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Scriv(s) in the ArchivesWriting and Drawing
#100 Truths
I Also Doodle
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Dear Sir,
It’s been a long time since I saw you last! Maybe a little bit too long, I think. It’s been days or weeks or something so that it just stretches out into this thin line of unhappiness and nights where I haven’t noticed the constellations quite as brightly as I think I should.
I’ve never had to say I was sorry, but I think maybe I should, even if only I hear the apology. I don’t have paper to put it down on or an address – especially because a part of me wonders whether it would even be worth it to put down “dead” as an address – but I’ve heard that letters are useful, so I’d like to send one. Or at least to get one down inside my head.
cant (plural cants)
why is this room so cold? i dont like the cold. never have. it makes me uneasy and reminds me of winter and everybody just knows that you dont like winter. youre not supposed to at least and i dont really do things im not supposed to. nobody does. except— no, nobody. nobody.
The sheets rub against Faber’s skin in a way that makes him shiver. Part of it is because he is cold, yes, but more than that, they feel familiar. They feel like the touch of a lover’s hands, he thinks, a lover he left a long time ago. A lover he hurt very badly. Sometimes when he lies awake like this, he remembers that day. More than that (and worse than that), he remembers the soot on the floors and the smell of char in his lungs. Like a nightmare, the memories wrap themselves in the sheets and he dreams of them again.
TG: you clean up after dead daves all the time right
TG: you could find a way to do it
And it’s then, when he’s looking into your eyes that you realize he’s not just being a snarky asshole. It’s not some subtle way of telling you that you suck. It’s not a joke or an offhanded, flippant remark.
“kill me,” he says, and what’s so much worse is that he means it.
“what the fuck, dude, get the fuck off it. what do you think this is some sick joke? youre a really sick fuck you know that?”
And you’d like to say worse — you’d like to say so, so much worse — but it’s the way he tilts his head to the side just a little bit and grits his teeth when he gives you that hopelessly empty Strider smile that make you stop. It’s when you realize that he really is you all the way through that you know he can’t let this go and that, by extension, you can’t either. His hand is eager when it finds yours and it’s shaking, too, like his voice markedly isn’t. He pulls your hand in his closer to the lukewarm grip of the sword sticking out of his chest, remarkably unbroken even after all of this time in his hands (because god knows neither of you have ever been good with taking care of swords).
“you clean up after dead daves all the time right”
He pulls a little harder, maybe wincing at the way the pressure feels and you find that there’s a lump in your throat the size of the Beat Mesa because fuck no, you can’t do this. You can’t fucking do this. Not for him, not for anyone.
“you could find a way to do it,” he says as cool yellow blood dribbles across the outside of your knuckles, feeling weightless and slippery and very unlike anything you want to be touching right now.
“you could find a way to make it go away i bet. you always do”
And fuck, fuck, fuck, no. He’s pulling harder on your hand, now.
“no man jesus fucking shit no”
You try to pull away, but he pulls harder, too, and he makes this awful face like he can already feel himself ripping in half. Oh my god you can’t just watch this, can’t just let this happen, can’t let yourself let this happen. If you do you think you’ll just explode and — oh fuck, he just— he just said—
“please dave. please”
—
Later when you’re trying to get all the blood out, Terezi is trying to harass you about that “pretty vermilion hue”, and John needs to know how to fix whatever it is he’s fucked up this time, you think about that. You think about the way he just barely whispered that last word and the way his fingers were hot and tight against yours. When you’re trying not to fall apart and trying not to look at your hands, you remember the way his tears were kind of yellow and you remember the way they trickled over the edges of his lips when he … when he quit breathing and
god
when he fucking smiled right at the end.
When you’re trying to wash it all off but you can’t, you put your head in your hands and your clear tears mix with the yellow-clear ones in your palms. You cry into the blood and the dirt there and try to pretend you don’t feel empty and ugly and totally fucking alone. You comfort yourself and lie that he wasn’t the only fucking person in the multiverse that understood what you needed and what you were going through and you pretend, you lie, you fantasize
that he didn’t have to fucking die for you to realize that.
nestled among the notes
stealing breath
tasting air
sip, sip, sipping at the rests
kiss, kiss, kissing at the sixteenth trails
unstuck and tripping, stepping, dipping
like a hiss, the tempo keeps
popping, sticking
dropping, kicking
syncopated beats, 1 to 3 and 2 per pair
the page is black more than white
with all the dots and bars
like snowflakes on tar
this one is quick & rippling
over, under
keeping count, keeping up
ringing, clipping
down & up
but slow, slow for fast
never rush and quiet, hush
fall in
break out
crescendo
diminuendo
call, respond, come to center
count to out,
accent to enter
“it hurts” the sounds say “i’m dying and it hurts so bad”
“i’m sorry — i’m sorry and it hurts so much worse”
So, I got this assignment for AP Language and Comp. today and I just finished it. I’m really happy with the result even though it would probably fetch a pretty poor grade on the exam, seeing as I didn’t even bother to answer the prompt.
BUT WHATEVER.
IT TURNED OUT AWESOME.
The prompt was to take H. L. Mencken’s quote: “The average man does not want to be free. He simply wants to be safe.” And ‘examine the extent to which this observation applies to contemporary society’.
The great curse of being a teenager is the fact that we’re kind of caught between worlds. We’ve got one foot on the gas in a brand new car and one foot on the pedal of a tricycle, metaphorically speaking. Parents tend to yell at us for a lack of responsibility, but we can’t actually be self-determining in any true sense of the word thanks to our legal and social statuses of “child”. The worst of both worlds, if you will. So coming from this place that most adults seem to have forgotten, I can tell you a couple of things: For one, I’ve got to agree with Mencken – I’ve seen enough of people not ready or willing to sacrifice for their “freedom” or for the freedom of others. But the force behind that mysterious “non-push” isn’t always fear, sometimes it’s just that the necessity for forcible freedom isn’t always there.
Holy
Mary
mother of fuck.
It’s just in a local newspaper but
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh
oh my gooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooood
i’m so exciiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiteeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed.
/unnatractive screech
the girlfriend from my dream last night. well, turns out her name is clara and her girlfriend’s name is sara. enjoy their introduction!
bluh bluh i’m a butt and that took for fucking ever, but here’s the, uh, “shippier” thing
For Scoot~! You ruin my life, I ruin yours. May you never sleep again~~~
Blood, gore, etc etc this is my writing we are talking about here.
So I wrote a DaveRose thing that I am calling Extended Metaphors. Each chapter will focus on their relationship as — you guessed it! — an extended metaphor. It’ll be rather ridiculous and obviously quite purple, but I hope that you enjoy it anyways!
Extended Metaphors, Chapter 1: In Tune
under the cut because ewwww tentacles and violent imagery!
