Prompt #144:
Drink. Cough. Repeat.
Continue until you don't remember the order. Until you forget to cough.
Isn't it sad that this is what we're all programmed to do from a young age. TV. Books. Movies. Hell, mostly music. Sometimes real people around us.
'Drowning your sorrows' is not a foreign concept to anyone.Mindlessly swallowing alcohol (killing yourself, sometimes slowly) had become a Great American Standard of Living.
You all dream of your twenty-first birthday. Or you think alcohol will make you an adult. Make you cool.
The only thing it'll make you is sick.
And dead, you can't forget dead.
So, screw you America, and your warped ideals, too.
I'd rather be alive than Patriotic.
(I'd rather go out in style.)
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
whydoyouhavetobeSODamnclever?
prompt #175:
Ew. Cheese steak wrapper. Half-empty milkshake.
Ew. Used condem. 'Someone's sleeping with their secretary.'
The intruder upon this usually calm setting smirked. She was already composing a biography for, let's see. The office door just said 'A. V. - Accountant'. But, this reciept said, 'drumroll please', 'Aaron Valencia, how very typical you appear, Mr. Valencia'.
Oh well, back to the point of this operation. Had to hurry up before the janitor circled back around, didn't we?
'Ha, sorry Mr. Valencia, but I think I'll call you Mr. Vallium instead', the intruder had hit upon a stashed empty prescription bottle about half-way through their treasure expedition.
Ew. Another used condom, seriously? 'I'm going to have to search your desk for pictures, because you must be at least a little good looking, for an accountant.'
Bingo, unshredded records. 'All that bangin' the help must've distracted you. Lucky for me. Not so much for your ex-client Mr. Vallium.'
Identity. Stolen.
Ew. Cheese steak wrapper. Half-empty milkshake.
Ew. Used condem. 'Someone's sleeping with their secretary.'
The intruder upon this usually calm setting smirked. She was already composing a biography for, let's see. The office door just said 'A. V. - Accountant'. But, this reciept said, 'drumroll please', 'Aaron Valencia, how very typical you appear, Mr. Valencia'.
Oh well, back to the point of this operation. Had to hurry up before the janitor circled back around, didn't we?
'Ha, sorry Mr. Valencia, but I think I'll call you Mr. Vallium instead', the intruder had hit upon a stashed empty prescription bottle about half-way through their treasure expedition.
Ew. Another used condom, seriously? 'I'm going to have to search your desk for pictures, because you must be at least a little good looking, for an accountant.'
Bingo, unshredded records. 'All that bangin' the help must've distracted you. Lucky for me. Not so much for your ex-client Mr. Vallium.'
Identity. Stolen.
Monday, October 15, 2007
a SADDay for Aspiringartists.
Oh, gorgeous fanfic, thank you for allowing me to write another scene of you, but could I beg to finish the last without interruption?
prompt #216:
They'll be coming for me soon. I suppose it's for the best now.
I'd rather not be left here. Here, where all I have for scenery is the abandoned homes of my fallen brothers and comrades to block my view of the horizon. Where all I have to think about, in solitude, is how cruelly said brothers and comrades were being dismembered.
How cruelly I would be dismembered.
I wonder what human 'use' I'll be put to. I won't be able to feel it, obviously. But, maybe I'll see from wherever I'm going, or maybe I'll just know.
The injustice strikes me oddly, though. We do so much to improve the quality of living for humans, and yet they kill us.
The once clean air around me is now smoggy and thick.
Depressing and lung-clogging.
I now know what I have to do.
I let it all out.
I won't let them get me.
prompt #216:
They'll be coming for me soon. I suppose it's for the best now.
I'd rather not be left here. Here, where all I have for scenery is the abandoned homes of my fallen brothers and comrades to block my view of the horizon. Where all I have to think about, in solitude, is how cruelly said brothers and comrades were being dismembered.
How cruelly I would be dismembered.
I wonder what human 'use' I'll be put to. I won't be able to feel it, obviously. But, maybe I'll see from wherever I'm going, or maybe I'll just know.
The injustice strikes me oddly, though. We do so much to improve the quality of living for humans, and yet they kill us.
The once clean air around me is now smoggy and thick.
Depressing and lung-clogging.
I now know what I have to do.
I let it all out.
I won't let them get me.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
letme LIGHTUP the Sky.
Damn, I seriously have to finish that fanfiction. It IS for a contest, and I DO have a deadline.
Thankfully, I'm becoming a little more comfortable with this 'Write Every Day' thing.
prompt #137:
She stood a foot and a half away from the stage, seperated by the metal barricade and a meathead bouncer.
She stood a foor and a half away (and a foot below) her heroes. The guys who sang their sorrow to her as she cried out her own. Who sang her to sleep. Who healed her wounds.
She stood a foot below and five feet away from the speaker that delivered their notes, their words to her ears. She loved that speaker.
The multitude of the crowd was behind her. The meathead bouncer was soon overtaken with the responsibility of catching the crowdsurfing idiots.
Behind her, the noise escalated. The guitarist and the vocalist, male and male, had just leaned in for their usual faux-kiss that would be all over the internet as soon as the concert had ceased.
She wished it would never end. Three hours wasn't enough. She looked around frantically. There wasn't a single thing she wanted to forget. (Not even the amount of stubble on the meathead bouncer.)
She hadn't realised that she'd cried through the more emotionally affecting songs until she wiped the 'sweat' off her face at the end. This was, obviously, why the meathead bouncer was looking at her like that. This was, obviously, why the meathead bouncer offered to escort her (and her father, who had now left his seat to come find her) to meet the band.
She realised that, even if she forgot half of this, it wouldn't matter. This was, by far, and would always be, the greatest night of anyone's life.
And she got to keep it.
Thankfully, I'm becoming a little more comfortable with this 'Write Every Day' thing.
prompt #137:
She stood a foot and a half away from the stage, seperated by the metal barricade and a meathead bouncer.
She stood a foor and a half away (and a foot below) her heroes. The guys who sang their sorrow to her as she cried out her own. Who sang her to sleep. Who healed her wounds.
She stood a foot below and five feet away from the speaker that delivered their notes, their words to her ears. She loved that speaker.
The multitude of the crowd was behind her. The meathead bouncer was soon overtaken with the responsibility of catching the crowdsurfing idiots.
Behind her, the noise escalated. The guitarist and the vocalist, male and male, had just leaned in for their usual faux-kiss that would be all over the internet as soon as the concert had ceased.
She wished it would never end. Three hours wasn't enough. She looked around frantically. There wasn't a single thing she wanted to forget. (Not even the amount of stubble on the meathead bouncer.)
She hadn't realised that she'd cried through the more emotionally affecting songs until she wiped the 'sweat' off her face at the end. This was, obviously, why the meathead bouncer was looking at her like that. This was, obviously, why the meathead bouncer offered to escort her (and her father, who had now left his seat to come find her) to meet the band.
She realised that, even if she forgot half of this, it wouldn't matter. This was, by far, and would always be, the greatest night of anyone's life.
And she got to keep it.
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