11-09-2015, 04:15 PM
I'm gonna do a LOT because I'm proud of how far my babies have come and also I have a lot more of my 'good' posts saved than I do my bad ones:
"It happens like this.
The ending of the world’s long been speculated. There’s the how: will it end in fire or ice – or something else, some natural disaster unheard of?
There’s the why: will it be because some vengeful god has tired of sinners, and decided to end them? Will it be because the earth simply gravitates closer and closer to the sun until demise is imminent?
And, of course, there’s the when: in a hundred years? A thousand? A million? More?
Both of them have thought of this idea – neither are fatalists, but the idea begs to be pondered. He imagines an apocalypse, a world awash in blood and screams, the air ripe with fear. He is always in this vision, always standing proud – like an overseer, perhaps.
A conductor and his masterpiece, even.
She has a calmer idea, a simple ending of things, happening with the slow extinction of one species after another until nothing’s left.
**********
It begins like this.
They’re lovers, and have always been – wed in sickness and health, poverty and prosperity. There are no such legalities for their type, of course, and their romance has been riddled with infidelity and even blood, on occasions.
But still, they are lovers.
Ever since first meeting, they have haunted each other. He has tried, and tried again to love her like she loved him – but his kisses felt only her pulse and the promise of blood, and those images were more erotic than anything else. Still, there is a fondness for her that he has not felt for anyone else.
“What’s another word for love?” he asked once, lips in her hair, to which she replied, “passion.”
“Still not right,” he said, to which she replied, “we’re indefinable.” "
-- part of a Carnage & Gail 'death post' circa 2008. I loved it because of the gimmick (it ____ like this) but also because it was a super good way to ambiguously kill them. of course, neither died and now carnage lives in outer space and gail is an afterlife queen.
"She is alone.
She is not alone.
She exists like butterflies encased in glass do. She exists in perpetuity. She should not exist but time itself seems to no longer be.
The chewing noise, the sound of the earth being eaten alive, always comes closer but never arrives. There is some point in time when everything resets and the day begins anew, although she has long stopped keeping time in days. She does not keep time at all.
She exists.
She does not exist.
He left her and he paused things, somehow. He paused things and left her here in this strange perpetual state where she’s forgotten the sound of her own voice and cannot remember any noise but the one of radio static, of a world long meant to end.
She loves him.
She does not love him.
She waits for him like she waits to take her next breath. He is an intrinsic part of her. It’s no longer about love, if it ever was.
(“We’re indefinable.”)
He is simply a part of her, some vital organ."
--Gail's POV from the afterlife quest back in May. I WAS SO HAPPY TO PLAY HER AGAIN
"And the corpse masterpiece, all her scars melted away by years of what isn’t quite immortality but certainly isn’t natural, she chooses them, breaks her grotesque ballet to infect their space with the pestilence that is my lunatic. She joins where she is most certainly not invited, she joins them, with their body heat and pulses beating like wings under in the skin, their arteries rich with so much blood she hasn’t seen in a long time.
She remembers the taste, though. She remembers how with him, that bastard Prince Charming, how she drank so much blood she was sick for days afterward, stomach curdled with red vomit that wouldn’t come.
The blood-drinker, vampire that isn’t, she has polluted herself within them, indeed, she is close enough to touch and she does, she draws her rubbery lips against the bay mare she does not know and certainly does not love."
--Chantale, circa 2007 or 2008. Chantale was special in that she channeled the last bit of my tendency for the melodramatic with some Chuck Palahiuk rip off but actually turned out half decent. I literally have a book's worth of her posts, in it you can see the evolution - I can't write like this now, her inception came from the dregs of teenage angst.
"You are a monster and there are bodies, the first plots in the graveyard you create. You are cruel at first, too convinced of your warped nature to be good to them. There is a woman you leave dying on the beach, and you do not know someday she will come back to haunt you. There are others you may have forgotten.
You know what it’s like to be painted in blood and sometimes the smell of it makes you sick and sometimes it makes you think of home, wherever that is.
You are grown and there is a woman and for the first time you realize what love’s like when met at both sides, you love her and she you, and she is delicate and fragile and you would move mountains for her. You cry when she dies, and your heart aches but there are others who flow in, like water expanding to fill the empty space and you think you might not be a monster after all.
You are a father and you are praying with your son. You think perhaps god will save you. You don’t know any real prayers so you make up your own, a patchwork of hymns and phrases. You teach all this to your son and he drinks it down, takes to falling on his knees in religious fervor.
You lay your head across his back. He smells like sunshine and grass. He is praying, but your thoughts are far from virtuous.
You are a monster.
You are alone and there is a man who breathes your name like the sweetest kind of sin. He’s the kind of man who would hurt you just to hear you scream his name and you are in love with him after an hour.
You do not kill him and you are not ashamed of him so of course he leaves you because you stink of want and need.
You are desperate and desperation breeds desperation, there are girls and boys in between. You love all of them. Some of them say they love you.
All of them leave.
You are quiet and there is a boy. He is young and reminds you of your son in the worst way. He tells you that you are good.
(You are not.)
He is shivering in the cold. You cannot take your eyes off of him.
He is a child. You tell him, ‘I could keep you warm.’
(You do. He is warm as anything you’ve ever known.)
You are a monster.
You are broken because you cannot stop whispering their names. You hurt because your body denies you even the simple pleasure of death, it persists. Your heartstrings sing their names. Your closed eyes play their faces. Sometimes they are screaming.
You find him (or does he find you?) and this one is not a boy. He is an old man, a hurt man, just like you.
Your bodies fit together like something that’s been years in the making.
You are screaming because that man, the old sea-salt gray you wanted to have a family with, he’s being eaten alive, his bones washing into the sea. The noise of his neck breaking is like a gunshot. You have nightmares for months after.
Your son – not the praying one, but a new one, your new family – presses against you and you swallow bile, thinking ‘not again.’
You are old, impossibly old. You have nightmares. You haven’t seen your son in months. You are secretly glad because he hurts to look at in ways you’re afraid to decipher.
You repeat their names to yourself. It’s almost like praying. You always say her name first.
You are thinking of saying her name when she says yours.
She smells a little like death but underneath it all is the scent you knew so well. She has a mission but you don’t care because her neck is beneath your lips and she is whispering that she loves you so.
You tell her you love her, too.
(You do. You love her enough to kill for her. To die for her. Anything she asks.)
She asks if you will follow her. It’s a stupid question.
You realize that all this time, you’ve been waiting.
You follow. "
--Garbage's death post from earlier this year
"Sweet sick boy, I called what we had destiny. When you can blame the stars for aligning wrong so we collided (and crashed, and burned – but baby, we burned bright) it’s easier. Because thinking it’s something I did – that I had a choice, falling for you – that’s too much. It’s too much. I don’t like thinking I chose to hurt this bad, that I decided my heart would break – because I knew, baby-babylove, that you were going to break my heart long before you ever did. Handsome things like you are born heartbreakers, I’m sure you did it a thousand times before you shattered mine.
Maybe I’m just a narcissist but my heartbreak was the worst. Because the rest of them, you didn’t touch them (not like you touched me, anyways – your starfire kisses, oh). You didn’t tell them you loved them. You didn’t say to them, honeychild, we’re getting out.
I got out, I guess. But I want back in. I want back to you."
--Lovecraft, circa...anywhere from 2007-2009? maybe? it's another example of something I can't quite recreate - Lovecraft's posts were all letters to a past lover, which, while fun to write, explains why nobody really posted with him
"Yes, she forgot – like Lot’s wife, she looked back, but rather than turn to a pillar of salt she was met with mad howls and snapping jaws."
-- the "like Lot's wife" analogy is a FAVORITE (from Cordis)
"First: she loved her like a blind man loves color.
She is who was there when Cordis ran from the pits, hellhounds sharp and chuffing at her heels. She is the one who led them to the river, who baptized her. The one who tried to touch her, but did not question when Cordis pulled away, told her you can’t, you can’t.
(Which told her that someone once could.)
She did not know how to love, coming from this. She ignored and denied and smothered the feelings, not recognizing them. She had no way to articulate it and besides, there had been too much fear.
(Fear that what did transpire would transpire – she had been right on that account.)
All this to say, in the beginning she had loved her without knowing that she loved her, because they were too beautiful and impossible to describe, a feeling for which no words exist.
Then: she loved her like a natural disaster.
Catastrophe had been a theme with them. A lighthouse, begging her to wreck upon her shores. A man who had hurt Spyndle, plucked the feathers from her wings, because she had spurned her.
Cordis realized she was ruined when she was leaving (again) and she looked back (again) and she forgot, for the moment, about everything but hurt. And she had paid the price for that, because her attention had been focused on the gold mare the hellhounds had found their time, they had felled her.
(She survived, but why?)
It was mostly turmoil, because she knew - had known, from the beginning – that there was no happy ending, that they were impossible.
She knew, from the start, one of them was going to die.
All this to say, she loved her and wrecked her and was wrecked by her, and it took years until she could say her name without sobbing.
Now: she loves her.
There are no similes for it, because every bit of poetry she knows falls short of her, and when she sees the form – gold and snowy-winged and impossibly there - all words leave her throat.
(will you)
The question surfaces, a hint of coherence, spoken in her heartbeat slamming against her breastbone like it’s trying to burst out and lay itself at Spyndle’s feet.
(come back)
She wouldn’t come back; Cordis had accepted that (so she told herself), and besides, her memories are gone, Cordis saw the glazed eyes as they were drained from her. But in the moment it doesn’t matter, none of it matters, what matters is she can look upon her again.
Her memory could never do Spyndle justice, and she is spellbound when she sees her, a soft ‘oh’ catching in her throat.
(for me)
For us.
“Hello,” she says, because she does not know what Spyndle thinks of her – if, indeed, she thinks anything at all, she may just be a silver stranger transgressing the riverbank.
Which she was, once, all those years ago. A terrified stranger with a jitterbug heartbeat who thought they were something other than inevitable.
She loves her, like everything that’s ever mattered."
--Cordis circa 2014 to Spyndle. Spyndle was probably one of the best things to happen to my muse but this post is favorite
"It happens like this.
The ending of the world’s long been speculated. There’s the how: will it end in fire or ice – or something else, some natural disaster unheard of?
There’s the why: will it be because some vengeful god has tired of sinners, and decided to end them? Will it be because the earth simply gravitates closer and closer to the sun until demise is imminent?
And, of course, there’s the when: in a hundred years? A thousand? A million? More?
Both of them have thought of this idea – neither are fatalists, but the idea begs to be pondered. He imagines an apocalypse, a world awash in blood and screams, the air ripe with fear. He is always in this vision, always standing proud – like an overseer, perhaps.
A conductor and his masterpiece, even.
She has a calmer idea, a simple ending of things, happening with the slow extinction of one species after another until nothing’s left.
**********
It begins like this.
They’re lovers, and have always been – wed in sickness and health, poverty and prosperity. There are no such legalities for their type, of course, and their romance has been riddled with infidelity and even blood, on occasions.
But still, they are lovers.
Ever since first meeting, they have haunted each other. He has tried, and tried again to love her like she loved him – but his kisses felt only her pulse and the promise of blood, and those images were more erotic than anything else. Still, there is a fondness for her that he has not felt for anyone else.
“What’s another word for love?” he asked once, lips in her hair, to which she replied, “passion.”
“Still not right,” he said, to which she replied, “we’re indefinable.” "
-- part of a Carnage & Gail 'death post' circa 2008. I loved it because of the gimmick (it ____ like this) but also because it was a super good way to ambiguously kill them. of course, neither died and now carnage lives in outer space and gail is an afterlife queen.
"She is alone.
She is not alone.
She exists like butterflies encased in glass do. She exists in perpetuity. She should not exist but time itself seems to no longer be.
The chewing noise, the sound of the earth being eaten alive, always comes closer but never arrives. There is some point in time when everything resets and the day begins anew, although she has long stopped keeping time in days. She does not keep time at all.
She exists.
She does not exist.
He left her and he paused things, somehow. He paused things and left her here in this strange perpetual state where she’s forgotten the sound of her own voice and cannot remember any noise but the one of radio static, of a world long meant to end.
She loves him.
She does not love him.
She waits for him like she waits to take her next breath. He is an intrinsic part of her. It’s no longer about love, if it ever was.
(“We’re indefinable.”)
He is simply a part of her, some vital organ."
--Gail's POV from the afterlife quest back in May. I WAS SO HAPPY TO PLAY HER AGAIN
"And the corpse masterpiece, all her scars melted away by years of what isn’t quite immortality but certainly isn’t natural, she chooses them, breaks her grotesque ballet to infect their space with the pestilence that is my lunatic. She joins where she is most certainly not invited, she joins them, with their body heat and pulses beating like wings under in the skin, their arteries rich with so much blood she hasn’t seen in a long time.
She remembers the taste, though. She remembers how with him, that bastard Prince Charming, how she drank so much blood she was sick for days afterward, stomach curdled with red vomit that wouldn’t come.
The blood-drinker, vampire that isn’t, she has polluted herself within them, indeed, she is close enough to touch and she does, she draws her rubbery lips against the bay mare she does not know and certainly does not love."
--Chantale, circa 2007 or 2008. Chantale was special in that she channeled the last bit of my tendency for the melodramatic with some Chuck Palahiuk rip off but actually turned out half decent. I literally have a book's worth of her posts, in it you can see the evolution - I can't write like this now, her inception came from the dregs of teenage angst.
"You are a monster and there are bodies, the first plots in the graveyard you create. You are cruel at first, too convinced of your warped nature to be good to them. There is a woman you leave dying on the beach, and you do not know someday she will come back to haunt you. There are others you may have forgotten.
You know what it’s like to be painted in blood and sometimes the smell of it makes you sick and sometimes it makes you think of home, wherever that is.
You are grown and there is a woman and for the first time you realize what love’s like when met at both sides, you love her and she you, and she is delicate and fragile and you would move mountains for her. You cry when she dies, and your heart aches but there are others who flow in, like water expanding to fill the empty space and you think you might not be a monster after all.
You are a father and you are praying with your son. You think perhaps god will save you. You don’t know any real prayers so you make up your own, a patchwork of hymns and phrases. You teach all this to your son and he drinks it down, takes to falling on his knees in religious fervor.
You lay your head across his back. He smells like sunshine and grass. He is praying, but your thoughts are far from virtuous.
You are a monster.
You are alone and there is a man who breathes your name like the sweetest kind of sin. He’s the kind of man who would hurt you just to hear you scream his name and you are in love with him after an hour.
You do not kill him and you are not ashamed of him so of course he leaves you because you stink of want and need.
You are desperate and desperation breeds desperation, there are girls and boys in between. You love all of them. Some of them say they love you.
All of them leave.
You are quiet and there is a boy. He is young and reminds you of your son in the worst way. He tells you that you are good.
(You are not.)
He is shivering in the cold. You cannot take your eyes off of him.
He is a child. You tell him, ‘I could keep you warm.’
(You do. He is warm as anything you’ve ever known.)
You are a monster.
You are broken because you cannot stop whispering their names. You hurt because your body denies you even the simple pleasure of death, it persists. Your heartstrings sing their names. Your closed eyes play their faces. Sometimes they are screaming.
You find him (or does he find you?) and this one is not a boy. He is an old man, a hurt man, just like you.
Your bodies fit together like something that’s been years in the making.
You are screaming because that man, the old sea-salt gray you wanted to have a family with, he’s being eaten alive, his bones washing into the sea. The noise of his neck breaking is like a gunshot. You have nightmares for months after.
Your son – not the praying one, but a new one, your new family – presses against you and you swallow bile, thinking ‘not again.’
You are old, impossibly old. You have nightmares. You haven’t seen your son in months. You are secretly glad because he hurts to look at in ways you’re afraid to decipher.
You repeat their names to yourself. It’s almost like praying. You always say her name first.
You are thinking of saying her name when she says yours.
She smells a little like death but underneath it all is the scent you knew so well. She has a mission but you don’t care because her neck is beneath your lips and she is whispering that she loves you so.
You tell her you love her, too.
(You do. You love her enough to kill for her. To die for her. Anything she asks.)
She asks if you will follow her. It’s a stupid question.
You realize that all this time, you’ve been waiting.
You follow. "
--Garbage's death post from earlier this year
"Sweet sick boy, I called what we had destiny. When you can blame the stars for aligning wrong so we collided (and crashed, and burned – but baby, we burned bright) it’s easier. Because thinking it’s something I did – that I had a choice, falling for you – that’s too much. It’s too much. I don’t like thinking I chose to hurt this bad, that I decided my heart would break – because I knew, baby-babylove, that you were going to break my heart long before you ever did. Handsome things like you are born heartbreakers, I’m sure you did it a thousand times before you shattered mine.
Maybe I’m just a narcissist but my heartbreak was the worst. Because the rest of them, you didn’t touch them (not like you touched me, anyways – your starfire kisses, oh). You didn’t tell them you loved them. You didn’t say to them, honeychild, we’re getting out.
I got out, I guess. But I want back in. I want back to you."
--Lovecraft, circa...anywhere from 2007-2009? maybe? it's another example of something I can't quite recreate - Lovecraft's posts were all letters to a past lover, which, while fun to write, explains why nobody really posted with him
"Yes, she forgot – like Lot’s wife, she looked back, but rather than turn to a pillar of salt she was met with mad howls and snapping jaws."
-- the "like Lot's wife" analogy is a FAVORITE (from Cordis)
"First: she loved her like a blind man loves color.
She is who was there when Cordis ran from the pits, hellhounds sharp and chuffing at her heels. She is the one who led them to the river, who baptized her. The one who tried to touch her, but did not question when Cordis pulled away, told her you can’t, you can’t.
(Which told her that someone once could.)
She did not know how to love, coming from this. She ignored and denied and smothered the feelings, not recognizing them. She had no way to articulate it and besides, there had been too much fear.
(Fear that what did transpire would transpire – she had been right on that account.)
All this to say, in the beginning she had loved her without knowing that she loved her, because they were too beautiful and impossible to describe, a feeling for which no words exist.
Then: she loved her like a natural disaster.
Catastrophe had been a theme with them. A lighthouse, begging her to wreck upon her shores. A man who had hurt Spyndle, plucked the feathers from her wings, because she had spurned her.
Cordis realized she was ruined when she was leaving (again) and she looked back (again) and she forgot, for the moment, about everything but hurt. And she had paid the price for that, because her attention had been focused on the gold mare the hellhounds had found their time, they had felled her.
(She survived, but why?)
It was mostly turmoil, because she knew - had known, from the beginning – that there was no happy ending, that they were impossible.
She knew, from the start, one of them was going to die.
All this to say, she loved her and wrecked her and was wrecked by her, and it took years until she could say her name without sobbing.
Now: she loves her.
There are no similes for it, because every bit of poetry she knows falls short of her, and when she sees the form – gold and snowy-winged and impossibly there - all words leave her throat.
(will you)
The question surfaces, a hint of coherence, spoken in her heartbeat slamming against her breastbone like it’s trying to burst out and lay itself at Spyndle’s feet.
(come back)
She wouldn’t come back; Cordis had accepted that (so she told herself), and besides, her memories are gone, Cordis saw the glazed eyes as they were drained from her. But in the moment it doesn’t matter, none of it matters, what matters is she can look upon her again.
Her memory could never do Spyndle justice, and she is spellbound when she sees her, a soft ‘oh’ catching in her throat.
(for me)
For us.
“Hello,” she says, because she does not know what Spyndle thinks of her – if, indeed, she thinks anything at all, she may just be a silver stranger transgressing the riverbank.
Which she was, once, all those years ago. A terrified stranger with a jitterbug heartbeat who thought they were something other than inevitable.
She loves her, like everything that’s ever mattered."
--Cordis circa 2014 to Spyndle. Spyndle was probably one of the best things to happen to my muse but this post is favorite