Lame adaptations and sequels are always like, “how can Mina go back to her stifling Victorian marriage after her experience with the dark, seductive Dracula??”
Meanwhile, Mina marries her best friend, who she’s known since they were children, who she share common interests with, they build a home together, work as partners, make immense sacrifices for each other, support each other through their traumas.
Guys, a marriage isn’t stifling and restrictive just because two people… get along, I guess?
Mealworms: dry grainy farts. Dad farts
Superworms: dry smooth boys
Crickets: hell, corpses and trash milkshake
Locusts: tiny coffee beans
Dubia roaches: mild cat piss and sweat
Waxworms: bark and nuts
Silkworms: mulberry sewage
Butterworms: oranges, nice! Good boys
Blue bottle fly larvae: powdered milk and death
Fruit beetle larvae: soil, sin and vomit
Earthworms: organic. Natural. Healthy.
Springtails: bro how do you even
Isopods: eat all the bad smells, good boys
So our school has three locker rooms, two for P.E. and one for dance and color guard, a couple of weeks ago there was this really bad smell in the boys P.E. locker room and everyone who went past it could inhale the absolute reek of the area. Apparently, one of the students got sick and threw up into a milk carton. now, this would be bad enough as is if he didn’t decide to punt the carton across the lockers splattering vomit everywhere. It didn’t even get cleaned until a week later
The first thing I see when I open my eyes is the empty
doorframe before me. The room is cold, a breeze swirling through the gap and
across the bare floorboards. The bedsheets stir. The lightweight blinds twist
and turn on their plastic hangings. It’s like they’re saying something.
I feel an emptiness next to me, and as I turn I notice the
slight depression in the mattress, the torn-back blankets, the absence of a
head on the pillow. Only a stray dark strand remains, clinging to the starched
linen. As I reach out, I feel the rapidly dissipating warmth in the
person-shaped void. I can almost see her face, still there, sleeping gently.
Pulling the covers back, I swing my legs down onto the
floor. I stretch, my joints cracking, and then move away from the tangled
sheets, over discarded shirts and forgotten underwear. My feet pad softly over
the smooth boards, the air chilling my skin. As I pass into the living space I
note the takeaway boxes lying haphazard upon the low table. There are dishes
lying in the sink, food glued to their porcelain faces. The TV sits silent, its
black box betraying no movement.
She’s not here either. Instead, there are the faint traces
of her presence: a stained cup of coffee leaves rings on the sideboard next to
a book with rumpled pages. A cracked vase of deep purple flowers is slowly
losing its lustre, so I find a nearly-clean cup and scoop handfuls of water
into the icy soil. I almost want them to talk, to say something, because I live
on words. But they’re just flowers. They won’t say anything back, ever.
I pick up her long-suffering black notebook and snap the
elastic bookmark to the side so I can leaf through the pages unhindered. There
are drawings in there, my drawings, rough scribbles of birds and dogs and
squirrels that feel for all their wilderness like they’re going to leap off the
page and run around joyfully in the cool on the floor. Then there are her
drawings, more artful, precise sketches with defined linework and ink
flourishes. I can’t match her skill. But she can’t draw life.
There’s writing in the book too. She writes – she might have
been a writer, I think, if it weren’t for the difficult path we chose together.
Her poetry is like twisted obsidian glass, fragile and dark and beautiful.
She’s been trying to teach me to write. So I do. Eloquence isn’t difficult when
you want to impress. Even for the comedian that I am, or at least try to be.
Self-flattery has never been one of my strong points.
There’s a knocking on the glass. In the little window above
the sink there is a bird rapping on the pane with its hooked black beak. I know
just by the noise that it wants to get out of the cold, but I know all too well
that I can’t let it in. The wild fuels the animal spirit. If I allow the raven
inside, it won’t grow. It won’t survive. It will become accustomed to the
indoors and grow weaker and weaker until it’s eaten by the cat next door.
Somewhat better would be if it rejected the civilisation we present it with.
Animals can’t be caged, not really. Their minds are always on the outdoors.
Creatures bred in captivity dream of something better that they can’t envisage
and will never understand. That’s often why humans turn to religion. It’s the
call of the wild, the unknown, the sublime. I admit, it’s enticing. But I know
nature better than anyone else. So I don’t need inner comforts.
That said, I’m reminded of the wind-chill. It’s coming from
behind the standing shelf, where around the corner lies the balcony. I tread
carefully, poised to react.
There’s another dark shape outside, feet planted in the snow.
The skies are an alien dull white, bare branches devoid of foliage. Below, ice
drifts sluggishly in the frozen river. The land is drowned in soft whiteness,
and it has piled up on the wooden floor outside the door; the railings rust,
the paint flaking off the iron. Broken metal vents on the side of the building
occasionally issue steam and pale smoke. Down below, there are shopping
trolleys submerged in drifts of pure crystalline nothing. Cracks race through
concrete and foundations crumble. This building has been coming apart for a
long time, and so have I.
Her hands grasp the rusty iron with a certain force,
knuckles white so that a lone drip of crimson emerges from under her grip. Her
legs melt the snow around with her inner flame, feet planted sturdily at equal
distance. Her smooth skin pops with cold, her back and arms Braille, her form
tight against her bones. I see the ridges in her spine, the tendons standing
out in her legs, her shoulder blades raised as through fluid tectonic movement.
Her hair is black as the raven. It cascades in an unruly mess to her shoulders,
then cools on the nape of her neck. Individual short strands float in the
I can see her cheekbone, proud and tall. I can almost see
her face. And although she doesn’t turn, doesn’t move a rigid muscle on her
ashen, frozen body, I know instinctively that she is smiling mischievously
through her red-black-purple-blue eyes. And if nothing else, she smiles through
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when you were so close your eyes looked like dinner plates blue as the atlantic and harsh as an earthquake and you didn’t smell good but you didn’t smell bad but boy, did i ever feel like i had to take care of you take care of you when we were so lost the road felt like home to me our souls on the asphalt and feet stretched in front of me and it didn’t feel good but it didn’t feel bad and boy, did i ever feel like i had to take care of you
The guy who has that shop in the Hissing Wastes must have been a Ferelden. Just saying. Who else would leave their Mabari behind to take care of the shop (and make change no less!) to do some quick errands?
Can I have an imagine where my crush acts like he hates me and insults me and stuff and then we end up together somehow..? Hahaha I would have described it more but I’m sure you get it :) thank you!!
This is for you! I really hope you like it, since it’s been so long. c:
“Hey! Give that back, I wasn’t finished!” Your small hands tried to grab the blue crayon you were using to color the sky of your drawing back from [c/n] in vain.
“But now I need to finish!” He taunted back, beginning to color in his superhero’s cape.
“That’s not how it works!” You protest, but it was no use. [c/n] was not going to give it back anytime soon. You sigh with defeat, and decide to go over with some other girls to play with dolls.
[c/n] is a boy at your daycare, and apparently out for blood. Ever since the first day, he has teased and poked at you to no end, and you were getting fed up. He was a boy after all, so you tried to understand that’s just how boys work, but day after day of stolen crayons, tugged braids, and destroyed block towers was wearing on your 6-and-a-half-year-old brain. Why would someone want to do that kind of thing anyway?
After the other girls tired of the dolls, you decided to go back to the table you were coloring at before, since [c/n] was nowhere to be seen. When you looked at your picture, you were surprised to see the sky was fully blue, with clouds and everything! You stared at it in bewilderment, deciding that you would never understand boys.
You still had the same thought years later, well past your time in daycare. Unfortunately for you, [c/n] never really grew out of the teasing, it just grew up with him. Crayons turned into insults, tugging turned into shoving, and block towers turned into books and important papers due.
Like right now, when he and his friends were shouting names you didn’t even know the meaning of at you as you tried to exit the school as quickly as possible.
“You trying to run, bitch?” One of his friends spits at you. You started to walk faster.
Another friend got in front of you when you were just ten more strides from the door.
“Where do you think you’re going? We’re not done with you yet,” he sneers. He pushes you into a locker and puts his arms on either side of you, trapping you. His breath smells horrible.
One of the more passive, quiet ones starts looking uncomfortable. You send silent prayers at him to tell them to move on. [c/n] just stands there, staring into space. There was a time, around middle school, that he would have stood up for you. You were friends then, for one year, and that was some of the most fun you ever had. He was actually really funny and thoughtful, if you could talk to him long enough. Ever since then, you had this odd crush on him that you didn’t really know what to do with at times like these.
“Hey, guys,” [c/n] says, snapping you out of your trance, “Cut it out. We messed with her enough,”
You were shocked. [c/n]?! You thought he had changed for good, that middle school [c/n] was long gone. You had decided that you were okay with that, and then he does this.
But the boy with the bad breath has other ideas. He grabs you by the jaw, forcefully, and turns your head. “You’re a real pretty thing, aren’t you? What a shame. Too bad you’re a piece of trash,” You have a sudden burst of courage, and spit right in his face. He looks like he’s about to explode.
He puts his arms down, just long enough to swing a fist at your face. You recoil back, and side down the locker. You hear shouting, but don’t want to listen. Instead you worry yourself with why [c/n] suddenly wanted to help.
“[y/n]?” He says tentatively, crouching down beside you. “Are you okay?”
You try to speak, but your mouth has other ideas. Instead you just groan.
He reaches for your face, but not forcefully like the bad smelling boy. He turns your head to look at you.
“You need to put ice on it,” he says, while brushing hair out of your face, “Stay there, I’ll be right back.”
Why did he even care? All he had ever done was hate you. Or… did he? Was he just playing along with the other boys? Your mind wandered back to the day you stopped being friends. It was the end of the summer, a week or so before school started back. You had really started liking him by then, constantly asking yourself if he liked you back. You were going to ask him, tonight, at a party one of your friends was having. A “last hurrah” end of summer celebration, pretty much everyone was going.
You had picked out a special dress even, just for the occasion. You were so excited. You curled your hair perfectly, (which was quite a feat back then) and wore your darker shade of red lipstick. You were ready to confess your feelings to the boy you had liked all summer.
Then it all went horribly wrong. When you finally got him alone at the party, he was fidgety and nervous. You small talked for a little while, and then you said,
“[c/n],” he looked up from his shoes, which had been very interesting to him for most of the conversation, “I - I have something I would like to tell you.”
He just stood there, without a word.
“[c/n], I really like you,” You blurted, unsure of what to do next. Should you kiss him? Let him kiss you? Ask him on a date? Do nothing at all?
He looked flat out scared at this point, swaying back and forth, tousling his hair constantly. What was wrong with him?
“I t-think you should go,” was all he said. Seriously? That was it?
At the time, you felt insulted, but now you realized he was only trying to help. Unfortunately, you didn’t listen.
Later that night you found out that a group of his friends had a prank planned for you. They ripped your dress off in front of everyone, calling you a slut, fat, whatever they wanted. You ran off crying to your friend, who loaned you clothes and sent you home. It was only now that you realized him telling you to leave was probably related to that.
He comes back with the ice, bringing you back into reality.
“Here,” he said, handing it to you.
You placed it on your cheek, wincing at the cold. “Thanks.”
“I’m sorry about that. They’re such assholes,” he says, looking down.
“It’s okay now, I’m fine.”
“No, it’s not!” He suddenly shouts, straightening up, “I should never have let it go this far. You don’t deserve this. You’re not any of the things they call you! You’re kind, and smart. You try to help people, to be polite, to stand up for others. You’re so cute, and you have the most gorgeous eyes, and… and I love you, [y/n]!”
You just sit there in shock, not even believing the words coming out of his mouth.
“You probably hate me now, anyways, so it doesn’t even matter, but I’ve loved you since middle school. I hated it when they did that to you, with the dress. I tried to stop it, I did, but they wouldn’t listen.” He was on the brink of tears now, and it broke your heart. He loved you! It can’t be real, right?
“[c/n],” you said, “I think I love you too.”
He stopped. “What?”
“I said, I love you too.”
“Y-you…” He trailed off, wrapping his arms around you fiercely. Then he pulled away, only to kiss you, hard. It hurt your cheek, but you didn’t care. You stayed like that for a while, then you said, “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I was afraid after their stupid prank that you thought I hated you. At first I avoided you, but then I went with them and bullied you. It wasn’t right. I’m so sorry, [y/n].”
“It’s okay,” you say, “You’re here now.”
I feel like I didn’t quite capture your request, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway. It was quite tricky making him mean yet nice enough to crush on without it getting creepy, so I decided to only mention him being mean, rather than writing it actually happening as much, because it kept sounding wrong to me. If you are unhappy and would like for me to try again with a more detailed description, I can try.
And just to explain something, I’m going to try to write as many of my requests in order of when they were requested, but sometimes, it’s hard to think of what to write for certain ones. When this is the case, I would rather wait until I can think of something good instead of trying to BS my way through it and have it end up disappointing. I try my best, but I’m only human!
Adam carried the smell of bad boy with him wherever he went: old leather, motor grease, the sour undertones of impending regret but today he carried another smell that had almost been sufficiently masked by all the others if it had not been for the fact that his shoulder had abruptly ricocheted clumsily off of the side off of a store front in the middle of the day. Intoxication wafted off of him as he smiled brightly at a passerby who diligently side-stepped him like a pile of vomit on the sidewalk.
“Pretty shoes,” he called out as he leered over his shoulder, his grin lop-sided and cocky. “I like your hair.”