...why everyone seems so vague.

A silly situation, the sort of story she never wanted to be told. She didn't want her flaws, her falters, her failures put on the front page, easily read by the world.

She kept telling herself that the weight of the world wasn't her problem, wasn't something for her to worry about, but as she watched the lives being lived out around her? She couldn't help but wonder if she'd lost something in the translation of that story -

You know, the sad story she'd never wanted told to begin with.

So she stood silently aside, dispassionate gaze on the pathetic little wretches that ran and bleated around her.

It wasn't that she hated them - not really.

It was that she just didn't understand them.

I am going to start writing for people.

1 story a day. People have 10 minutes to reply to this. The first reply gets a story about something (situation or character) of their choosing.

You have 10 minutes. Go.

Day One: Cay Lynn
Day Two: Juniper
Day Three: Noelle
Day Four: Isac
Day Five: Fay
Day Six: Brighteyes
Day Seven: Nekumbra
Day Eight: Crybaby
Day Nine: Eve
Day Ten: Rui
Day Eleven: Lovelace
Day Twelve: Sianna

...once and for all.


Five minutes. Five minutes of flight, five minutes to fight, five minutes to forget all the failures, the forgotten focus of living a life in a lie. Five minutes of waiting for the end to come, fully dead already but forever young.

Five minutes to realize that nothing amounts to much of anything, merely mockeries of magnetism, animal bright.

Pulling, pushing, drawing two together.

She made small sounds and he humored every one of them, settling a subtle touch to sooth nerves and alleviate fears.

He kept letting her go.

He kept lifting her higher and higher off the floor, and letting her go.

He kept acclimating her to fear. He kept letting her know that it didn't hurt to fall a little bit, as long as you could pick yourself up and start all over again.

A little higher.

A little stronger.

A little better.

Soon, he'd be able to let her go -- and when he did? She would not fall.

She would fly.

...across the sky.

Stars screaming and squealing, simpering a song soaked in sin. Bylah liked to pretend that he knew, that he cared for their stories, their loves and losses, the way people pity pathetic pictures of attention-grubbing whoredom.

Bylah didn't care about such things. He had no need to stoop and scrape for a scapegoat.

He watched them prance, preen, posture and put themselves on display. To him, it was pointless and petty, pretty sad, a state of affairs he never started to begin with.

What was the point of an affair when you had everything you wanted at home, honest and begging for one's attention and love, lust and lazing about on Sundays?

No, Bylah wanted to watch them waste, watch them writhe.

He wanted to watch them suffer.

...you crawl your knees off before you shake my tomb.


No one would have believed it. No one would have grasped that he were capable. The words 'love' and 'Entropy' do not belong together, do they?

These are not rhyming words, working words, words from a mouth in a face of a constantly smiling skull.

He knows how to say these words.

He says them late when she sleeps, tongues drizzling into a resting ear.

He says them when it's early, when she is still waking: he likes her best when she is silent, as if she were distant, a Pablo Neruda poem he'd put together.

He says them when she is in his gardens, a small girl-child, amongst the daffodils planted, the way the sky opens above glass.

He says them when she is gone: when his vast manse is empty, when he is alone. When he is taking it slow, the way she creeps across his soul.

But no one would believe him.

At times, he thinks, not even her.

No, I don't draw, so this isn't my commission info. I know, however, that we have a plethora of talented artists here, and I bet some of them DO take commissions. I wanted to make a post where people could easily find this information, if they wanted to do commission requests.

It's pretty easy. Just leave a comment with your info(what you will and won't do, pricing, style, etc), or if you have a post of that nature upon on your DA, just leave a link to it here. Please note that art-trades counts - as art for art is certainly a form of currency!

I'll be adding anyone who wants to post their info, in a neat list, probably alphabetized, so that it can be easily accessed by our members. I will also change commission status (whether taking or not taking commissions) at an artist's request.

Thanks!

_________________________

Ysrael - Commission Info
Parrotsnpineapple - Commission Info

Because God, does this place need a pick-me-up. I will be posting things. All kinds of things. Mostly amusing things. Whether pictures from around the internet or my friends, to clips of conversations, typos, etc. Important: if you do not want me to post things that involve you, or want me to erase at your name, please tell me in advance, so I know.

This will contain adult content.

Let us begin.

SIR. PANTS.

...if you are awake.


Exchanging hands, passing secrets. He let them slip through his grasp the way water will fall between stones, rivers, a roof of wet. He watched them swirl and twirl down a drain called life, an experience you can't take back.

There's no right way to rewind this tape, to get back the days you've left behind. And even if it is a living legacy, it never looks good in reverse.

So he let the minutes tick by on an unforgiving clock, admiring the cuts they made in the fabric of time, a mantle he was slowly collecting across his broad shoulders. It was amazing to see it all.

It was amazing to live it, love it, let it pass him by like a whore on the corner.

One he never paid for.

At the end of it all, the days gone by, he'd fold that cloth up, a neat bundle kept in a closet, a child's old toys no longer played with. He'd never take them down, look them over. This wasn't a book full of pictures, a photogenic album of yesterday for him.

His indifference meant that he put it all away with finality, with a deliberate feeling of 'doneness'.

Every time he shut the closet door, locking away the nightmares and dreamscapes, the beasts that hide between the cracks of a child's wardrobe?

It sounded like a mausoleum, slamming shut.

Heavily inspired by Eyestrain's art thread, I have decided to do something similar with stories. I do not expect it to catch on, but it's more for my own inspiration, forcing myself to write.

There are a few rules:

Anyone can post.
Whatever you post has to be written the day you post it; nothing old, please.
Stories only - they do not have to be huge, and they can even be unfinished, but no poetry, please.
All content welcome. Try to keep flat-out porn behind a link, but otherwise, everything is free game.
TEF or NON-TEF is welcome.
If you want critique on your story, please add a note at the end saying so. If no comment is left, please do not critique another's post. This isn't so much about 'who is the better writer'. It's about developing skill and getting inspiration going.

Mostly, it's about having fun.