Josh stared at his computer with a confused and disgruntled look contorting his generally devilishly handsome face. His perfectly masculine eyebrows dipped into his eye sockets like a diplidated bridge over a murky green pond and his forehead crinkled like a paper sack with too much lunch in it.(more)
"Shatter" Said the prompt. It'd been months since he last visited typetrigger, and he had no idea what to write about. Was he supposed to write a story about "shatter", like a fictional novella following the plight of a cracked dinner plate? Or perhaps the notorious street drug by the same name? Maybe he'd write about his late grandfather Michael Shatter. If only he actually had a grandpa named Michael Shatter, then he'd have some substance to write about.
So, he just sat there staring at the blinking line he'd stared at for so many hours before in a abysmal fit of writer's block. He longed for creativity and a spur of imagination to overwhelm the empty sac of juice behind his twitching eyeballs. He wanted to be a good writer though. So he grabbed his mug of black coffee and gulped deeply, its scorching bitterness raping thew buds of his tongue and scolding the back of his throat. He loathed himself for drinking so aggressively, for not checking the temperature before gulping with such zeal and aggressiveness. He wrote nonetheless. He wrote nonsense followed by more nonsense, eventually resulting in a wall of nonsense broken into three paragraphs, and he hit publish.(less)
She came flying in like a bat out of hell with the roar of thousand thunderous earthquakes deafening all who stood before her in battle. Paragon of hope, she began to slash and shatter the endless army that dared to test her steel in combat. The dark panorama was(more) alight with fire and courage; the greater armies of Vasmule the Infinite were laying waste to the forces of Enoch the Illuminated on the vast plains of the planet Hearth, their home. It was a dark day for all who worshipped the Ultimate Truth and the source of all matter. Vasmule's entropic army would create disorder forever, and at best he could only be stalled, never defeated. Yet from this timeless battle stemmed all change, all time. With Vasmule's war the people of Enoch could not have become Illuminated with the Truth. To know light, one must see the boundaries of darkness completely. The war, the change, defined the very basis of their knowledge, of their power. That's why she was here: Maxewell's daemon of the second kind, a wizard who remains "unaligned" throughout this affair. Only she, Esoterica, could cut through the law's of reality, juxtaposing indelible dimensions whose self eminent and emergent righteousness would turn the tide and imprison Vasmule for good. The horns sounded, their echoes sounding for aeons before the final wave crashed upon the enemy in the deepest days of the last kingdom. Thus began the pure merger of order and disorder, light and dark, becoming the hidden God Pleroma. Neither before nor after has such a tumultuous balancing of prophetic actions occurred, shaping the fates of all.(less)
He had been uncertain for a while now: faith wasn't carrying him through prayer anymore, he was talking to himself in a room. Long-term bonds weren't holding friendships together. Hugo leant forward creasing his pinstriped suit.
"How long do you think this one will go on for, if I(more) was boss.." he said with a smile and thoughtless eyes. John felt like he was underwater.
"Yeah! That would be amazing" John responded with no awareness of the words dripping from his tongue. They both leant back into the leather chairs, the lights dimmed, and the piechart appeared on the screen before them. John could see a presentation he thought to be important, about profits, his profits, but he didn't know to be important.
His shirt and trousers caressed his skin as he moved in slow-motion. Nodding at the right time, humming when his colleagues did, all of them on autopilot. A nursery rhyme circled his thoughts, and the words of the presentation became meaningless. He could feel his mother running her fingers through his hair. His heart panged with nostalgia. He choked. Saliva was caught in his windpipe and John gasped for air.
"You Ok buddy?" Hugo whispered, which they both knew meant "Be quiet". John felt his windpipe close a little more. He spluttered and splattered trying to claw at oxygen. His cough echoed in the room and the presenter paused to ask if he was OK. John coughed again and his windpipe relaxed to re-open. He wanted to shut his eyes whilst someone ran their hand through his hair. (less)
Almost a year to the day since Nanako's rescue from the TV world, she was readmitted to the hospital. Her grasp on health had always been tenuous; it had taken six months for her to be released in the first place, and it was clear that the fog that(more) lay over the town was still affecting her. Souji was nearly emotionless when he called the ambulance, like some part of him had been expecting this all along.
He stared at his phone for a long time in the waiting room, trying to decide what to do.
To: Hanamura Yosuke 15:28
Nanako isn't well. We're at the hospital. I'm sure she wants to see you.
There was no response, not that Souji expected one. He had grown used to this protracted game of cat-and-mouse between him and Yosuke. Souji considered his phone for a while longer, began typing another text message, then shuddered and flipped the phone closed in disgust.
Twenty minutes later, Yosuke flew through the waiting room door and marched straight up to the reception desk, not even sparing Souji a glance.
After an animated argument with the receptionist, Yosuke turned on his heel and marched over to Souji. So many emotions were swirling behind his eyes: anger, frustration, desperation, fear. "They won't let me in without you," Yosuke said, the contempt evident in his tone. "I need a goddamn MURDERER to escort me into a hospital room, what a joke."
Souji glanced around, panicked that someone had overheard. "Yosuke, please..."
"Don't like hearing it out loud, do you?" Yosuke's voice was quieter now, but Souji still flinched. "It's what you are."
Souji stood up, grabbing Yosuke by the wrist and leading him towards the reception desk. "We can talk about this later."