Some people have this core belief that what you wear reflects who you are. Clothes are a statement. They say you shouldn't be seen in scuffed cowboy boots, or your collection of vintage bow ties.
But shit, it was 99 cents.
There's something festering in me at the core of my being, something that's becoming restless. Something yearning to be free, to rip itself from the chains that I've bound out in and burst into the light for the first time in years; to explode out of me and taste(more) the air and stretch itself out and go back to the way it used to be when I was weak and it was strong. There's something in me that cries every night, that screams at me to let it out but I've managed to snuff it down and keep it locked in a cage for years and so now I've become stronger than it, I've become the powerful one, the dominate one, the one who is in control.
And I've decided it will stay locked up. (less)
"Okay. You asked. So anything that happens afterward is not my fault, okay?"
"Right. So here's the deal. You asked why I keep hanging around you and stuff. And here's your answer: I'm in love with you."
"WHAT? I mean--what?"
"Let's get to the(more) core of the matter. I met you at the movie theater kind of by accident, and girls who eat popcorn drenched with half the butter-dispenser machine are my kind of girl."
"Stop it...this is embarrassing."
"You're cute when you blush. Back to the point. That was the first thing I liked about you, your unhealthy obsession with butter and popcorn. And you had a comeback to everything. I could never catch you off guard. And then I found out that you went to my school, and I drove myself crazy asking how I could've never noticed a butter-obsessed, comeback-crazy girl like you."
"How could anyone, least of all you, love me?"
"I have a whole list. Number three: you have really pretty eyes--did I ever tell you how pretty your eyes are? I love them. They're like magnets."
"Number four: you are beast at football. Number five: you hit me on the head with a chicken drumstick and still ate it afterwards."
"That was an accident!"
"So was number five, when we accidentally held hands during the concert and we didn't realize it until the end. And number six: your laugh. I love to make you laugh."
"I could go on for days, but there you have it. I love you."
Sunrise in the Tender Knob had a glow that softened it's hard concrete buildings, broken-crack-heads, and oxy-salesmen.
Will wasn't sure what happened last night. He was at R-Bar before he left with a raven haired girl who was a dead-ringer for Natalie Portman, if Natalie Portman were(more) a porn star with giant-fake tits, a spanish accent, and fake-stripper-eyelashes. They stopped and grabbed a bottle of Tito's Vodka. The Arab behind the cash register eyed them up and down until they left. His eyes never leaving them.
Back at her place, the Natalie look-alike Dimmed red-lights, spritzed some girly-smelling-shit, opened a miniature-ziplock-bag, and scooped out a big pinky nail of molly and fed Will. "You like Molly," she said? "I don't know... what is it?" Her face lit up and asked, "Is this your first time with a T.S.?" Will looked at her confused. "T.S.?" his body was starting to tingle and a breeze was magnified 100-fold on his-skin. He felt love and horniness spilling out of his pores along with his sweat.
"You live in SF and never been with a tranny before?" She slipped out of her dress into her thong and panties and she unzipped Will's pants. Her body was insanely feminine except for a little bulge-in-her-thong. He laid on her bed and let sensation wash away his taboos. Her hair wrapped around his fist, bobbing. She snorted molly off his stomach and fed him more from her pinky nail. Will hesitantly put his head between her legs and she smiled while one eye flash closed.
She kicked him out at 5am. "I have work, honey, call me?"
Will's hangover was magnified by shame and confusion.
Will said okay his eyes not meeting hers. Outside in the soft light he felt like a thousands eyes-watched-his-every move.(less)
The Inept shrieks, an unearthly, eldritch sound, and it shakes me to the core. A cacophony of ghostly wails echoes throughout the cave, a symphony of ghosts, and I cannot help but fall to my knees and clasp my hands tightly over my ears. I'll never let go, so(more) long as I never have to hear their screams again.
But suddenly, there is silence, and I find that their silence is a sound even worse. The cave is now not only dark, but far too quiet as well. I cautiously unblock my ears, and then--
I shiver. There's something behind me.
I lash out in flames, and in the second that I've lit the dark, a face has appeared behind me. A human face, eternally stuck upon the body of a demon.
"Hello, Princess!" it says in the voice of rasping paper and sighing winds. My fire dies as I watch the floating face speak. "We are so glad you have decided to visit with us, little Infanta! Now tell me--"
And then the face rushes towards mine, and we are nose to nose, and I nearly choke. I am too afraid to cry out, to scream, to do anything. "Where."
It takes me a long moment to regain my voice. "W-What?" I croak.
"Where. Is. The. Key."
"What key? I have no idea--"
"Silence!" it roars. "Do not play games with us, Melilla de Borbón! You may think yourself invincible, what with all of your little sparks and flashy fires, but we are the Unmagic, the Darklings, the INEPT! We have powers that you will never know of, and we are very, very tired of this cave!"(less)
The words that swirled around me in soft susurrations mocked me, burning into my core. Each whisper that found its way to my ear became poison that seeped deep into my already troubled mind. As my eyes peered into my blurry world I began to sprint, trying to elude(more) the vindictive smiles of people who I had once trusted. However, no matter how fast I ran, I never evaded their words that trailed behind me, covering my once bright future with a coat of stark black.
In fact, it seemed that the more I darted away, the more roadblocks I came to. Whenever this happened I would begin to wail, trying to yell for help as the voices caught up to me, pushing me into a corner. Despite my efforts though no one ever heard me as I pounded against the soundproof glass that seemed to separate me from my dreams of freedom from this endless cycle. Each day I would come to the same glass that always prevented me from saving myself and I would pound at it as people encircled me with their mockery. Each day my hands would become coated in my own crimson blood as I tried to shatter the glass before it was too late, but I never did.
So every day I would try to escape the chains of contempt that held me to this fate and each day I would inch closer toward impending failure. This continued until one day I just stopped running completely, instead placing a mask of serenity over my face, forever shrouding my tears from the world as the voices continued to inch closer. (less)
He seemed very small, sitting up in the hospital bed with a diminished profile. Roy Mustang sighed heavily as he closed the door behind him. He was not quite sure what he was expecting to find here, anger, exhaustion - or even just a blank, traumatized look. Instead, Nicholas(more) Elric turned and looked at him in the doorway and said, point-blank: "I need automail."
"Well, I'm glad to see that you're alive, at least," Roy said, letting the years of practice keep the emotion out of his voice. He had failed the Elric family enough in his life, he didn't need to add another tally mark in that particular column. He looked around the room - Nick's shadow, Takeo, was nowhere to be seen. "Where is your friend?"
"Resting," Nick's voice was clear, even if it was full of pain. "I need a good technician. I'm sure you know one."
"I find it curious," Roy continued, ignoring Nick's question. "That after the train wrecked off its tracks, witnesses said they saw a massive transmutation. Yet, there was no sign of it by the time our medics got on site. Do you know anything about that?"
Nick did not shy from Roy's gaze, meeting it boldly. "I'm not an alchemist," he said sharply. "I don't know what they saw, but it has nothing to do with either me, or Takeo."
"I wonder," Roy murmured. He studied the teenager, whose defiant glare called to mind memories best left buried. "Well, since you know nothing of it, I shall have to mark it down in the official report as unverified. If you recall anything else of that night, you will inform me, I hope."
"Sure," Nick said. He rested his left hand on his bandaged shoulder. "Now are you going to help me?"(less)
Core Mine Field, the sign reads. A divide of a town with only two sets of peoples. Those grizzled, construction-laced and black soot stricken miners and those others.
The others are folk, regular, who do regular things - they eat and work and play and love and don't lov(more)e and go on living and do all they can to avoid Core Mine Field.
The others are as much people as anywhere else in the nation.
Miners, grieve, and walk along the road to grieve harder underneath the bottle. They slag hard and toss their cash into gutters. Everyday, they know, might be their last. And they dive deep into the under earth, where their shadows are lost and blackness and coughs and dragging steps serve as landmarks.
Down in the matter there is only them, together, the outside world a far distant dream with songs of sweet and delight and relenting. The upper air is not their own and they toil into the hard bedrock and cleave inside of it, with grimy pickaxes and roaring, clatter-clatter machines. They will never see any of these stones when they reach the top and they will never own or hold or give the sapphire and gold and ruby and granite that they unearth. These things will go elsewhere to those who have never known the terror of the dark and deep and quantifiable sink.
Core Mine Field they deface and rip out its own core and they find anguish and peace inside of it. They attach themselves to it, for lack of any alternative. A core of cores of cores of solid rock and hard edged hammers and black hearts and digging and digging and digging and being all there is. (less)
With a shuddering gasp she clamps a trembling hand over her mouth, desperately suppressing the urge to vomit. She closes her eyes and her nausea abates after a few careful breaths; not entirely, but she at least no longer needs the support of the wall to keep her upright.(more) She gathers her resolve and walks unsteadily towards the source of her distress - her father. Or rather, what was left of her father. Deep were the lacerations on his chest, enough that even at her distance of perhaps ten paces she was able to spy the off-white of a rib peering out, surprisingly unstained by sanguine flesh. As she approached, it became apparent that what she initially thought were arbitrary wounds weren't quite so - the cadaver's torso was torn in such a way that if pressure was applied, something might conceivably ease open the chest cavity.
A week later, after days of hassling the head of the investigation, she'll be reluctantly told by the police that her father's heart was missing.