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Post by ★SIRIUS on Nov 16, 2013 21:07:10 GMT -8
1. | Dice ✓ | 2. | Fireflies ✓ | 3. | Blood ✓ | 4. | Sea ✓ | 5. | Glass ✓ | 6. | Boil | 7. | Machine | 8. | Fantasy | 9. | Dog | 10. | Lust | 11. | Titan | 12. | Free | 13 | Electrify | 14. | Regret | 15. | Children | 16. | City | 17. | Waste | 18. | Smile | 19. | Shackles | 20. | Lights | 21. | Song | 22. | Holiday | 23 | Villain | 24. | Hero | 25. | Fly | 26. | Tease | 27. | Touch | 28. | Hide | 29. | Night | 30. | Naive | 31. | Animal | 32. | Hush | 33. | Soon | 34. | Still | 35. | Friend | 36. | Close | 37. | Together | 38. | Fight | 39. | Mask | 40. | Clean | 41. | Stars | 42. | Panic | 43. | The End | 44. | Text | 45. | Return | 46. | Magical girls | 47. | Gundams | 48. | Bishounen | 49. | Tentacles | 50. | Writer's Choice |
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Post by ★SIRIUS on Nov 16, 2013 22:36:29 GMT -8
I. Dicehis whole life had been a gamble. every decision he'd ever made had been decided with the roll of a dice. sometimes he got lucky, sometimes he didn't. that's all life really was, you know.
luck.
a big, fat handful of luck. you mixed whiskey with your pills; you either died or you didn't. there was black and there was white, and that's all there was. it was how much valium you'd swallowed, how fast they found you. if they found you. some people had a god, some people had faith, but his scarred heart knew better than to reach for miracles. his destiny was blank. he had no deity. only chance. chance was all strays like him got. no one's god could save him. no one's god had saved her.
sometimes he liked to test his luck, tempt that thing that people called fate. he had nothing to lose. nothing but his life. and even that was empty; mangled fragments that had been strewn together into a meaningless mess.
the roar of traffic was deafening, headlights flashing by too fast in the dark. cold wind tugged at his hair and stung his cheeks, white knuckles squeezing the clutch so hard that it hurt. wild eyes and an overdose of adrenaline. they say he was laughing when the motorcycle swerved, gambling with his soul.
flip the coin. roll the dice. | |
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Post by ★SIRIUS on Nov 18, 2013 19:44:34 GMT -8
II. Fireflieshe would never forget those warm summer nights that they had spent at the lake house, far away from everything. there was no shouting. no car engines. just quiet and the song of young imaginations. it was safe.
when her parents thought they were asleep, they would sneak outside through the broken window and sit in the grass with the little glowing insects, asking each other what made them shine so brightly.
'they're just bugs.'
'nuh-uh. they're little stars that fell to earth.'
she would say it as if it were the truest thing in the world, eyes bright with wonder, so convinced that even the most skeptical adult would have looked twice, and he began to think that maybe the stars really did have wings. that's why he put them in a jar. she'd told him that she wanted the stars for her birthday, but even when he had stood on the highest rooftop he couldn't reach them. so he caught the bugs in his hands and trapped them in a glass cup for her to keep in her room at night. he gave her the stars.
but childhood was a fleeting innocence, a veil of naivety. something full of magic and awe that only a child's mind could see. once you lost it, you would never find it again. it wasn't like losing a coin or your favorite hat. it was gone, misplaced somewhere deep inside yourself that you could no longer reach.
she was gone now, and so was the magic. when he visited the lake house on her birthday, it was dark; echoes of distant laughter, lost under a starless sky. | |
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Post by ★SIRIUS on Nov 20, 2013 22:17:56 GMT -8
III. Bloodthe blood on his frigid fingertips wasn't his own, but he wished it was. no matter how hard he scrubbed his shaking hands, it would never come off. it was always there, under his skin. nobody could see it but him; the permanent stains of crimson-colored guilt.
he remembered sitting in the cold waiting room of the hospital that night, listening to the panicked beating of his own heart and staring at the red on his fingers as he prayed. prayed to a god he didn't believe in. the chill of shock numbed his senses, and for once in his life, he felt the fragility of everything around him. skin was thin and bones were breakable. he missed the sweet lies of childhood, when scraped knees could be mended with a band-aid and warm water.
it should have been him.
waiting was his own version of hell, and he would have given anything to take her place on the stiff hospital bed. the world wouldn't have missed him. he was nameless. he was no one. her laugh had been the only thing he'd ever lived for, but she could have had everything; the world had been at her fingertips. when the man in the white coat told him that she wouldn't wake up, he'd cried for the first time since he was eleven.
after that, he kept his hands in his pockets, so he couldn't see the blood. he drowned in it. | |
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Post by ★SIRIUS on Nov 25, 2013 20:29:37 GMT -8
IV. Seathe sea is his nostalgia. the quiet waves hold onto memories of another life, a time when he could still smile. his secrets are hidden in the depths of the tide, tucked away in the folds of the ocean, and sometimes the water pushes them back to the shore; forgotten fragments that lay among the broken shells and sand.
he can still hear the echo of her laughter in the soft rush of the waves, the same waves that stole her from him. in the summer, he walks along the shoreline, where the clouds plume up like cotton mountains, and puts the crumbling castles back together with wet sand. when winter comes, he skips stones on the still water, alone, until his fingers are cold and numb.
some find comfort in the emptiness of the sea, but for rhys, it has always been too full. | |
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Post by ★SIRIUS on Dec 22, 2013 19:27:42 GMT -8
V. Glasswhen he stared into the dirty glass of his cracked mirror, behind his wild eyes was a monster. a monster only he could see. untamed, unruly. he never cleaned the surface because he liked his face better that way. he liked the haze of filth, the smudge of faded fingerprints. there was a fracture in the center of the mirror where the glass had shattered long ago, sending spiderwebs of splinters throughout his reflection like jagged ripples. old blood, dark with age, had dried there, and his knuckles had scars that matched the shapes of the broken pieces. that's what he was, after all. broken. the men who laughed with him at the bar didn't really see him, nor did his brothers, or the random passerby on the street. no one did. without the fissures in the fragments of his tired face, pieces that didn't fit together anymore, he was too perfect, a stranger to his own eyes. the only time he recognised himself was when he saw his parallel behind the cracks. the only one who knew his damage was the lonely mirror in his empty apartment. |
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