Maybe I should be serious and actually write something meaningful here? Wait no I'm too silly to do that. And full. I ate too much and havent received any ice cream....still...I should watch more Ghost Stories Dub! Wait no I've seen all the episodes D:
O crepes, o pasta
O delicious chicken
I would sing you an opera
If only I wasn't eating
Also help, need coffee
Sweet sugar too
Else I'll be full of melancholy
And I'll be feeling blue
Guess I'll give it a go before I start binge writing my novel for the night... Probably get me deep in the mood.
They told me I wasn't born. I was found. That my eye wasn't missing. It just didn't exist.
I was created to hold the second eye of the Nonexistent King. And as a child I struggled with the knowledge that my entire existence was going to be lived as the host of an eye that didn't belong to me.
I pulled my palm away from the eye and stared at the cracked ceiling. Water trickled down to the slow-moving pool beside Nekra's corpse. The regret that brought me to sleep within an abandon building settled again in my gut. I should've left him with his owner back in the upper reaches of Kinlek. But they'd insisted that I take him. Said his nose would track Veira with ease.
And now he was dead beside me. The creature Veira and I had known since childhood. Drowned from a single night in the Callim Wastes. And here I was, finding myself in a dilapidated building, hoping to every King and god in existence that Vei wasn't in danger.
I pet Nekra's fur and yawned. "Goodbye," I said. My voice was coated with the wisp of loss, and my breath tasted like the tinge of morning. I shut my eyes and exhaled. My face held the stick of the tears I'd cried before sleep had stolen my mind and anguish. I knew leaving would be dangerous. But Nekra reminded me how harsh the world was without sentience playing against me.
I pulled my shirt from my empty socket and I sighed. I stood and wrapped the Lordstrip over my head to hide away the gaping hollow within my left socket.
The glow of the strip crossed my vision as I put it on. And the glow pulled at sweet memories. I shared my first kiss with Veira when she gave me the Lordstrip, and every time I wrapped my socket from view, I remembered the taste of her lips and the sound of her voice when she promised the Lordstrip held an innate power of the Lords. Or at least the one that owned it.
With a final prayer for Nekra I wandered from the ruins, exiting through the cave entrance we'd stumbled through the night before.
Even the light trickle of rain that the clouds summoned accentuated the wastes with the marsh pools and Rainhills that came during with the Fall.
It wasn't the season for the Callis Wetlands to overtake the Wastes. But it wasn't unheard of. The flash floods of En'tide hadn't given us a loop of four springs without wetlands for a century. And he definitely wouldn't let up with the current monarch of Kinlek in charge.
I trudged against the mud and muck, my boots sinking with every step. I made for the shallows beyond a growing pond, where the mud wasn't deep. I'd dressed in a halved shirt and shorts, expecting the dry to keep the lands, but now I regretted packing light without the spare clothing suited for the tides. The wastes were hostile with the sun. But when they flooded, new dangers emerged from the sands and stalked the waters, and the magic in the air took to forming life within the rain that pushed away wanderers. Everyone told stories to their children that En'tide's castle was buried beneath the sands. Castle Callim'kalis. That's what the wetlands and wastes were named after. And the forms that emerged in the rain were said to guard his kingdom.
I plodded atop a solid hill and scoped the area. Rivers and pools were growing and the rain was picking up once more. A few cliffs and mountains jutted from the mud and water ahead, leading to the Lenlak Cliffs in the distance, and I knew I was heading in the right direction.
The rains poured around me, and creatures formed at the base of my perch. The castle was the legend of the Wastes. But the ghost that haunted it had always been real to us in the stories. I gripped the sword at my hip and planted myself, ready to hold my ground, but a loud crack descended as the sky collapsed beside me.
I shook my head. The blast of lightning had thrown me away from the hill. And my wraps were missing.
I made to cover my eye, but the black cloud that erupted from it stung my hand. I yelped and pulled away. A dark spot evaporated from my palm like a wisp of smoke, eroding into the sky. The cloud my socket produced battled against the rain, ascending like a beacon against the blotted atmosphere above.
I had to find the Lordstrip. I sifted through the sand and stomped across a few hills until a gleam sparked within my view. I ran t the Lordstrip and cuffed it within my hands. But it was too late.
The cloud that rose from my socket stole light and color from the world and singed my face. I grasped at my head, the depths of my mind escaping through the void in my skull.
They came, predators finally able to feast upon their pray. Those who hailed from the nonexistent plain. Abhorrent monsters that were never meant to exist.
They stood at different heights, numerous amounts of limbs extending from each creature. Their patchwork jaws gaped and moaned for release from life. Damned to eternity without truly existing, they couldn't die. The sword Veira's father had given me could banish them. But they would always come back for me. And running gave me no grounds for escape.
The circle closed in. Talons tore at my exposed skin. Moans and distant screams whispered against my ears. Teeth nipped at my shoulders, and tongues slid against my forearm. Pitch black eyes rent through my gaze, and in the darkness I could see a wide array of teeth grinning at me.
He wanted his eye.
The 11th Lord wanted my eye. The one he was born without.
The creatures disappeared, erupting into a purple splash. The feeling of mud and water on my exposed back brought me to the wetlands once more. A man walked toward me, his hand falling to his side with a cloak following to cover it. His curly locks descended around his face and he stepped beside me, a shoe stamping against the ground. He was wearing shoes instead of boots in the wastes?
The Lordstrip ripped from my grasp and floated away, wrapping around the man's arm. He looked down to me and patted my head. "You found an old tattered piece of Lord's clothing?" He chuckled and rubbed my hair. "A girl your age wandering the wastes alone makes a poor end for a potential story. I'll accompany you. In exchange for some conversation, I'll return this shred of King's garb. Who knows, maybe it holds some magic in it yet."
"Who are you?" I asked. The man wore tattered garb in many layers that still managed to leave skin exposed to a breeze that whipped his clothing about him violently. He almost looked homeless, but the hulking sword on his back that stood taller than him told me he was fine on his own.
"The First King," he replied. He walked over a hill as I gawked at his answer. I stood my ground. I couldn't decide if I was confused by the man or worried for him. But, despite his ragged appearance, he didn't seem to be lying. He floated into the air, laying above the hills. "I'm not gonna carry your ass the whole way through. You looked ready to take the journey on your own. So step up and get going." He yawned. "What's your name?"
"The city calls me Null," I replied. "But Veira gave me the name Mirri'ei."
"Then Mirri'ei it is. Let's go. You look like you've lost something. I'll help you find it." He cracked his neck and stretched as he landed. "Hellvyre's off and busy and Tobu and Split are working on a new project. I need a way to pass some time."
I smiled and stepped forward. A King was willing to help me find Vei. And not just any King, but the very Lord that she believed once owned the Lordstrip.
Vei and I would make it to another kiss. And this time, I'd steal it from her lips.
Sorry this was so long. It's a bit different than the style of my current work, so I went off on it. xD But I've been working on my novel so much, this was a great break! Now I'm actually in the mood to get back to writing my novel again! I think I just needed a break for writing something else. xD This post works as a warm-up exercise!
You guys ever had that dream where a monsters attacking you but your punches are slow and weak as fk?? Shit is annoying as fuck!
I haven't for years, but I have before. I also woke from nightmare as a kid and punched my ceiling while cursing, then got scared that my parents would yell at me for it. xD (I had a loft bed, so the ceiling was right above me. I want it back, so I can drape blankets from it and sleep on the floor again! In the dark... I miss my carpet!)
Somewhere between falling madly in love with Karen and crushing her pretty little windpipe, Alta found a middle ground on which to stand and pretend to be as normal as she could possibly be. There was no distinct way in which Karen walked; no particular feature that stood out from the rest of her body; no distinguishable flair in her voice that seemed to make any Adonis swoon and Venusian beauties fall at her feet. Karen was so painfully ordinary that it irked Alta- from the tip of her toes to her stiffening shoulders, to the trembling breaths she emitted whenever the other girl so much as smiled that crooked, nauseating, beautiful smile.
Maybe that was it: she was normal. She was normal and Alta was not, not in any way or form (every once in a while she thought she spied the telling toothmarks of growing vampire fangs, but never spoke a word to her uncle). Karen had a father, a mother, two younger siblings and a cat. She played tennis in the evenings and was relatively studious, though occasionally she would - like every other student - delve into the terrors of mindless procrastination and complain about it on disgruntling Monday mornings.
Alta had a workaholic mother, a dead father whom she had never known, and an uncle who was currently busy killing someone she couldn't bring herself to know in order to pay for next month's rent. Funny how life was awfully unbalanced. So terribly imperfect. So horrendously infuriating.
"Alta, we have English next." Karen piped up beside her. "You ready to go?"
"Oh," and Alta exhaled a trembling sigh, "I'm am never."
I'll continue
"I wish there was a way to bridge the gap between my two competing passions. I really hate that my family doesn't like that I'm artistic and I like to write. Sometimes I feel ostracized by the writing community because I don't procrastinate and that I've hit a lot of milestones. I'm not in the process of writing my masterpiece anymore, I already finished it. I feel like there's a well of misery that I don't understand anymore. I'm not a depressed artist or writer. I take care of myself and I can complete things that are creative and successful. Sometimes I feel like I'm on this mountain by myself that everyone thinks I'm looking down on them. Just because I have more doesn't mean I'm happy about it. I wish I could meet more people who are as accomplished as I am instead of trying to accomplish what I already have. Sometimes I wonder why I have this personality type that I'm not allowed to feel accomplished and I always want to do more. It's like this race to climb higher and higher mountains where if you get to the top of one, you're in the shadow of the next bigger one that someone else is on the top of. I feel so little with what I've accomplished. It's more than a lot of people, but it's a lot less than where I'd thought I'd be by now."
I really wanna release this one story early but I dont have a buffer but I still wanna have it out there >.> fffffffffffffff RIP
If you like turnips, may I recommend a short story1 featuring one?
(shameless promotion)
Moving. I hate moving. Looks like I am moving to another state. Where I know absolutely no one. I hate moving. Boxes here boxes there, boxes everywhere. Boxes in the nooks and cranny's, boxes that have my jammies, wait, I don't own jammies. I hate moving.
This same song:
It shouldn't be this long,
But because I listen to it on and on,
Perhaps there's something wrong.
For the first time in a very long time, I actually wrote something.It poured out of me, as I wrote and wrote frantically. I felt happiness like I haven't felt in a very long time. But then, doubt and shame follows. If I love doing this, why do I keep putting it off? Why don't I write all the time? Why do I only wait for the moments of inspiration for me to remember what really matters? This, right here, feels just right.
But I know the drill. The feeling will last for a while, I'll try to recreate it during the next few days, but at some point, I will lose myself in useless distractions, and since I'm not the most disciplined person, I will stop writing once again, until the urge comes back.
They say the universe breeds strange things, and that one must do well to respect that.
Bianca didn't respect that warning.
She chased after it and dove into the dark depths of woods, a young woman on the edge of seventeen. With curly red hair and outstanding freckles, she was a live wire that bounced along wet grounds, toeing and paving on the line of danger. With a flashlight to her name and a flowing blue dress down to her knees, she danced along the forest floors, barefooted and free like a nymph ballerina.
Her curls swirled around her head, and her eyes saw flashes as she spun and spun around, until a voice echoed through her ears and wormed its way in.
"Come inside the mellows and jump into my arms, my dear"
She opened those earth brown eyes and saw the grove of trees in the distance. It stood there, lanky and spidery -- eyes white like Minnesota snow. It showed its red teeth, and stomped its foot once, twice, before it beckon her to follow.
"Come to the meadows and jump into my arms...if you dare..."
Bianca felt her eyes ignite with fire, and she raced out to the entity, heart racing and flowers crushed under her feet. It towered over her, like a tree -- older than time -- and she bowed playfully.
"What do you have to show me, child of the forest?"
"Truths beyond human mind, daughter of the Earth. Take my hand, and look into my eyes. Only then will you see"
No fear flashed her eyes as Bianca took its hand. Darkness engulfed her, like a tight hug from an overbearing mother, and excitement raced through her veins. Her lips parted, and her eyes dilated, and in those white shark eyes, it showed her the universe's end.
"Bianca!! Bianca, where ARE you?!!!"
Her mother and eldest brother -- only older by 5 summers -- raced through the dark woods, carrying lanterns. Their eyes were laced with fear, Bianca's name slipping through the branches and returning distorted and deformed. Soon, whispers lingered in their ears, and her family ran to the meadows.
Her mother had been the first to see her, and she fainted on sight, a wail bellowing deep from her soul. Her brother stared, his skin turning deadly white, as Bianca came from the trees, holding her ears in bloodied hands. She smiled with long, spidery fingers and breathed through her eyes, her mouth staring back at them.
"I have tasted and felt the colors of universe.."
The universe breeds strange things, and that one must do well to respect that.
Why does it hurt to love, and why does it hurt to hate?
If a whippoorwill in the trees gave you a berry to eat, would you eat it? Or would you spit it out, a red pasty mess, and send an arrow through the whippoorwill's heart? And wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, leaving behind a red smear, and gaze at the screen briefly, breaking the fourth wall, then spit out the remaining juice like blood and leap down from the tree to approach slowly, slowly over the ghosts of those long dead that you must never meet?
And as the ghosts rise out of the ground like quivering jello, splash your spear over their heads one by one so that they explode like water and leave the ground stained with wetness, and once that is done, tiptoe over the top like a ballerina and blow a kiss before doing a backflip back into the trees because somewhere, that whippoorwill is waiting for you, and though you spat out its offering of a berry, you don't want to let it down.
Shoot an arrow from the tree into a fawn's heart and trill at the top of your lungs. Birdspeak.
Man, I don't know. My brain is weird.
Everything came crashing down when mc mcfucktits ran into his classmates morbidly oversized breasts and suffocated – except nothing came crashing down – this was in no way original, as it was an introduction taken from the brain splurge of another individual – and to be frank, I am completely indifferent about what I am doing. With that in mind, let’s restart this story:
…yes, it is true that everything came crashing down that day, but not in the way previously described. M.C McFucktits, during his way to school, ran into the chest of a most beautiful girl – a blonde maiden, with 3 arms, an overbearing penis that bulged through her skirt, and at least 11 toes on her feet, total.
“Gyaaah! You pervert” she yelled, as her elephantine genitalia swayed in the wind. MC Mcfucktits, despite his desire to scream to the world ‘I’ve found the jackpot,’ found himself in a most terrifying state of paralysis. In fact, his entire body went limp – he even saw centipedes crawling out of his fingernails, but he was unsure of their true authenticity. As his vision faded, this classmate of his leaned over his face, whispering something, something that alluded to a ‘brooding gloom’: “It’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine…”
It is true that I used the copy and paste function earlier, as a means of making the whole process of writing a novella quicker – I’m surprised that I’m tired of this task already, I wonder why I-
In an instant, I found the right side of my wall spattered with an organic material – it was red and squishy, much like a watermelon, and it was only after a few seconds that I noticed the rest of my head on the ground below. It was a wonder that I still had my own head on this feeble body of mine, but it was a surprise nonetheless.
“WHERE’S THE JOKE JP?”
Turning my head, I found my good friend Aya with a shotgun in hand, smoke floating from the double barrel. Her hands were shaking, and she had on her face a humorous aspect.
“STOP WRITING META JOKES,” she walked over to me and shot my head again – now there were two heads on the floor.
Any who, though I am most confused that such a friend is in my house, it is something I will put aside for now – let’s continue the story.
As MC McFucktits came to, he heard the rustle and bustle of crates on the deck of a boat, as well as the abundant rushing of water. Amidst the rushing of steps, he could make out the chitter and chatter of little monkeys and potentially small Sudanese children.
“Hip hop, hippedy bip bop – get the canoe, get the glue, look at me, my name’s Apu.”
The captain rapped orders to his men as they rushed to and fro, readying their ship for combat, for looming on the horizon was a monster of indescribable proportions – a giant, naked woman with three arms sprouting from her back, two giant chain saws sewn shoddily to her breasts (she was flat, and she considered this a form of compensation), and a tricorne-like hat on her head. ‘Let me get out of here, help me get out of here – I don’t want to be here, I want to go home and play some vidya.’ MC Mcfucktits (fuck it, let’s just call him MC from now on) shuffled his fat ass around the crate, feeling around the ridges of the surface for some hint to get out – alas, he escaped the crate in a most fabulous fashion, exploding out of the box and sending shards of wood at light speed into the faces of the men surrounding him – they were now all unicorns, or looked like them at least.
“What the fuck are you doing here?!”
The captain was a Sudanese person too, and despite her deep and masculine voice, she happened to be a most voluptuous woman. Nevertheless, she looked away, and threw her pokeball at the monstrous creature in the distance – she caught it, she caught them all. MC, knowing that his job here was done, lay on the deck and died promptly.
