ADDITIONAL TAGS: incomplete, underage, quadrant confusion, recreational drug use
SUMMARY: Your name is Dirk Strider, and you’ve just been diagnosed with cancer. Whoop-dee-frickin-doo. It’s not like your hotshot, movie director older brother gives two shits about you anyway. Besides, between furiously jerking off to thoughts of your ex-best friend and running a blog dedicated to your sexual attraction to puppets, you’re pretty fucking sure you were already doomed.
Your former friends are too caught up in their own drama: Jane with her pregnancy scare and glaringly obvious self-esteem issues, Roxy who just messaged a tit pic to half the student body (as if being an alcoholic isn’t enough), and you aren’t even going to talk about Jake, the boy who broke his leg falling out of a tree and befriended a cherub with a similar handicap.
The only friend you have left is a depressed, agoraphobic troll with whom you chat with online, and he’s too busy cultivating a hate-boner for his dubstep-loving downstairs neighbor and worrying about his drug peddling moirail’s recent arrest to give you any time. It doesn’t help that you’ve got the worst angel-demon troll tagteam nagging you to death during your final days.
Can your life become anymore unintentionally ironic? Probably.
ADDITIONAL TAGS: zombies, written for HSO 2011, gore, violence
EXCERPT: He stares out across the open lawnring, the corona of precisely eighty-seven undead mindflayed, crushed, decapitated. A few yards off, four silhouettes huddle around the dull glow of Captor’s husktop, powered by a delicate chromium generator, flopped belly down in the grass listening for news from the warfront. Captor Serket Maryam Pyrope, underlit by the blue LCD glow.
There were others with all of you, once, but they’ve since been scattered to the wind or burnt up with fever. None of you talk about them. Threading their names together in a sentence feels like invoking the binary code of a world ending virus. The lowbloods went first. One little inhale of infected corpse ashes on the wind and they’d burn out with fever faster than a drop of sodium nitrate.
DESCRIPTION: From Equius’s perspective, it was always stiflingly awkward being at Gamzee’s home. He could hardly understand why he kept coming here at all, although he knew he had no choice but to acquiesce to a command from his superior (although, in reality, it was never actually commanded of him).
CT: D –> What you do appear to know is e%actly how to ma%imize my livid contempt for you CT: D –> With your revolting language and your sense of decorum CT: D –> At such breathtaking odds with the richness and perfe%ion of your b100d CT: D –> I just hate you so much