'Til Death Does Us Part [Headstones Draft]

A few little things I would like to see on a gravestone:
Y u no center?

Here lies,
Mrs. Desire and Mr. Despair.
Death did not long do them part...

I saw a headstone for "Ms. Desire" and was inspired

Upon the headstone,
Black and gray,
Read in simple text,
"Father, Mother,
Here they lie,
The Willow and the Rose...
Until death did they part."

Erm, derp...At the ending you have to pause, because it just doesn't flow...D:< But I love that line--it shows so much meaning regarding their relationship.

Insanity
And all that's left
Of what was you and me
Can't you see
Can't you feel
That death has done us part?

Didn't really like that one...Eh.

And they hung together,
Black and Red,
Ever lovely, ever sweet,
Silent as the grave.

Mwahaha!

"Catatonic" Draft

This was inspired by the song Blue by A Perfect Circle. (Also their song "Pet," but not as much.) I made a few references to the song and several others. There should be a link to it~

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zlysZAUNyFg&feature=related
~Listen to it while reading :D~

He grinned, stroking her tangled hair, his fingers flittering over the chestnut chaos. His fingernails spirited over the caked snarls, brushing over the encrusted patches, stiff with blood and mud. He slid the tousled, matted locks from her face, moving it so deftly it seemed to blow from her face. He laid his eyes on her opalescent face, petting her with measured strokes, his gaze scraping over every detail. He shivered slightly, his eyes glittering with calculation.
An urge swept through him, something foreign and subdued, a spark rising to a flame, a whisper to a roar. His eye twitched and a burning desire, a horrible need, seemed to engulf him, like his own shadow dragging him down. He blinked, fighting this want, this need to put away this gentle caressing and to dig his nails into her scalp, to watch her blood dribble over her delicate cheeks, to rip the skin from her skull, to tear her hair from its roots in filthy heaps.
But no. He held his aplomb, stilling himself with a quiver and a gulp. No, not yet. He could wait. There would be a time to relieve, but not now, not tonight.
Instead he soothed his itch by drawing a finger across her face—her pale, scar-laden face. His breath came in a sharp gasp as he slipped his hand over her porcelain skin, tracing a thin scratch over her cheek. As his finger slid over the rough tissue, the sudden need flared in him again, gnawing like a worm in his chest. He wanted to take the broken glass beside him, to sooth his impulse and slit her cheek open…watching the crimson drip over her face like he had done so many times before…But no, not tonight. He curled his fingers into a fist, feeling the desire vanish like a sigh.
He shifted positions lying beside her, feeling the winter air seem to crackle around him. He tossed a glance around, the vacant façades of storefronts gaping black at him, shattered glass spilling over their windows, reflecting pale light. The streets were unbearably quiet, unnaturally quiet, almost echoing with a kind of painful white noise. Silent as the grave.
Once, these streets had roared with the calls of people, unaware of each other, living their lives and passing without care as the cars screeched and honked, and yells echoed over the roads. But now, it all seemed so far away—and the only noise that called now was the hollow din of loneliness.
He blinked, looking up to the sallow streetlight that leaned over him, lending a yellow radiance that chased away the alleyway shadows, the unknown and lost. He grimaced against the faint buzz emitting from it, trying the chase away the madness it alighted in the corners of his mind.
With a shaky sigh, he traced her delicate cheekbone once more, feeling a shiver of pleasure tingle down his spine as he did so. He looked down at her, his face breaking into a leer. She was so beautiful…Her face, an almost cerulean shade of white, so cold, so frigid, that it made him shiver with every touch. Her body, so seamlessly formed—gaunt and lean, maybe too lean for some, for she was near starvation and her ribs stuck grotesquely from her sides. And her lips, blue as ice, edged with dead skin as they chapped and peeled in the dry air.
He lowered his hand, touching her arid, celeste lips with a tilted head, his eyes reflecting a hunger. Her mouth was broken with scars which he had unashamedly scored upon her…But, only when she had done wrong. And wrong she often did. Once or twice, she had even tried to run away! Such a high offense was taken…harshly…and her punishment was one of least favorite kind.
The only thing missing from his perfect picture was her eyes. Oh, her eyes: they completed everything. They were like nothing he had ever seen before. Swirling depths of blue, carved from ice, flowering from an iris of ink so black, it seemed to be made from the velvet of the night sky…Like a beautiful dream, an un-thought vision…Yet, she kept them hidden behind those closed eyelids.
He shrugged and settled on the bag of stinking garbage once more, trying to ignore the stench. After all, it was comfortable enough, and it was filled with something that insulated well. He snuggled closer to his possession, watching her extensive, luscious eyelashes flitter ever-so-slightly. She was awake. He beamed, and remained serene and unflustered. If she tried to escape, he would find her—if she didn’t return to him in hunger and thirst first. He was her only way to subsist. Hence, he made she stayed half-starved, so that she couldn’t survive long alone.
Somewhere deep inside, he hoped she would flee. Then, it would give him the reason to punish her…He nearly squirmed at the thought, and he felt her tense beside him, her ivory skin prickling with goose bumps.
Worried, he lifted his head, finding that her “blanket” had slipped off her while she had tossed in her sleep earlier. Gently, almost gingerly, he pulled the tattered, stained cloth over her once more, falling ever closer to the girl. He could see the slight spasms of her muscles as she fought to remain still, to make him believe she was sleeping, although she knew he was far too clever to fall for her trickery.
As he finally alighted along her, he was at eye level. His gaze bored into her eyelids, and he could sense that she could feel him staring at her, seething her. A steady wind drew around him, making his hair whisk about and the threadbare rag crumple. The streetlight flickered and whirred, but he continued staring, starting to draw closer to her. She remained catatonic, her breath becoming more ragged and sharp.
He leaned to where his thick breath poured over her, causing a silvery, crystalline cloud to float over her face. Her face twitched for a blink, and she stilled once more.
He half-closed his eyes and drew his lips towards her, until they were no more than a hair’s breadth away. He could almost see her pale eyes staring back at him, and memory flickered and burned in him. Oh, how he wished to see those eyes…He could remember them, the way the reflected a deep, unhealed pain….a loneliness…like a beautiful daydream, a shadow of a girl that had died long ago.
He opened his own eyes, and sighed—his voice a rasp, a croon, “Why don’t you open your eyes, baby?”
With that, his lips met hers, ever so slightly, ever so softly. He remained there for a moment, almost smiling as he felt revulsion sway through her. A heartbeat later, he pulled away, his eyes soft, but laced with a thin glow that spoke of something far darker.
He closed his eyes one last time and slowed his breathing, a smile spread across his face. He had seen so many die since the end began. So many had suffered and fled. Abandoned this place. He was deserted and friendless then—inaccessible, remote. They had all ran, leaving just him her in this secluded wasteland they had once called a city. Then she came. Gave life back into his hopeless life—putting the pieces together, rewriting his barely breathing story. Just the two, struggling to survive on what had been left behind, haunting the alleys. Inescapable. Isolated. Alone.
It was all so…perfect.
Some had called this the end of the world, the birth of a nightmare. But, for him, this was the beginning of a dream…

"Futureless" Rough Draft

Here I have devised a rough draft for my newest work, "Futureless".

"Futureless"

Empty sidewalk, empty city, 3 P.M.
Abandoned. Desolate. Void.
A sidewalk beneath your shoes—weeds, pale and scraggly with lack of care—and overhead, nothing but gray, rising monoliths, stretching for a heaven hidden by murk. Remnants of the ones who lived here—of this silver city of glass and steel, now reflecting only gray.
A shred of newspaper whispers by your feet, filthy and torn, stained and forgotten, listing a time and date and place that no one remembers, an event that has long since past. You watch it somersault across the pavement, the crackle and crisp of paper telling news that once swung the pendulum of life and death, but now is irrelevant—obsolete.
You glance over, the stained, tattered words reading despair.
“…state of emergency…defcon six…military forces…quarantine…”
“…all civilian personal…highly contagious…”
“…violence…ration food and water…stay inside…arm yourself…”
The rest of the article is unreadable, far too deteriorated for anyone to make out.
You throw your gaze around once more, glancing at a telephone pole, leaning against a building, the sparks long since dead. Lifeless wires are draped over the buildings, split and uncoiled, now rusting with age and wear.
You continue walking, feeling a cold wind rake the silence, howling forlornly in the distance. Candy wrappers litter the ground from a fallen trash can, clattering ominously in the wind—echoes of the living. You can imagine the children that once ran through these streets—leaving them in their haste, seeing this as nothing more than a game. You can almost see them now, laughing, playing, shouting, not understanding and never wanting to understand. Simply filled with the joy of life, and thinking nothing more. Yet, you know that most of them would never reach their next birthday.
Some of the buildings sport gaping maws, vacant, cavernous mouths with broken glass fangs, shattered and lying across the storefronts. Others have black, void eyes, reflecting nothing, and letting no light into their hollow shells, haunted and yet still empty. But, all are broken—food stolen by desperate survivors, cash swiped by mobs, raided and picked clean.
The silence here is deafening. Loud hush, screaming in your ears, filling them with an unheard ringing, heavy, weighing you down. White noise they used to call it. A cigarette butt breaks the stillness, rolling down the sidewalk alongside you, running into another of its other scattered companions. You avoid a broken beer bottle, and sidestep over a once-popular magazine, wearing a face that you no longer recognize, speaking of people you no longer remember. All of these—feeble attempts of memory, the last remnants of a dying race, of a long-lost cause, a forgotten panic, taken back by nature.
You almost grimace at the thought—of all the glory of humanity, of all that we had done and conquered, all that remains now are cigarettes butts and hollow, metal shells. Decomposing, mortal, falling, collapsing, like dust in the wind, chaff in a storm.
Suddenly, you realize how small you are, how quickly history can die. How fast it can all change. How insignificant you are—how unimportant your family, your people, your nation, you race, your species is in the big picture.
And in that moment, you feel very…small, very helpless.
For you see, you are the last of your kind. You are the survivor, the last witness of a society that fell without grace. And now, you are almost gone, a dying relic of an era long since passed.
And then, then you know. You know that you are nothing more than a leftover.
The last vestige of a race with no history.
And you know, you know there will be no future.
You know that none of this matters—that all of our achievements, all our grandeur, all our fame and fortune are nothing. Nothing at all.
You are the last to view the fallen splendor of this era—for, there will be no other to discover it.
You are our history.
You are our future.
You are the end…
On an empty sidewalk, in an empty city, at 3 P.M.

So, what did you think? ^.^

What A Dream I Have

Greetings my beloved, but sadly non-existent readers, and welcome to the twisted little world I call my mind! In this blog, you'll defiantly be getting a piece of it. So, prepare yourself, for I will blog whenever I write, and that is often.
But, there isn't too much to say today...I will have my “real” first post tomorrow.
-ЯR