Oc Writing - Tumblr Posts
every line on my lips every permanent scar every wrinkle each smile line has your name etched into the crevices and your name echoes deep within their bounds.
if only you would attempt to taste that name of yours which you utter with such contempt and such unfamiliarity you would discover the sweet delectabilities the passionate, rich tarts and the homely, comforting intoxication that your delightful name is painted of.
i see the universe as this dear art piece fabricated by an eternal, celestial artist fashioned with all the love and passion filled in her heart.
you ever wonder whether she looks at her creations and simply sits in awe, watching them fill up her tiny piece of art with more life, joy and love than can be held in her tiny heart?
as the sea waves come crashing onto the shore singing their usual lullaby to their dear niblings of fine grain a small child watches and listens noiselessly in awe of the calm and joy delivered through simple motions of the water he has seen sitting still at his very home.
the young child finds himself hidden within the clear ripples of the everlasting waves. as they wash onto his feet, bringing all his love and joy and more rushing back to him.
as the seas sing their lullabies to the children of the earth (their dear sister) they do not realise their role in awakening a poet in the magnanimous heart of a loving child.
the turning tides have bought the heart of perhaps the most coveted and most sought-after soul that walks upon this earth without ever intending to do so.
what do they choose to do with this power? they choose not to abuse it not to impose it but rather simply to sing its sweet lullabies to another newly obtained sweet child of the earth the seas choose to adopt the heart and soul of the young one as a second child and in doing so make the earth a hundredfold more beautiful a thousandfold more elegant and infinitely more cherished.
as i am drenched by the rain, blanketed by its cold protected by the piercing of its bullet drops i can only reminisce about the cold, piercing voice that whispers in my ears about how it hates me with a fierce passion.
yet its hands always seem to find ways to bury themselves deep within me and leave 'love' buried within the holes they dug into my heart.
did you remember every word every sentence you said to me and look back at the harshest, most piercing of words as if they were deep, unbridled confessions of love and lust? did you hate yourself want to bury yourself into the darkest, most unknown corners of this planet simply for falling in love?
i hate you, i love you, i don't know who you are.
i have always wondered how you seem to fool yourself thinking that there is 'no way' a being such as yourself could be loved.
i ask you, my dear, do you think it just to torture me so with your enticing, alluring, beautiful eyes with your full, arched, smiling lips and still call yourself an unlovable 'troll'?
imagine having the audacity to torture someone with intense, never-ending love and then state that you are impossible to fall in love with.
perhaps a madman was simply only madly in love and was left unrecognized.
link to photo
seeing these tiny, gentle spots of drifting, floating winter joy i am reminded of the shiny, dear pearls that adorn your face
my hand shivers today simply by coming in contact with those white specks of wonder and joy just as my eyes have shivered every day simply by seeing your dear threaded, perfect, priceless pearls studding the cut gemstone others call a 'face'.
touching the thorns of this alluring rose bush, seduced by the blood red rose whose snakelike thorns have pierced into every thought of mine, i am reminded of the rose-bed that encloses those dear pearls that i fear so instinctively.
i may shudder at the mere sight of such unbearable beauty but just as both the rose and the white specks of winter wonder give me piercing pain and yet i thirst for even a passing caress of their delicate, loving, torturous skins, i shall still thirst for the smallest glimpse of your ever-delightful, ever-floating, ever-loving smile and the lightest touch from the rose-beds of your lips;
(and perhaps, maybe falling on the dying crimson embers of mine?)
link to photo
have you ever watched a dear kitchen plant raised with your own love and your delicate hands
slowly wither away, shedding its browning leaves; the very leaves that you fed and watched grow green?
have you ever witnessed your own masterpiece made with love and passion
get torn apart; ripped to pieces by the out-of-touch, uncaring hands of a hateful child with no other outlet for his anger?
i have watched this love, this life turn into a hateful conversation, a tasteless lie.
i have watched all of my love and all of my heart wither away, simply because you couldn't try to not rip apart everything handed to you.
how much love do i have to give you for you to stop ripping it apart?
how much of my heart do you need to rip into pieces to start trying to participate in giving me some love?
i've given enough of myself to the world; i don't need you to tear up more of it.
A Glimpse in The River
(this is a repost of some old work. sorry if this isn't to your taste and let me know if you'd like to see more or if you'd prefer to just read my 'poetry'.) (thank you for your valuable time and support❤️❤️.)
Day of the Mirror
The feeling of hitting wet sand while running.
Your sunlit face tells you it's a hot day out, while the rest of your river-water-covered body tells you it's cold.
Your timid, nervous face looks at you from within the clear river water.
Could this day get any worse?
Maybe it will.
Day of the Self
A large and dark-grey ceiling hangs over a room of three completely white walls. The roof overhead is heavy and hangs directly over the heads of those below. It is lumpy, uneven and covered by a thick veil of perpetual gloom.
The strange thing is, the ceiling, as horrible for a stable structure as it is, continues looming overhead with no sign of ever bursting and ending the misery it is put through, resulting in the very thing causing others grief and disappointment.
You look at the ceiling and try to understand how it came to this situation. You wonder what the damage is and try to look for answers. How much ever you try, the only thing you find is grief. Layers and layers of suffering, misery and soul-emptying loneliness.
The walls feel solid, yet the sense that they could easily be torn down slithers up your feet, creeps up your arms and worms into your mind.
Day of the Odd
Is it possible for everything to seem out of place in an area housing nothing?
Can one feel as though they are getting suffocated by nothingness?
Why should life make its hosts feel like it wants to suck out all forms of reality from the hosts themselves?
A house with nothing to show must have nothing to hide.
Mustn't it...?
Day of Discovery
A house made of only a room with three walls.
A house whose broken fourth wall is unable to keep the house bound together.
A house with a weak base.
A house that has no doors.
A house whose walls are not connected closely with each other.
A house with nothing to show.
Except for an invisible window.
Will the window leave a tiny crack?
Can I hope for some light and warmth in this darkness-ridden world?
Day of Redemption
A small window creaks open in a dark and empty room, allowing a small glimpse of the world outside.
The cracks in the window are no source of hope. Instead, they are the exact opposite. They reveal a meek world filled with unpleasantries. The world they overlook is bleak, meaningless and a world that follows pointless objects in the pursuit of what it calls happiness.
Reform of a specific blind hope is in process. It was mistaken to believe that simply because there is another world out there, it would be better than the one I am subjected to live in.
We were told that there is always a better world out there.
That was a lie.
While looking through the crack in the window, my hands drift over the walls. They feel strange. The walls feel solid and as though they have been up for several years. What lies outside is only a limited, narrow view. The world seems completely empty, apart from a few disappointing, uncaring people pursuing pointless endeavors.
The small and limited room seems immaterial. The room is off-putting, with the way it warps the sense of one's reality. It feels unreal, yet forces you to think it is the only reality you can attach yourself to.
If you don't, you'll just end up going mad. Or at least, that's how you see it.
Break Day
A crack in the walls appears as a pair of deep, loving green eyes peek through. The gap widens further and further. You notice the bearer of the dark green eyes is the one breaking the walls with her sharp glance and strangely gentle-looking hands.
She enters the wide hole and beams at you. She sighs in slight exhilaration. She moves closer to you, grabs hold of your hands and seats you onto one of the most comfortable-feeling armchairs you have sat on in a long time. She seems to conjure it out of thin air. You knew the chair wasn't there previously.
This feels good. The chair feels good. The air feels good. Her gentle grasp feels good.
You see the tiniest sliver of sunlight. You smile to yourself, one of the first smiles you have had in six years. You finally feel some hope for yourself.
You can do this. Maybe, just maybe, the window leads to somewhere good.
Present Day
"Aris? What are you doing here?"
"I tried to do the only thing I could. Escape. Leave the torture I was subjected to and fade away."
"But why? Why like this?"
"I don't know, Wisteria! It was the only way I could think of!"
"You know there was another way. You know there-"
"Wisteria, stop. I'm tired. I've been tortured for long enough now. Let me get just a little bit of peace in my sleep. We'll talk afterwards."
"(sigh) Alright. Take your rest. You deserve it. I'm staying here, though, and you aren't going to stop me.
17 years ago
A cosy cottage by the hills. A clear lake with little tulips and lilies. Little children running about the lake, all with about as much joy as you'd expect.
Could you think of a sadder and more painful sight?
A little child pokes her dear and delicate tulip head out the cottage window. She follows the children with dedicated and hopeful eyes, wishing desperately to be a part of their group.
She rushes out of the room into the kitchen. She chirps up, with her little baby voice,
"Maman, puis-je sortir jouer avec ces filles?"[1]
Her Maman smiles at her.
"Oui, ma cherie."[2]
The young cherie rushes out of her house, screaming as wildly as all the other children. Lost in joy, she has left the earthly world behind and ascended to a higher realm, that of Euphoria.
She rushes out with her newfound joy, experiencing it all in one go, unaware that that will be the last time she shares joy like that in at least 3 decades.
All the young children bounce about with joy, their delighted shrieks filling the meadows with pleasant birdsong. All of them jump into the lake and swim about for at least an hour, splashing with all the grace of a seagull looking for food.
None of them notice the smell of smoke piercing the air around them. Not until it's too late.
The little girl poked her head out of the lake to look at her Maman, but her eyes could only see flames licking the land around her. Frightened, she tries throwing some water outside. The flares die quickly, but she is still far too late.
The poor cherie rushes out of the lake, screaming, 'Maman!' No reply comes.
It never shall come.
Fearing the worst, she finds a pail nearby, fills it with water and runs to her house. The smell of smoke alerts her, and she throws the water, managing to put the fire out.
She rushes inside, hoping to find her Maman struggling to breathe but still alive. Nothing but a bit of her Maman's apron is one of the only survivors.
She does not make noise. She tries to will her legs to move, but they are frozen to the spot. She melts down and sits amidst the pile of ashes. She tightens her hold around the piece of cloth.
Unbeknownst to her, she has not escaped scratch-free. A part of her has burnt away in the flames, an essential component. In fact, it is the only part that ever mattered.
That part is a capacity to feel joy. Nay, it is the boldness to feel pure glee. And, by the time she regains that part of her, she will have been too late. She will have missed out on the chance to rejoice in the best parts of life. But she must know that there is hope for her. There is a cure for all afflictions and, no matter how late it comes, it will come, and it will heal her.
Present Day
Everything became hazy. My mind was heavy as is. The hospital beds were uncomfortable to sleep on, but my exhausted person did not care. I was just beginning to doze asleep when I heard Wisteria's worried and caring voice, barely a whisper now, say, "Thank you so much for asking me to check in on her. Poor girl, she's gone through so much. I'm glad she was able to get out alive."
The last thing I heard before dozing off was Wisteria's sobs as she grasped my hand tight. She managed to stop crying for a while, simply to tell me, "You shouldn't have gone through that. I promise that from now on, wherever you go, you won't go alone. I'm there with you every step of the way."
I give her a little smile. I forced my eyes open and managed to get some words out.
"Wisteria?" "Yes?" "I love your dark green eyes." "(shh) Save that for when we get home, silly!"
She smiles at me, pulls me toward her and clutches me tight toward herself. She holds me like that for some time, and I fall asleep in her arms.
It has been a while since I have felt such security, warmth and love.
It feels good.
(translation: [1] Maman, could I play with those girls? [2] Of course, my dear.)
CONTEXT HERE:
hello❤️
❤️❤️to everybody who has been reading my silly old words, thank you very, very much for all your kindness and support. truly, you all are one of the best people i have ever encountered.❤️❤️
recently, i have posted this story on here. it's one of the few stories that i have written that i think are half-decent.
as far as i've seen, y'all don't seem too favourable toward my stories (you seem to like my so-called 'poems' more).
i do have a personal interest in story-writing and had in mind a kinda sorta developed universe-type thing with Wisteria and Aris. if you answer favourably to this poll, i will do my best and work on this project. if not, i don't want to waste your time or provide you with content that doesn't stay w/ you.
also, please, please, please provide feedback on this story. i very desperately want to improve my craft and i believe that the first step to improvement is constructive feedback. be as cruel as you can, i can (and should) handle it.
and, to all of you out there who take out valuable time on your day to check up on this blog and read the tiny, silly things i write, thank you so very, very much. all of your love, support and care truly makes my day.
also, so very sorry for posting this again, my stupid self only just realised that i didn't set the timer for longer, so nobody was able to vote. please, please, please, make sure to vote. i love to hear from y'all, and, i mean, art exists only with its audience. thank you, each and every single one of you, for making mine something a little worthwhile❤️❤️
You are rendered speechless for a moment. This room around you feels unfamiliar. You have no recollection of ever having been in a building with a huge hallway-like room whose walls are covered in what seems to be yellowing tiles whose once-had splendour could have been imposing enough to scare you, but now they only tire you.
"Nightstand?", you wonder. "What's that supposed to be?"
Before looking for any key, you look around your room to let it all sink in. The note posted hastily onto the wall beside you seems to be written by those odd machines that the Others possess. This was something you'd heard about the Others- they apparently have not developed enough to create MemoWrites and, to make life easier, seem to just use mechanical devices. Pity.
The area you're currently occupying resembles a bedroom which, by the looks of it, was pre-owned and used by another (and therefore heavily customised). The bedroom appears to only be a section of a larger room. This larger room appears to be a passageway or a corridor of sorts with tiled marble walls--each of the tiles looks bleak and imposing, almost meant to instil a semblance of seriousness but their very obvious age (displayed though peels, cracks and yellowing) now only makes them appear tiring. You notice the oddity of this; the section you are sitting in is vastly different from the rest of the room. To you, it feels as if there used to be walls around your section that appear to have been removed by some means. You wonder which sort of Others these are, who can simply remove and place walls per their own will. The section you are occupying, instead of having tiled walls, is covered in what seems to be some form of decorative paper. The paper on your walls has leaves painted onto them in soft 'pastel' greens (that's what the Others call those colours, isn't it?) and there are a few posters stuck onto the walls with a little more care that the note. The posters are one of the few that you can recognize as something you might see back in your home timeline. You remember receiving and putting up your first poster; a large rose inked in gold with wings around it, inscribed onto a print of black marble. You remember your Insignia well. The posters here don't seem to hold as much significance as they do back at your home. You spot a poster of what appears to be a lightning bolt with... glasses? and 2 small letters below-- HP.
That's an odd Insignia, you think to yourself. And it has initials? These Others are quite the oddity.
Another poster has what some groups of Others call a 'rock band'. You have always wondered what that even meant- as far as you know, rocks did not make good circular or hollowed objects, let alone something like an elastic band. You had heard a few samples of rock 'music' a few years back, in Time Studies. Again, you wondered about the rock part. Were these people really so far behind that they still used rocks to make instruments? No wonder they didn't still have MemoWrites.
The poster had no initials beneath, it just had the words 'Rock On!' written in (Cursive, was it?) Cursive handwriting.
Why did all the Others have odd names for things? Could they not just have normal, sensible names for things once in a while?
The decorative paper takes you back to your grandmother's house. Your grandmother had her house painted in a way very similar to the way this room had been wallpapered. She used to say, "If the place you live doesn't represent you, what's the point of calling it 'home'?". She inspired you to paint your own walls, and it was a decision you haven't regretted since. Your grandmother, you reminisce, was an... expressive woman. You loved how frank, open and honest she was. You loved how bubbly and confident she was. You, sadly, were not everybody else. People often misunderstood your kind grandmother and, with her disposition, she got in trouble far too often. There was one thing she taught you, though, and that was to unapologetically be yourself. Her confidence inspired you, and she always, always told you to never let another's biases influence your opinions or change how you present yourself and your thoughts.
Waves of repulsion course over you. You despise this world that contains no trace of your grandmother and her loving, robust personality with every fibre of your being. I have to get out of here, you silently think to yourself.
Now, onto that key.
You try to find something that looks like a key, but you spot nothing that looks even remotely similar to a small piece of bluish plastic. You instead find an oddly shaped metal object sitting on top of what you are used to calling shelvings.
You try to reach the 'key' with whatever little energy your body can muster. You hadn't yet realised how much pain you were in. You feel a dull pain echoing through every inch of your body. Your head is pulsing, and your skull feels like it is being compressed under a hydraulic press from all sides. Your brain feels weak. Your palms are trembling-you seem to have lost some motor control. Just as you try to move your body just a little bit, your entire body caves in, and you fall down with a thud. You let out an exasperated sigh and lift yourself back up. You aren't able to. You attempt slowly dragging yourself over to the shelvings and manage to get a little further that way.
You reach the shelvings and try to reach for the metallic object. You muster a little strength and try to direct it to your fingers to stabilise them. Once your fingers stop trembling as much, you slam your palm down onto the top of the shelving and drag your hand over the surface to find the metal. After a little bit of 'searching' (if you could even call it that), you feel something cold against your skin. Not the cold of ice, but that of untouched metal. You grab on, let your arm fall to you and lift yourself up. You manage to do it this time. You frantically search the chains binding you for any of those holes that you have seen in the primitive hole-and-stick system you have studied Other civilizations using.
After what feels like millennia of searching, you finally find a hole. You stick the object in and turn it to the right, hoping for the best. You hear a small 'click' like the click of gears - the metal clinks onto the floor - off comes the first chain. You search for a hole in the second chain-you find one - gears click together - off comes the second one.
Newfound freedom puts enough energy in your voice for you to make your voice just loud enough for somebody sitting 6 inches away from you to barely be able to hear you saying, 'I'm coming back to you, Nana.'
(this is a work in progress. will rb soon w/ updates. thanks for ur time❤️❤️)
You wake up with what feels like a terrible hangover, the dilapidated room around you is unfamiliar and you are chained to the bed, written on the ceiling is the message “If you can read this you’re human enough to use the key on the nightstand”
You spot something gleaming just opposite to you. The twinkling seems to emanate from under the bed opposite to you. A glass of water hiding underneath the cot opposite you sits just on the border between the carpeted flooring of the section you are sitting in and the plain, cold marble floor of the hallway. Now that the chains are off, you can crawl to the cot and drink water. The edge, energy and adrenaline of success have not yet worn off, so you crawl over to the bed. Beside the water, you find a small, rectangular object covered with a smooth wrapping paper with 'Granola Energy Bar' scrawled over it.
Here's something you're familiar with.
You have no idea what the word 'Granola' means, but you had energy bars back at your home timeline. They were, of course, raw sources of power. ATP chemicals made into a form easily absorbable by your body. And the synthetic flavourings made them delicious. You have always wished they used that synthetic flavouring for everything, but you knew the science behind it well enough to not want to ingest more than a few grams of it. After all this struggle, you deserve something at least a little palatable.
You drink your glass of water and empty it in one swig. You pick up the bar, and just as you are about to tear through the wrapping paper like an animal, you spot another piece of paper stuck to the back of the bar, which reads, "Sorry for the unappetising snack- we know you deserve better after so much effort, but this was all we can offer you here. Good job on making it so far. You'll find a real treat when you reach the Final Puzzle."
Unappetising? Whoever this person was, they clearly had not experienced the delectable delights of an Energy Bar.
You tear open the paper in a brutish manner (as you knew you would) and take a bite of the bar. You expected something completely different. You expected to be relieved of all the pain in one go and get filled with energy at the first bite. You expected to be floating on cloud nine with the fresh hit of flavour. What you got, of course, was a sore disappointment.
The energy bar tasted like flat granular pieces of thick sandpaper glazed with some odd sticky syrup to attempt compensation for the appalling texture and taste. The person writing these notes was right about the unappetising taste of the energy bars of the Others.
What pitiable little creatures.
You scarf down a huge chunk of the bar despite the appalling taste. Your insatiable appetite does not possess any regard for taste, and you eat as if you have been on the brink of famine this entire time. Only a quarter of the energy bar is left unconsumed by the raging fire of your appetite. You can only suppress an unappetising taste for so long before it hits you. And when it hits you, it hits you like a trainwreck.
You remain seated for a while, waiting for the 'energy' part of the energy bar to kick into action. You've had this happen to you before, especially when you feel extremely tired; your body will not have enough strength to immediately absorb the energy and will take a little time to do so. When the energy gets absorbed though, you receive an instantaneous "kick" feeling that instantly rejuvenates and energizes anyone in desperate need of energy.
You wait for what feels like an eternity for the kick of energy, but it never comes. Tired of waiting, you get up. The energy bar has given you just as much energy as you would've gotten from eating something like a sandwich or a small salad. It was definitely there, but not really energy-restorative or adequate compensation for all the suffering you were put through. That ever-present ache all over your body had dulled down just enough to allow you to divert some energy into moving around.
You have a nagging feeling of wondering whether those who were in charge of this whole situation wanted you in this crippled, energy-deprived state for whatever sick things they wished to do.
Just because you have a tad more energy doesn't mean your body will stop trying to act sluggish. You drag your feet across the room. You need to examine the room. Perhaps there are more clues as to what this place is and how you even got to an Other Uni. Maybe even a clue as to how to get out of this place and back home?
You reach a wall and plaster your hands to it. You'd thought that the decorative paper would have made the paper smooth, but the walls were still harsh. It had the texture of old watercolour paper that was left exposed to friction and the air for too long.
You examine the posters more closely, trying to divine some details about the workings of this Uni, the level of knowledge they have about the Others and exactly what the purpose of this building is. There's not much to see. Some of the posters are just pictures of beautiful painted skylines. They're gorgeous and all, but they don't really add anything of value to the place. And, in the current moment, you could really use something that gave you at least a little bit of information.
You find an elevated bump as you run your palms over the walls. This stupefied you for a moment. Quite the discovery to make! You knew what that could mean, of course. It could most definitely mean access to a doorway or some concealment of sensitive information. The thought of such possibility thrilled you. There was, of course, the possibility that it was of no consequence, that this room was simply oddly shaped and you were lead on a wild goose chase. You were not willing to think of such possibility, and you therefore moved to action.
You run your hands up and down over the elevated area to figure out the dimensions of this elevation. You find that the elevated bump is two heads higher than you are--approximately 6.5 feet off the ground. The bump ran to the floor, so it was a 6.5 ft high elevation. After tracing out the highest point on the elevation, you run the tips of your fingers sideways, attempting to figure out whether the elevation was a part of the wall (and therefore of no consequence) or a block that stood separately from the wall. You found that the elevation abruptly fell to the original thickness of the wall after what felt like 2.5 ft of running your hand along one side. It felt almost like a thicker block of wood covered by decorative paper was randomly placed in the middle of the wall. You had to admit, the cover-up was done in a deviously clever manner. The raised area would not seem odd to anyone who didn't know where to look; the elevation was very slight- slight enough to be ignored by anyone who was far too concerned with (and terrified of) the matter of being kidnapped and locked up in an odd place unfamiliar to them, even if they were standing close to the wall.
Such placement could not be simply random, of course. It could only mean one thing-- either it was a door to a hidden passageway, or it concealed a part of the wall that could be incriminating.
You immediately felt the adrenaline rushing into your body. You had discovered something of consequence-- something that might help you get out of this accursed place.
You could feel the thrill and exhilaration of success coursing through your body. You finally saw a way to get out of this hell. Finally, the terror and stress that you felt pressing on you (ever since your consciousness had been cursed to have this hell on earth embed its mark deep into your consciousness, which modified it radically and permanently) had loosened the firm grasp it had held over every fibre of your mortal being. The exhilaration of this momentary release from the fear of the unknown, the immense joy pulsating through your veins during that immediate moment before discovery, and all those joyous positive emotions were a fresh breath of new air after all that terror, weakness and stress were thrilling to feel, like feeling the soothing lukewarmth of old tea after roaming in the winter frost for a bit too long.
All those welcome feelings of elation came accompanied by an edge of anxiety. You were still not aware of what the future held for you. You were well aware of the dangers that could be caused by your very presence in this unknown Uni. You were sure this was an honest mistake; Unis like these were 'experimenting' with their little sciences without understanding exactly what they were subjecting their worlds to. An incomplete understanding of the facts always leads to violence. Violence breeds only amidst the ignorant. Ignorance is the downfall of civilization. Even though that may be true, that did not mean that all danger would be negated simply due to the madness that ignorance gives people. You still fear the intentions of the person/s that had access to devices that were able to bring a person from another Uni directly into their own Uni. You feel that lingering anxiety, having its sources in wondering what else they were capable of, what their level of knowledge pertaining to the matter of Time Studies was and what intentions, motives and purposes they had. You were far too used to the natural capability for nefariousness that was becoming of humanity as a whole, no matter which conditions they lived in.
This was no time to let your mind race or to let thoughts, doubts and emotions get in your way. Your fingers wrap around the top edge and the side closest to you of the smooth wood block. You yank at the block, expecting it to fall out. That does not work.
That negates one of my doubts which leads me to believe... I've stumbled upon a doorway!.
You let go of the top of the block. You gently pull the side of the block.
Slowly, the door creaks open.
On the other side, you can spot a sliver of light seeping in from some faraway window. Those slivers of sunlight bring along with them crashing waves, rippling with hope.
I'll get home soon.
You wake up with what feels like a terrible hangover, the dilapidated room around you is unfamiliar and you are chained to the bed, written on the ceiling is the message “If you can read this you’re human enough to use the key on the nightstand”
roses
do you ever wonder at the mind-utterings of a rose? or pondered at the whispered wishes the heartfelt, hushed loves that are sung deep within that nest of blood petals?
this tiny little dewdrop that has now set itself on the edge of my paper once hung over the edge of her dear friend's petals kis't the tender, shielding nest which warms her friend's heart and had the fortune of leaving its heart right next to her dear rose's
and so desperate is that little dewdrop to sing of the whisperings she has borne witness to that she has lost the very body that made those mutterings meaningful simply to become ink on my paper and write her record of her own accord.
this dewdrop says that all that lovely rose wishes for is to feel less lonely to have her dear heart, which she has shielded and nestled for so long, finally find a channel to flutter in and find love to melt into
a rose's heart is simple and very delicate. she only desires to dissolve into love's deep and vibrant trance. her heart knows naught of the turmoil that comes with love the fear that accompanies boundless affections and the 'other'ness that comes crashing into one's heart riding on the powerful waves of unchecked yearning.
the dewdrop is no simpleton. she has lived countless lives; many as the vast oceans, many as the tiny teardrops in terrified eyes.
she knows the endless joys of rich and unique love. she knows the many tales and tapestries that love has woven through her blind, benevolent hands
yet, she also knows the many fears that love brings.
love's very blindness and benevolence become blessing and curse and toy with the lives of those who have too much love to give.
the loneliness and the abandonment that deep, blind love causes is unbearably oppressive and a root for so many, many fears...
all creatures have an instinctual, intrinsic, animalistic yearning for deep, passionate love but why are the creatures for whom love is overflowing and kindness is in verity discarded by the very humans who are characterised by their yearning of this full, flowing love so regularly discarded and 'other'ed?
(inspired by my many fears of having too much love to contain or restrict in any forms. thank you very, very kindly for reading.)
her
with her dearest eyes and their melting browns (whose each crevice is filled with undulating joy and undiscovered love) becoming bedazzled gems, two lamps ignited, when lit under the sun filled with dimension and tasteful elegance;
with her delicate skin with its many textures and beauties all the lines etched onto the infinite tablets that make her face-- each smile line, forged from countless tales of deep love and joy; each little wrinkle-wave, lashing onto the shores of her gentleness, with its bioluminescent memories leaving behind tracks imprinted into the sandy shores of her youthful face; each line on her lips, every generous crevice, holding within it a lulling, loving song a gentle, whispered poem a whisper or two-- a confession of deep, flowing, crashing love
with her lined, creviced hands moving with the grace and delicacy that only those hands that have carried the magnificence of hearty, healthy love can possess; having the marks and folds that only hands which have given many people of the world joys that have seen unattainable to them and delivered it right to their doorstep can make beautiful
how can she consider herself-- she who is the epitome of love, beauty and all the things of yearning-- how can she think she is unliked and unwanted beauty?
sky canvas
as i traverse this familiar path tracing old beelines hearing old whisperings mingled into the breeze stopping by at old memories
as i (re)visit the splatters of emotion painted over the pavement shimmering with the same brightness they had when we had laid them down
as the delightful smiles that once surrounded me and used to fill me with ecstasy are now sitting on my shoulders looking, (with nostalgia, homesickness, and their ever-present melancholy,) directly into my eyes piercing into my cheeks injecting their potent passion and poisonously painful yet sweet sentiment
as i remain lost in painfully sweet pasts
the sky-canvas above me is the only sign of the passage of time, painted with her many delights; yet all her delicious pinks and all her smiling oranges and all her comforting blues will never be enough to pull me back into the poking (un)comfort of the present. for i am doomed to ne'er find joy; forever reminiscent of times gone by and to never make newer, more joyous times wash up at my feet
i shall ne'er make smiles anew unless recounting those of the past.
before i drown
the last piteous moment is: spent wailing, screaming for help, bellowing for a companion to come to my rescue; spent, not wisely in gratitude, not foolishly in self-importance, but only humanly-- still lost in love, filling my dying mind incessantly with worries and troubles all for the sake of 'merely' all the affections and affectations of my heart only to discover that all the depths of emotion and every single thing that i consider the very foundation of human life is forever to be left uncared for when in your last moments; spent in the grip of death-- both my mind and soul desperately groping every small particle that may even barely mimic safety, grasping onto every tiny holding, holding onto every memory (barely) by my mouth if i have to refusing to let go of the hope of life even as this dearest lover melts away into nothingness and absconds in front of my eyes;
there is yet a little nag in the back of my head--
why is it so easy for the sands of life to slip away? life, who i held so dear and near, life, who felt so heavy, full and real, how can she just fall away so easily?
is my dearest lover who has (arguably) been my longest and best love only a mere dream? is my dear life, whom i have loved and cherished so truly just this pointless and this meaningless that she can be so easily gotten rid of without having any impact?
as water fills my lungs and last recollections fill my brain, as the sea and my life are lapping around me, as my body succumbs and my soul grows tired, i only whisper one wish into these waters that now cradle me;
let this last of my life be the first of a new one. let my last breath as one with form become my first sight as one of essence. let me meet new people and become new things as i make the foretold transformation from long-forgotten child to forever cherished goddess. let my essence become this loved water and give me all the delights that i have yearned for in my forever real form.
(am i being drowned in the water and losing all of myself or am i rising from the water mingling with it embracing it only to become all i have ever desired?)
loving shakespearean woes
i tell gentle quiet tales of thy wist and as dear children scurry to snatch and covet a seat as to observe my love and list as eyes drift 'pon my dearest beloved pet
my heart remembers beating loud for you my mind remembers dancing to your whims my eyes recall all memories anew my mouth remembers singing you love-hymns
but i only remember one of many things which might sound worthless in your magnificence but to all argumentations my heart sings 'your screeching will not make a difference!'
as i am lost beyond this fog of memory thy forever eyes are unending in my reverie
(hello there! this is my first sonnet. it was very fun to write, but i know it probably doesn't sound as good as it could be. if you have any feedback to give me, please, please, please give me all your feedback. be harsh, be gentle. i need it either way.
also, thank you for reading💜💜 )
At first it was a vibration, I felt it in my body
Then another rang out, this time accompanied by a sharp ‘clink’.
I opened my eyes, there was no feeling against my body besides the vibrations from the tap, suspended in a strange liquid.
There was a creature staring back at me, it was bright, much brighter than me, and had eyes that were so large, covered in a clear substance like the one that held me now.
It had many fingers, but the most important thing I noticed about this creature was its height, it towered over me.
It tapped again, I now know for sure the vibrations were coming from the taps of its slender fingers, did it want a response?
I tried to speak, but the words in my head failed at my throat, instead I let out a warbled cry, and the creature's face filled with light, its thin lips twisting into an unnatural curl. jumping about, yelling, which was muffled by the viscous liquid that held me.
I don't know what was so exciting, but seeing its reaction gave me a warm feeling in my chest as well, so it wasn't bad, just strange.
What was so exciting about me to this thing?
I am just me.
As it peered into the tube I was held in, it took out a long dark object and struck it against some kind of board, it was rhythmic, weird.
After some time it tore the front off and began again, what kind of meaningless procedure is this? To strip away your creation only to start again. And how on earth did it hold that rod, wouldn't that many get in the way of each other? Five fingers truly seems too many.
Time passes, that perpetually moving circle has rotated within itself 5 times now, I have watched the strange entity this whole time with an unbroken gaze. It is odd, its eyes disappear occasionally, replaced with the same dimpled white as the rest of it, while the shimmering surface in front does not, peculiar, perhaps are they disconnected?
As much as this creature loved to observe me, I returned the favour, not only observing it, but the surroundings, size befitting of a giant like it, surfaces I could only dream of scaling once I was free from this liquid.
Bright orbs flicker on and off, I do not like them, but the creature doesn't seem to notice my discomfort, it is alright, I do not understand it either.
Another rotation of the circle has passed now, it still jitters in delight when it watches me track its movements outside my cell, I wish I knew what was behind those wide, sparkling eyes.
The next rotation it shared its room with me during the time when it was usually away, while the perpetual motion machine had both arrows pointing up.
It used a slender, reflective object to move morsels from a white box to its mouth; all the while it seemed to be very intent on a strange rectangle as well, which was so very bright, it seemed to produce light.
How peculiar, I wonder why it performs such a ritual, I also wonder why its teeth are so flat, how would you tear something apart?
I discovered that the reflection I thought was its eyes is not just separate, but not a part of the caretaker at all.
The caretaker has not gotten up.
Three rotations ago now, it slumped over one of its many cliffsides, following a peculiar crash.
This is of no concern, it did the same on the fourth rotation, but it did not pour such a vibrant beautiful red that time
Now I have watched the caretaker for a long time while it has not watched me back, and I have noticed many things.
It has less appendages than me, I did not notice I had more than it for a very long time.
The cover of its body is far smoother than my own, and it is not a pure colour, it has many imperfections, darker and lighter spots.
And the red it produced has turned black
Once it stirs, and releases me, it will be very proud of my observations. I believe these creatures put much stock in detailed observations, otherwise I don't see why else it would spend so much time doing so.
I hope it will be soon
I'm starting to get lonely
Updated: October 15, 2024
Torquil, Guilherme, and Ferdinand
POTENTIAL TRIGGER WARNING: Viewer discretion is advised due to references to death, suicide, verbal abuse, and neglect.
Torquil Aitken
Nickname: Torrie
Occupation: Private First Class and a vehicle driver of the Rebel Army and a volunteer for transportation services (formerly)
Hobbies: Performing his accordion and singing traditional Scottish songs at social gatherings, upgrading and fine-tuning cars and tanks, and fostering kittens and puppies
Likes: Guilherme (especially his calm and compassionate nature), his mom’s cooking, and archaeology
Dislikes: Being told to stop joking around, seeing his friends bummed out, and animal torture
Favourite food: Kedgeree and gummies (preferably gummy worms and sharks)
Sexuality: Heteroflexible asexual
Gender: Male
Age: 28 (in 2022), 34 (in 2028), 36 (in 2030), 38 (in 2032), 40 (in 2034), 47 (in 2041), 49 (in 2043), 50 (in 2044), and 53 (in 2047)
Design: He's a 5’ 3” (160.02 cm) Scottish-American mesomorph with robust musculature, a subtle roundness of his belly, and semi-broad shoulders. He sports medium-length coppery red hair with gentle curls, styled in a shaggy crop with sideburns, and often wears it tied back into a bun. He has tanned pale ivory skin, brown freckles, dull jade green eyes, a cleft chin, and a metallic gold prosthetic left arm. He sports a prominent scar that stretches from the right side of his forehead, organically zigzagging down to the middle of his left cheek. He dons a metal dog tag necklace with his name and the standard Rebel land troop uniform, which varies depending on his deployment location. Above his right breast pocket, is an embroidered badge featuring a scarlet horizontal stripe with a thin white stripe centred within it and a black X emblazoned across the middle.
He carries a maroon duffle bag containing his accordion (a family heirloom), a versatile toolkit for mechanics, and a rocket launcher equipped with homing missiles. Torquil wears a pink lavender waist pack on the left side of his rosy brown belt, containing a flare gun, 12 Gauge rounds, and two bags of gummy worms and sharks. He often shares these treats with his friend Guilherme, particularly when he's starting to feel anxious or overwhelmed. He would share some with Ferdinand, but he isn't a fan due to their chewy texture, which bothers his jaw.
Character summary: He's a cheerful, happy-go-lucky extrovert whose charisma stems from his fun-loving attitude and ability to make others laugh with jokes tailored to their sense of humour. His carefree and enthusiastic demeanour gives way to a more serious and concerned attitude only when he senses that something is deeply wrong. As a confident individual, he exudes swagger in his step and rarely shows fear in the face of adversity, but it can sometimes tip into recklessness and overconfidence. He'll stop at nothing to protect his comrades, but can't resist charming the ladies and indulging in the occasional bout of mischief. He’s naturally curious and gets excited by things he finds to be cool.
On the battlefield, Torquil's preferred war machine is the Type-4 Girida-O, his absolute favourite, but he occasionally switches to the T-2B Melty Honey when he's feeling particularly confident. The only vehicle he refuses to drive is the Type-5 Iron Iso, due to its rarity on the battlefield and the fear of destroying it too quickly. To alleviate his boredom on the battlefield, he periodically bursts into traditional Scottish songs, eliciting either amusement or annoyance from his comrades. He honestly fears Ferdinand due to his overly serious and ill-tempered nature, yet he admires his exceptional skills on the battlefield and values his wise mentorship. Guilherme is his reluctant partner-in-crime for whom he holds deep affection and secretly harbours romantic feelings.
Backstory: Torquil Aitken was born on November 15th, 1994 in Boston, Massachusetts, United States. His father, Vernon Aitken, was a renowned archaeologist driven by a passion for adventure and a desire to share his discoveries with the world. His mother, Elspeth, is a veterinarian who also works part-time as a convenience store clerk. His parents loved him dearly and did everything to ensure he would lead a successful, resilient, and optimistic life, instilling in him the fearlessness to tackle any challenges that came his way.
Vernon would share with him his archaeological endeavours and contributions to the advancement of ethical archaeology. In contrast, Elspeth taught him the value of treating animals with kindness, while emphasising the importance of companionship, love, and living a healthy lifestyle. Additionally, he often assisted his mother with meal preparation, with dinner being his favourite meal to prep. Torquil was a mildly quiet and worrisome kid who was anxious around strangers, but once they had earned his trust, he would become a talkative jokester when he felt comfortable around them.
Sadly, just four months after he turned 13, Torquil's father met a tragic end. Vernon and his team of fellow archaeologists were attempting to escape a sudden mummy uprising in an ancient tomb within a previously unexplored pyramid in Ajirabia, as their careful probing inadvertently awakened the curse of Nephthys. In their frantic bid to contain the mummies, debris dislodged by dynamite fell and crushed him. This was devastating news for Torquil and his mother, plunging her into a state of melancholy. However, Elspeth knew she couldn't give up easily, so she did everything in her power to raise Torquil on her own.
After losing Vernon, Torquil adopted a more extroverted, carefree, and fun-loving demeanour reminiscent of his father. As he now lives with his mother, Elspeth, who is struggling financially, he took it upon himself to find a way to support both of them. Leveraging his interest in fine-tuning cars and tanks, he came up with a brilliant idea: volunteering for businesses that required transportation services. By making deliveries and carrying materials, he earned a steady income, allowing both him and Elspeth to stay afloat financially for a while.
At 33, Torquil's life took a dramatic turn when a friend informed him that the Rebel Army was recruiting new members. With minimal persuasion, Torquil saw this as a thrilling opportunity to witness tanks up close and eagerly volunteered. However, his mother was hesitant to let him go, fearing the dangers of warfare and the possibility of losing her son. She worried about his safety and whether he would return home alive. Torquil reassured her, confident that he would be fine.
Guilherme Carvalho
Nickname: Guil
Occupation: Private and a sniper of the Rebel Army and a fortune-teller (formerly)
Hobbies: Writing and sketching around in his journal, honing his cardistry skills, and crocheting
Likes: Lupine creatures, nu metal and post grunge music, and the unique meanings that each tarot card has
Dislikes: Panic attacks, incurable diseases, and people exploiting his kindness for their own selfish gain
Favourite food: Coxinha
Favourite drink: Limonada suíça with condensed milk
Sexuality: Homoromantic graysexual
Gender: Male
Age: 31 (in 2022), 37 (in 2028), 39 (in 2030), 41 (in 2032), 43 (in 2034), 50 (in 2041), 52 (in 2043), 53 (in 2044), and 56 (in 2047)
Design: He’s a 5’ 1” (154.94 cm) Brazilian ectomorph with a lean figure, a mediocre musculature, sloping shoulders, and left hand that has six fingers. He has wavy chocolate brown hair styled as a textured quiff, umber skin, and sunburst green-hazel eyes. His neck bears heavy scarring on the right side, and he has two distinctive facial moles: one located above his eyebrow and another near the centre of his chin. Like Torquil, he dons a metal dog tag necklace with his name and the standard Rebel land troop uniform, which varies depending on his deployment location. Above his left breast pocket, a circular silver badge trimmed in scarlet features a pair of outstretched black dragon wings extending from either side.
He carries a chestnut-hued satchel bag containing his crocheting tools, four yarn balls in different colours, a pencil, an eraser, a red ink pen, and a treasured family heirloom: a worn, handmade Spanish blue leather journal passed down from his great-grandmother. He uses it to record his thoughts, observations, and insights, often accompanied by sketches of the people and environments he encounters. Guilherme wears a navy blue waist pack at the back of his dark teal belt, holding a deck of tarot cards that he often shuffles through to calm his nerves when feeling anxious. A faded greyish-green bandolier is slung over his right shoulder, which securely holds his rifle's ammunition.
Character summary: Due to his compassionate and nurturing nature, he has a habit of prioritising the needs of others over his own, which can sometimes lead to self-neglect. He’s a shy, resourceful, melancholic individual that listens actively and shows genuine interest in others' concerns, but his patience wears thin when his paranoia takes hold. He strives to remain calm in high-pressure situations, but when overwhelmed, his composure can give way to ruthless and reckless behaviour. Guilherme is often taciturn, but will become a skittish loudmouth when impatient and extremely paranoid. He's an incredibly observant person who often notices details that others miss, and has a habit of fleeing from situations he deems particularly grim.
Despite being a down-to-earth sharpshooter, he's surprisingly prone to anger when his rifle jams, particularly in high-stakes situations. When feeling anxious or awkward, he exhibits one of two behaviours: rubbing his hands together or picking at his skin. He deeply admires Torquil's confidence and courage in battle, which inspires him to be more fearless and push through daunting situations. He regards Ferdinand as a wise mentor and strives to prevent him from lashing out at Torquil when he inadvertently provokes Ferdinand's frustration.
Backstory: Guilherme Carvalho was born on April 3rd, 1991 in Salvador, Brazil. Guilherme was deeply scarred at a young age when his father took his own life with a hunting rifle in front of him. Compounding this trauma, his mother was largely absent from his life, leaving behind a legacy of secrets and mysteries surrounding his family. His anxiety stems from his childhood experiences growing up in a violent and cruel environment, where he had to find ways to survive. Fortunately, his aunt and great-grandmother provided a safe haven for him to stay in until he was mature enough to venture out into the world on his own. He remembers his aunt as strict and grumpy at times, but deeply loving, while his great-grandmother was incredibly compassionate and would often regale him with stories of Spanish mythology and her own life experiences.
He was formerly a devout Catholic, often praying to God for hope in a better future and the strength to persevere. Additionally, he would pray to Menina Izildinha for good health, protection from harm, and deliverance from diseases for himself, his aunt, and his great-grandmother. To earn a living, he turned to fortune-telling, using tarot readings to predict the future, and also created handmade crochet items like scarves, ponchos, sweaters, and hats to sell on the side.
However, he lost his faith in Catholicism when his great-grandmother died from a hemorrhage after a devastating fall. Shortly after, his aunt passed away from a debilitating disease with no available cure. These losses left him consumed by sadness and loneliness. But then, he inherited his great-grandmother's journal and began using it to record his insights and observations, and sketch the people and environment around him. He would also adopt a lop-eared rabbit with a harlequin fur coat named Janaina. Journaling and the companionship of his newly adopted bunny brought him some solace, alleviating some of his sorrow and isolation.
As an adult, he continues to explore his surroundings, still haunted by questions about his family: What happened to his mother? Does he have any brothers and/or sisters? Driven by a desire for answers, he embarks on an odyssey to find more members of his family. After a long and arduous search, he finally finds his lost sister, Geovana. As they spend time together, he learns that she's a successful surgeon.
However, his life takes a dramatic turn when he stumbles upon a propaganda flyer promoting recruitment for the Rebel Army. Feeling unfulfilled and without direction, he makes the difficult decision to leave Janaina in his sister's care and joins the Rebel Army two months before the Great Morden War. Once he joined, he was frequently picked on by the others for being timid and a person of colour, which caught the attention of Torquil. Torquil offered to be Guilherme's friend, which he hesitantly accepted, and they have been on relatively good terms since then.
Ferdinand Hofbauer
Nickname: Ferdan
Occupation: Specialist and a Gatling soldier of the Rebel Army and a landscape architect (formerly)
Hobbies: Attending classical opera performances, rock balancing, and collecting taxidermy
Likes: His beloved house pets, fine art enthusiasts, and baroque architecture
Dislikes: Winter, being reminded of his wife’s death, and needlessly wasting functional technology and edible food
Favourite food: Homemade apple strudels and bosna
Favourite drink: Wiener Melange and grape soda
Sexuality: Heterosexual
Gender: Male
Age: 38 (in 2022), 44 (in 2028), 46 (in 2030), 48 (in 2032), 50 (in 2034), 57 (in 2041), 59 (in 2043), 60 (in 2044), and 63 (in 2047)
Design: He’s a 5’ 7” (170.18 cm) Austrian endomorph with a partial beer belly, decent muscles, and broad shoulders. He has straight jet black hair styled as a crew cut, warm beige skin, blue-grey eyes, and a finely chopped goatee. A cut scar crosses his left cheek, and he has a prosthetic right leg that almost seamlessly blends with his skin. He has a shimmering silver-grey glass eye in place of his right eye, marked by a scar from a severe stab wound. Like Torquil and Guilherme, he dons a metal dog tag necklace with his name and the standard Rebel land troop uniform, which varies depending on his deployment location. On his right breast pocket, a metallic black skull with a missing jaw and scarlet eyes hangs from a silver-white ribbon, secured by a golden clip.
Ferdinand always carries around two photographs: one with his deceased wife from before the Great Morden War and one with his two best friends from the Rebel Army. He wears a harvest gold waist pack on the right side of his brownish-black belt, equipped with his silver-plated night vision binoculars, a pack of cigarettes, an almond-hued lighter, and five cans of grape soda. He often shares a couple of these cans with his closest friends, Torquil and Guilherme. He's always armed to the teeth, carrying a heavy minigun with a back-mounted ammo supply and a machete sheathed at his left hip.
Character summary: He's quite serious and overprotective of his two best friends, Torquil and Guilherme, due to a deep-seated fear of losing them, stemming from the tragic loss of his pregnant wife. He’s a by-the-book individual who carefully follows protocols and expects the same from others, maintaining a stern expression while trying to avoid distractions. He’s a strategic thinker that rarely complains, preferring to keep his true emotions hidden behind a stoic mask. He has a fearsome temper, triggered only when people neglect their duties or stir up unnecessary trouble. He asserts himself confidently, especially when defending those he cares about, and doesn't back down easily, refusing to accept "no" as a final answer.
He harbours a deep contempt for the fanatic land troops, whose unstable behaviour and penchant for sabotaging vehicles he finds utterly reprehensible. Ferdinand is a wise and hard-boiled individual with a penchant for surveilling his surroundings due to his hypervigilance. He lives with chronic depression, but he prefers to keep it private due to concerns about the stigma surrounding mental health. He sometimes finds Torquil's overconfidence and playful nature grating, particularly when it leads to slacking off and distractions. In contrast, he’s deeply concerned about Guilherme's fragile mental state and makes a conscious effort to offer comfort and support him during his darkest moments.
Backstory: Ferdinand Hofbauer was born on August 26th, 1984 in Kufstein, Austria. His father, Herschel Hofbauer, was a distinguished police officer who had once aspired to be a therapist. However, he changed careers after noticing the alarming rise in crime rates. Tragedy struck when his wife died during childbirth, leaving him a widower. Recognizing the importance of both parents in a child's life, he remarried, hoping to provide a mother figure for his son. His stepmother, a public opinion analyst, presented herself as a charming and affectionate person, but beneath this façade, she was a hedonist who was verbally abusive and neglectful towards Ferdinand, viewing him as an obstacle to her husband's affection. In contrast, his father was a simple man who cherished the lives of the innocent and his family above his own, finding joy in the small things in life during his quiet moments.
At the age of 7, Ferdinand began exhibiting signs of child verbal abuse and neglect, which deeply concerned his father. When Ferdinand revealed that his stepmother was responsible for the mistreatment, Herschel was consumed by strong displeasure and even regretted remarrying. He made the difficult decision to divorce Ferdinand's stepmother and severed all ties with her, prioritising his son's safety and well-being above all else.
While attending university to study architecture, he met the love of his life, Franziska. They went on numerous dates and grew closer, and after completing their college education, Ferdinand proposed to Franziska. After getting engaged, they married a year later and spent their honeymoon in the Caribbean, where they began thinking about starting a family. Four years after landing their dream jobs–Ferdinand as a landscape architect and Franziska as a law clerk–they decided it was time to start a family. Franziska became pregnant, but tragically, her life was cut short. At just five months pregnant, she was brutally mugged and killed by an unknown assailant on a snowy day while out getting lunch. Ferdinand, who was at work, learned of his wife's passing via a phone call from his mother-in-law, leaving him utterly devastated and heartbroken.
After his wife's passing, he quit his job, feeling lost and aimless, as Franziska had been the source of his happiness. Struggling to move on, he became withdrawn and distant, and developed self-destructive habits: chain-smoking, frequenting bars, and getting into trouble with the law for public indecency and starting fights. Seeking comfort, he adopted two pets: a Russian Blue cat named Franziska, after his late wife, and a Styrian Coarse-haired Hound named Benedikt. This decision brought some solace to his sorrow.
Amidst the turmoil of the Great Modern War, Ferdinand stumbled upon an advertisement for the Rebel Army, recruiting new soldiers. Seeing an opportunity to find purpose, he decided to join the army and become a soldier, hoping to do something meaningful for once. Once he joined, he met Torquil fixing up his Type-4 Girida-O and Guilherme sketching in his journal at the campsite where he was staying. Not wanting to be potentially bullied for being a loner, he decided to approach them, and they quickly became best friends, remaining close ever since.
BIG BULLY 2
This is the second part since I already have a few likes on the last one, don’t have a master post yet but I might make one later!
I really needed to know his name so I could stop referring to him as “big bully” or “jerk”. I decided I would ask him when he let me out. Whenever that was.
Eventually I fell asleep, they had been talking for around 10 minutes, and I know that’s not a lot but it is when you’ve been running on pure adrenaline for the past hour or so.
Big bully/noah (but April doesn’t know that yet)pov:
********************************************
I had finally managed to convince my mom to leave and that I would clean tomorrow. I felt kinda bad for not warning April before just putting her in my pocket, I hoped she wasn’t too mad.
Once I was sure that my mom wasn’t coming back into my room I slowly reached into my pocket to retrieve the probably angry April.weirdly enough I didn’t hear her yell from fear when my hand entered the pocket not even shying away, “maybe she was starting to trust me!” I thought hopefully.
As soon as I grabbed her I knew something was wrong, “why isn’t she moving?” I whispered. I looked down to see an unconscious April laying in the palm of my hand.
I felt so stupid! How could I have thought she could trust me so easily, to her I was still just a big monster who kidnapped her. I went from sad to mad really quick, it wasn’t my fault she was in my bag! And how did she just expect me to let her go? Would she let a tiny girl she just met free into a house that was gigantic compared to her? Not only that but with a monster mother that would kill her on sight!? The thought made me shiver. I could tell she wasn’t going to wake up any time soon due to her not even stirring when I had shaken and moved my hand closet so she wouldn’t roll off my hand and…….. I don’t even want to think about that.
Well it was getting late, so I might as well just go to sleep myself. But where would I put her where she couldn’t leave? That made me sound so, so evil, but honestly I just didn’t want her to get hurt or lost.
She can just sleep with me! No that was a stupid idea what if I hurt her? Well I guess I never move when I sleep anyway, and she wouldn’t be able to leave without you knowing or hurting herself.
After I had debated with your mind for a bit I decided she would sleep on my chest! That was the best place for her, and it was nice and warm!
So I set her down on my night stand and walked over to the bathroom to get changed. I know it wasn’t the smartest thing to do, you know, leaving her alone when she obviously wanted to leave, but I knew she wouldn’t wake up while I was gone. And I don’t want to bring her with me to get changed, that was just weird. So I got changed into a pair of plaid shorts and no shirt, usually I would sleep in boxers but that flat is a little too awkward for me with having her on me and all. The more I thought about it the weirder it sounded, but it was too late and I didn’t have anywhere else to put her that she couldn't easily get off of.
I slowly slipped under the warm covers of my bed and looked over to her tiny sleeping form on my bedside table. I suddenly felt really bad. I really couldn’t be angry with her for wanting to leave, I would definitely want to leave the house of a scary giant if I was In Her place.
I reached my hand over to her and she started to move. I thought she was going to wake up for a second but luckily she didn’t. I didn’t want to have to explain to her how I was planning for her to sleep on me. That would be awkward.
There was no way she would ever agree to this while awake but I didn’t really have a choice, the thought of not knowing where she was scared me. What if I hurt her? Was I really doing the right thing keeping her here? Against her will at that. No. This was for her own good, there is no way she could survive on her own in a big world compared to her, I barely could and I was like 100X her size!
Once I finally made it out of my own head I realized I had just been staring at a sleeping girl with my hand out slowly but surely seeping toward her. I felt like a creep.
I finally picked her up in a loose fist and brought her to my chest and placed her down. It felt so weird having a little human (or at least that’s what I think she is) on me. Her tiny hands just felt so weird being pressed into my chest. I decided that was enough second guessing myself for one night. I gently placed my hand on top of her so she would wake me when she woke, and closed my eyes. I fell asleep the moment I relaxed my body and closed my eyes.
April pov:
********************************
I woke up, but I didn't want to open my eyes yet. I wanted to stay in my dream world where I didn't have to be always scared for my life like all the time. Sadly we all have to wake up at some point. Once I opened my eyes I realized, I didn't know where I was. The ground felt weirdly like skin, I was too warm and there was a giant hand laying on top of me. Wait…..a giant hand. I was on a giant.
The events of the evening before came rushing back in an instant. I didn't remember being here which meant one thing. He had held me while I was asleep. Asleep and completely helpless. The thought made me shiver with fear. I had to find a way to sneak away without him waking up.
I slowly started to scoot out from under the hand. I had gotten my whole torso out when his hand moved. His hand slid up just slightly but enough to put me right back where I started. I looked up to the bottom of his jaw (that was all I could see since he was facing the ceiling) . He was still asleep. Good. I slithered out of his hand much quicker this time to make sure his hand wouldn't move up any further. Yes! I had made it out from under the beast’s hand! I quickly ran off the side of his chest, on my tippy toes to make sure he didn't wake. I made it to the edge of the bed and looked for a safe way down. I would rather not break my legs trying to get away from a human, then I would be both injured and stuck with an angry human. Angry humans are the scariest, they can hurt you without even trying. I looked at the blankets that happened to be leaning off the edge of the bed just enough for me to get to the floor with only an inch in between me and the ground.
I took the chance and ran over them. I started to climb down the sheets and jumped off when i reached the end. Once I hit the floor I looked for any obviouse ways out. Wait. that's exactly what he would expect me to do, that means those are the firs places hell look. I had to stay close until he left then leave. He wouldn't check the same spot twice. I decided to ignore my instincts to just get as far from him as possible and I trend around to face under the bed.