She was far from surprised by her unusual surroundings – most of her adult life had been precariously spent between hotels and, well, less favorable haunts. Anywhere that didn’t ask too many questions. Suddenly uncomfortable under sheets that felt almost stiff to the touch, Kit peeled them back and reveled in the chill of the early afternoon air. She was suddenly aware of hunger and a headache that lurched in the back of her head, pressing forward. Ugh.
But she wouldn’t let it get her down. Dragging herself out of bed was the hard part, but she found her vigor and treated herself to a long shower, a rare treat. Even smelling of cheap, motel shampoo and wringing the excess water from her heavy tresses, she felt better. The headache had relieved itself, at least for the time being. But there was still the question of food.
Kit changed into a spare set of clothes from her backpack, and helped herself to the contents of the wallet she found in the pair of discarded jeans on the floor. All without waking last night’s bedmate – what had he said his name was? Jarred? Or was it Jason? It didn’t much matter. Gathering her things, she slipped out the door and put a little distance between herself and the motel, just in case. In a quick, practiced motion she tied her damp curls up in a loose bun.
The organization ran deep in her veins. She apprenticed at twelve and embraced the life with the same enthusiasm that she approached everything. But Les Gens had been good to her – the organization gifted her with the skills to survive, even that young, and, even now, served to protect her from the intrusive nature the city had taken on. It had wiped her off the grid when she was a child, and helped her keep her anonymous status. Far as she was concerned, she owed Les Gens everything.
One of her favorite haunts was a greasy diner located between a dingy little record store, and a place that advertised as a photography studio, though most of the locals were dubious. The place was bustling, as always, and carried the heavy scent of syrup and late breakfast. Kit’s hunger was bordering mood-changing levels, and was not helped by the new environments. One of the waitresses glanced up from the register and smiled. ”Alice! Hey, haven’t seen you in a while.” She seemed genuinely pleased to see the girl who beamed back, but greeted her quickly and found a seat near a window to impatiently await service.
x
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Reply
xx
xx
xxx
xxx